shadow_vector | Turbulence (Reply)

G
Bayverse
Mindwipe, Skystalker, Sunspot
no warnings
for the prompt from foxyfurs over on DW "turbulence"

“No. No way. NO SLAGGIN’ WAY,” Skystalker said, as if more words and more volume would somehow penetrate Mindwipe’s bland expression. He was NOT going to go formation-flying with Sunspot. The little idiot was harmless enough—to everything but Skystalker’s reputation.

Mindwipe tilted his chin, tolerantly. “Rehabilitation,” he said, mildly. A word Skystalker was really, really beginning to dislike.

“Not everything you want me to do is rehabilitation,” Skystalker grumbled.

“No, but this is. Formation flying is a vital skill.” Another of Mindwipe’s happy little aphorisms. They stood in place of the emotions he could not remember having, though he had them.

Skystalker set his mouths, his shared optics glaring at Mindwipe. Waiting him out. It felt dirty, but he did not want to do this.

He heard Mindwipe’s memory reset with a grim satisfaction. But then. “You are scheduled for flying,” Mindwipe said, reading from his HUD. “Maybe you could take Sunspot?”

Frag. No getting out of this, huh? “Sunspot’s barely able to walk. He’ll be a disaster in the air.” The droneling was wandering around the hangar, optic exploring the room with the eager awe with which Sunspot did everything.

“There’s only one way for him to learn. And he listens to you.”

Sort of a cheap shot—Sunspot listened to everyone. But he did cling to Skystalker…a lot. And he didn’t seem to notice anything weird about Skystalker’s split consciousness. And most of all, he’d never met Skystalker…before. A mixed blessing, that sometimes Skystalker resented—Sunspot was more comfortable with Sky and Stalker than Skystalker was with himself.

He was trying to cook up another retort—and partly hoping for Mindwipe’s memory to dump again. But…oh frag.

“You’re very red!” Sunspot blurted at a large jetframe, lounging by the hangar door.

“Go away,” the jet said, sourly.

“Sure!” Sunspot hesitated, his black optic craning around. “Uhhh, where’s ‘away’?”

The jet made an irritated sound. “Idiot.”

“Hi, Idiot! My name’s Sunspot.” Sunspot’s wings bounced, happily, sure that he was making a new friend.

The jet snarled, and was bringing up one barbed hand to backhand the little droneling, when Sky swooped in, grabbing Sunspot by one shoulder-wing. “Sorry,” he burst out. “I’ll take care of him.” He dragged Sunspot away, the little jetframe stumbling on his over-proportioned feet.

The jet muttered something about ‘droneling freak’ but drew himself up, suddenly, as Mindwipe stepped in front of him. There was no mistaking the glare. And they might make fun of Mindwipe for his…memory issues? But no one was dumb enough to do it to his face.

“Yeah, whatever,” the jet mumbled, turning away.

Well, frag. Skystalker had no choice at all, now, did he? Towing Sunspot across the decking of the hangar, he’d more or less committed—again—to taking care of the little droneling. Fraggin’ stupid.

“Where are we going? Is it ‘away’?” Sunspot asked, brightly.

That…was enough. Skystalker screeched to a halt, wheeling on the brightly colored mech. “Stop being so damn stupid!” he said, the words bursting out of both of his mouths, in some accusatory stereo. He waited for the look of hurt and dismay and apology to cross Sunspot’s face. He waited for an apology, for Sunspot to break down.

Sunspot blinked at him. There was the slightest falter, before, “Are we going flying? I love flying!”

Skystalker felt his rage like a burning pillar raging around him, above him. And felt it burn down, suddenly, turning into blank ash. Sunspot couldn’t help it. And Skystalker knew he could push, harder, drive the insults deeper, could make Sunspot break down, his naïve confidence shattered, his belief that the world was an amazing and wonderful place ruined forever. He could do it. He should do it—what better way to help the droneling than to tell him what the real world was like? Brutal and ugly and merciless?

But…he couldn’t. He couldn’t look at Sunspot’s happy face, the eagerly glowing optic, the wings drifting around like radar dishes determined to capture the world in all its vibrancy, and tear that down.

Primus help him.

“Y-yeah,” he muttered. “Let’s go flying.”