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shadow_vector2011-07-02 09:56 am
Flightless
R
IDW Mabaya AU
Perceptor, Wing
ref to torture, wing-guro, this is a hurt/comfort prompt, I go heavy on the hurt
Perceptor tried to stretch his sensors as far up the corridor as he could as he lugged the box of repaired parts back to the medbay. He didn’t know if he wanted to run into Drift again or not. All he knew was that he didn’t want to be taken by surprise by it again.
Nothing. The door to the medbay opened in a whoosh of relief. He carried the crate in, moving to the supply cabinet, opening the cabinet door, to begin stacking the components inside, tilting his head from side to side. One of the berths was active, humming, lights blinking on in colliding rhythms. He couldn’t help himself, edging over to peer over the edge, the strange mutual threat he had heard between Drift and the other Decepticons suddenly scraping over his audio. A flash of white armor, a too-familiar rounded toe plate. No. Oh no.
He leaned over sucking in a bracing vent, then froze. No. It wasn’t Drift. But the armor was similar—what wasn’t dented, scraped down to bare metal. The optics flickered feebly open, whirring to focus on him—gold optics, one lens marred with a long black crack, the frame trying to withdraw into the fluid cushion.
“I won’t hurt you,” Perceptor murmured, quickly.
The optics fixed on the hand he had stretched out, wary, unbelieving. He studied the white armor, the mute, rigid fear in the other’s face.
Perceptor tilted his head. The armor was…too familiar. It couldn’t be a coincidence. “Drift,” he said, quietly, as if testing the waters.
The optics sparked, flaring brighter. Recognition. “He’s…he’s here.” The voice crackled, halfway between a declarative and a question.
Perceptor didn’t know how to answer. Was Drift here? In one sense…no. “Yes.” his voice was hushed. “I’m his friend.” Or think I am. Were you a friend when the other mech couldn’t seem to get away from you fast enough?
The mech nodded, slowly. The gold optics floated to the insignia on his chassis, clearing a little. “You don’t belong here.”
“No one belongs here.” The words slipped out unbidden, but undeniable. Perceptor couldn’t imagine how or why anyone would feel at home in this ship. The idea that Drift had…?
“No. You’re right.” A soft whoosh of sound that Perceptor realized only later was an attempt at a laugh. The mech twisted on the berth, struggling to sit up. “You need to leave. It’s not safe here.”
“I know,” Perceptor said. I know. He reached to steady the mech, hand moving around to the mech’s back. He froze, and the shock reflected, stiff and hot and horrified, on his face, his fingers touching stripped wires, jagged edges of metal. Something…torn off.
“Wings,” he said, his optics scanning over the frame. Yes, now he could see, in the foreign aesthetics of the armor, things that might be flight mods. But no…wings.
“Wing,” the mech said, tiredly, flicking a series of panels behind the other shoulder. “He said since my name was singular….” He dropped back against the berth, as if crushed down by despair. Perceptor’s optics stung at the thought. An airframe, maimed, unable to fly. It was like an archetype of agony. His fingers stroked soothingly over the charred shoulder, mute apology, quiet understanding.
And the mech took his pity, bowing his head before it.
Wing. The name echoed through Perceptor’s cortex. His optics shut, as the pieces seemed to fall into place—Drift the joining link, and Turmoil the joiner.
“Drift…doesn’t know.”
A wan shake of the head. Obviously, Perceptor thought, one last weapon to use against Drift, one final, crushing blow, like the device around Arcee’s spark chamber, only half so elegant and twice as brutal. Perceptor pinched his mouth, turning back to the cabinet, grabbing for a small sensor block. He could do this much. He snapped it around Wing’s neck, ignoring the weak protests. He’d fought off worse from the Wreckers, in his semi-self appointed role as their ersatz medic. He could not abide unnecessary pain. Maybe it made him soft, maybe weak but in this place anything he could do to relieve even the smallest pain was…a small light in the darkness.
His optics softened as Wing’s frame sagged back against the berth, pain-tight joints releasing, almost in spite of himself. “Thank you,” the jet said, some of the HUD alarms dropping off the display, making his optics less febrile orange. A hand brushed his in mute gratitude, the voice steadier, optics clearer. “But you must go. I’ll be…fine.”
Perceptor’s pointed look made Wing flinch. The jet added quickly, “Turmoil cannot kill me. I am too valuable to him alive. He will not kill me.” Perceptor nodded, solemnly.
Neither of them said the obvious word.
Yet.
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Gah! Poor Wing D: *cuddles*
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I actually kiind of hope that his will morph into it's own kind of story... Kind of... maybe.... please??? *gives u puppy eyes*
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I'll echo the story call, even if this broke my heart.
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Dark and angsty but just the way I like it... :(
.... I frown in a good way.
Ouch. That's.... really gotta hurt. Oh dear.
I third an interest in more!!!
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