Awakening

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG-13
IDW AU
Wing, Drift
SG AU, how they met, for   ultrarodimus 's request

Drift’s optics onlined.  He could feel the filaments warm and that made him conscious of other sensations: cool air stirring around his frame, the pull of gravity against his body. He was lying down on his back, it seemed, and there was some source of heat—a light—over him. 

And over all, the strong, strange fuzz of a sensor block.

“What--?”  The word fell, half formed, before he could properly see to even know there was anyone to hear him.

“You’re safe now.” A voice, immediate, soft and soothing. And utterly unfamiliar.

Drift’s optics resolved to the white starkness of a medibay, and then the gold glow of the most beautiful optics he’d ever seen, warm and liquid with concern. “Who are you?”  He struggled to sit up, his frame awkward and new feeling.

The stranger placed a calming hand on his chassis. “Careful, now.”  His voice was music, not like Drift’s, roughened by war.  “I am Wing. I saved you.”  The beautiful mouth curved into a sensual smile that set something tingling in Drift’s sensor net, warm and alive.

“Saved me.” A flash of memory: the ship, a fast, light courier, screens blaring alarms, and then the screaming fall through atmosphere. “The Autobots.”

“Attacked. Yes.” Wing said, giving a confirming nod.

“The…,” he caught himself, barely in time. “the cargo?”

The smile faded, sad. “Lost, I’m afraid.” The hand patted him consolingly. “Destroyed.”

Destroyed. It was better than captured by the Autobots, at least.  He tried to take some comfort in that. He had failed, but he had not ruined everything. Still, the look of dismay must have been unmistakeable. “Comm,” he said, trying to move, to push himself off the berth. “I need to comm.”

That hand, solicitous, on his shoulder again. “You are too weak,” Wing said, quietly. “Unwell.”

Drift frowned. “I need to get word back. Megatron—“

“Megatron,” Wing echoed, and the smile seemed to brittle, suddenly. “We are not part of your war, Drift.”

“Everyone is,” Drift said, trying to push the hand away. It was kind, Wing’s concern, but he had a war to fight. Optimus and his tyranny could not spread. “Everyone has a stake in freedom. In our future.”

Wing’s expression grew solemn, his voice careful, as though he were breaking bad news.  “No, Drift. That is not a future that leads anywhere. Tyranny, freedom—they’re both…illusions of the collective.”

“They’re not illusions. I’ve seen the bodies.” Too many bodies. Friends, fallen for their cause.  Heroes. 

“Bodies of those foolish enough to believe.”

Drift bridled, swinging his legs over the berth’s edge. “I believe,” he said, firmly.

“For now,” Wing said, evenly. As though Drift’s faith was a fragile thing, that could wither or expire.

“Always,” Drift said, setting his mouth.

Beneath the ornate, elegant helm, the optics furrowed halfway between puzzlement and anger.  “Part of me wished,” Wing said, softly, “It didn’t come to this.”

“To what?” Drift frowned, then shrugged. The war. He needed to get back.

“I saved you, Drift” A small nod, as though that explained everything.

Drift felt a pang. “You did. And it’s not that I’m ungrateful—“

“You’re not.” The voice was suddenly flat, unmelodious.

“I am. Truly.  But I have to get back to the war. They need me.”

“The war is the last place you’re going,” Wing said, with an air of finality.  The pang in Drift’s chassis moved lower, roiling and sickly.

“You don’t understand.”

“No,” Wing retorted, sharply. “You don’t understand.” He huffed, the gold optics staring off for a long moment, before the jet shifted, moving to perch his weight on the berth next to Drift. He stroked a hand up Drift’s arm. “Drift. Drift. You don’t understand. All of that. The collective. The individual. It’s…wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“Wrong,” Wing affirmed. “What is a society where the citizens are told to deny their free will, their own desires and wants?  A city of…insects. Drones.  Self-sacrificing in the most literal sense: destroying the very ‘self’ that makes us special. It’s true annihilation, Drift.”  The gold optics burned, fervid and intense.

“Wing.” Drift shook his head, froze, feeling a sort of strange, lagging weight on his throat. “…what’s this?” His fingers came up, feeling a small, squarish box and tight lines of steel cabling.

That sad shake of the head. “As I said. I wish this weren’t necessary.”

“What is it?” Panic and anger collided in him.

“A collar. Drift.” That sweet, almost sympathetic, light of the optics. “You need help. You need to see.”

“A collar. Take it off!”  He hooked his thumbs under it, trying to tear it off. 

A long sigh, Wing leaning over, wrapping his hands over Drift’s wrists. “Drift.  Drift. Look at me.” He leaned in, so that Drift had no choice but to lose himself in the sweet  honeyed glow of the golded optics.  His voice was gentle, importuning, and Drift caught himself trembling with emotion. “You’ll see, Drift. In time. You’ll see.” 

Comments

[ultrarodimus.livejournal.com]

^w^ I absolutely love this, and I love how you write these two. Poor Drift... He has so much to learn, and the learning is not going to be easy

*happily sits down to reread again and again*

[deedeesaurus.livejournal.com]

Oooh, delightfully dark!

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

oooooo! more! more!!!

[acidgreenflames.livejournal.com]

Ooooooh SG Wing is creepy. I loved this though! Fantastic, and you worry for Drift by the end of this. Great work as always.

[silaphet.livejournal.com]

i love the slow seductive mind games wing is playing with him already, presenting psychological cuffs with velvet rationale, he has drift's body but he wants his mind ... aka the Knights as the ultimate game players versus the ultimate isolationist, intrigued & scared