Three Sides

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG
IDW somewhere mid AHM 9-10 ish
Drift, Perceptor, Hot Rod
no warnings
for tf_speedwriting

i.

Drift found the rhythm of battle soothed him. Not the way a crystal-drive’s steady thrum could lull a mech to sleep, but the attention that the complicated tempo required, the focus, had its own attraction—instead of pulling toward sleep, it tugged toward awareness, focus.

The past fell away, meaningless except the lessons that the past had taught, so deep they were etched into body in reflex and instinct.  The swords were familiar in his hands, almost moving as if directed by his will—palm actuators compensating for the swing and momentum, holding fast as the blades bit into Insecticon frames.

He was no longer Deadlock—that baggage discarded in the past that no longer mattered. Not here, not now. And even the Autobots respected that, accepted him beside them in combat.

Until the battle was over.

Didn’t matter now. Now was all that mattered, now and the handful of kliks ahead of it, the sliver of future he could plan for—the next attack, the next defense.  Beyond that he couldn’t plan—it’s a waste of effort to lay plans for a future when you could be struck down in an instant.

He swept the blades, a long, doubled strike, torquing up from the ground, slicing through the back of one of the Swarm where it leaned over a low wall, chittering in that way that said ‘prey’.  The head dropped, and he saw Hot Rod’s face, over the wall’s ledge.  A quick flash of a smile, and then back. 

He knew his swordwork would never compare to Wing’s—it lacked the jet’s innate grace.  Drift had…never been graceful, always bullheaded, charging in, a little too rash, a little too reckless for elegance. But it was effective and it was him: power and intent, control and focus. 

His heels shifted, adjusting for the flow of weight and momentum, conserving it like sweeping it around the rim of a bowl, bringing the swords up at their next opponent.  Battle rang around him, the clash of metal on metal, the hisses of ruptured air lines, howls of pain, punctuated by the distant, staccato cracks of Perceptor’s sharpshooting.  Drift felt…relaxed, hung in a near-eternal present, perhaps dead the next moment but now, right now, alive and feeling everything with the entirety of his sensory being.

Combat was the only home he’d ever known.

ii.

Perceptor tracked the white mech through his scope. Drift took too many chances, he thought. He’d always thought that, from the first time he’d seen the swordsmech fight. Drift threw himself into the front lines, and if Perceptor didn’t know him as well as he did, he would have guessed some latent suicide wish for the relentless pushing Drift always did.

But then again, even as Deadlock, Drift had done much the same, always flinging himself into danger, heedless, as if daring Death to touch him.  And Death had backed down, every time.

His fingertip squeezed on the trigger, another round finding its new home in the dense cortical matter of another of the Swarm.  He didn’t stop to see it fall.  Up here, he had a wider view of the battle, some sort of wild symphony, entropy swinging into order. 

There, Jazz was pointing, guiding a small team into a flanking maneuver.  And there Kup smirking, pulling a light grenade from his storage. Hot Rod dashing ahead, as though chasing glory.  All the flash-tableaux of battle, mechs snapping into focus before fading into the din.

His view of the battle was always one through the gunsight—a narrow punch of sight.  Yet he always managed to find Drift, the scope unerring. Most of the time he was redundant—Drift could take care of himself.  But it still strengthened Perceptor’s resolve to see Drift upright, fighting, a glowing staunch inspiration. Nothing would stop Drift, it seemed, and the sweeping grace of his movements, the way he made violence seem almost…beautiful was captivating to watch.

Drift swung at a creature’s back, barely breaking rhythm, turning combat into a dance, an expression of his whole being.

He took a shot he didn’t have to, just to see the flash of the white mech’s smile as he recognized the source of the shot that exploded the Insecticon’s head in front of him—a quicksilver shine of recognition before Drift turned to his next opponent, the trust singing through the air between them.

It was the most public way he could show he cared.

iii.

Hot Rod popped a shot, running to the next cover, muttering a curse at the distinctive empty pop of a gun firing its last charge. He slumped behind the ruined wall, shoulder spoilers grating against the rough plascrete, jerking for another charge capsule from his storage compartment.

Rounds buzzpopped around him.  Just his luck: fragging gun jamming in the middle of combat, losing charge too fast. Ridiculous.  Hard to be a hero when you’ve got the substandard equipment.

But hey, he could handle it. It’s easy to be awesome when everything’s working. Only a real hero could pull it off with guns that kept breaking. 

Hot Rod was a real hero.

He slammed the new chargepack in the gun’s grip. Right.  Time to assess the tactical situation, and see where his particular brand of awesome was wanted. 

He popped his head up over the barrier.

And then back down as one of the Insecticons—a large one, with slavering acid-green mandibles—leered over the edge.  The head twitched, then slid, tumbling in slow motion, off the thing’s shoulders, and Hot Rod saw the white spines of the new Wrecker’s helm.  Just before Drift swung again into the fray.

Heh. Hot Rod grinned, even though the white mech was already gone.  Drift had his head on straight. A little too ‘all business’ maybe, but Hot Rod couldn’t fault a mech for actually wanting to win the war.  And he got it. He knew what it meant to be an Autobot.

And the mech had style.

A cracking pow that sang over his shoulder. Perceptor. Strange how you could figure out who was who in battle, if you paid attention.  Stuff that made them stand out. Stuff that made them heroes.

Right. Drift’s white flashed in and out of the purple and yellow writhing mass.  Yeah? Hot Rod thought, seating the pistol’s bottomplate back into position with a crisp snap. Don’t hog all the glory, Drift.

And hey, don’t die before I can thank you for saving my aft.

Comments

[femme4jack.livejournal.com]

Damn. That was just some beautiful, descriptive POV writing. Really enjoyed :)

[mieka-writes.livejournal.com]

very nice.. and felt very IC for all three of them..

[kamiraptor.livejournal.com]

^_^ Way cool!!! I liked it muchly!!!

[abarai-san.livejournal.com]

This. THIS. (These 'this'-es would make more sense if this was a tumblr post *shot*)
This is awesome. Each little snippet is so unique. Drift's is zen, dreamy, yet sharp, Perceptor's is contemplative and detached, and Hot Rod's is... Well, Hot Rod-ish. ^_^;
This shows how versatile a writer you can be. Great stuff. :)

[playswithworms.livejournal.com]

Love it, especially this:

He took a shot he didn’t have to, just to see the flash of the white mech’s smile...