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shadow_vector2010-10-26 09:36 am
In Darkness
R (for violence/implied torture)
IDW
Turmoil, Deadlock/Drift
warnings: gratuitous violence.
For tf_rare_pairing "Turmoil/Drift: won't let you excape me"
“Deadlock.” The voice came out of the darkness, as if it was the darkness itself that spoke. A feral, living darkness. It seemed…amused, as if feeding on his isolation and discomfort.
Drift turned, in the darkness, trying to triangulate the voice. His hands floated to his scabbards, futilely. He knew before they closed on empty air that his short swords were gone—he didn’t even have to think to realize that the weight of his great sword was missing from between his shoulders. “Not my name,” he said, letting his voice echo into the darkness, if not to locate his enemy than to sense walls, obstacles around him.
A harsh laugh, that grated on his audio. He…knew that voice. “Turmoil.”
“You remember my name, at least.” A shadow stirred among the shadows. Drift tried to focus, but his optics had been jammed in high-key setting. His audio struggled to compensate, becoming extra keen.
“Yes,” Drift said, turning his head, determined to pinpoint the voice’s source. Even without weapons, he was dangerous. Wing had trained him hard, in Crystal City, wisdom through blows, knowing that it was the only language Drift could have understood at the time. Patient, yet, insistent.
Combat was not all that Wing had been teaching him, but it turned out, sometimes, to be the more useful part of Wing’s lessons. He balled his fists.
Another laugh, which echoed around the room, chafing Drift’s hypersensitized audio. “Belligerent as always,” Turmoil scoffed. “Regardless of the odds.”
“Yes,” Drift said. “You used to value that.”
Another stir of shadow on shadow. “I still do. You’re simply…misguided. Misaimed.”
“Misaimed.”
A shrug Drift could hear more than see. “Isn’t that what you are? A weapon. Nothing more.”
Drift whirled toward the sound. It was true. In a limited fashion. He was a weapon. It’s what he’d believed all along. But he’d let the Decepticons wield him, call his shots and range for too long. And then the Autobots, even before, even attacking Turmoil’s own ship, how many vorns ago? Even then, trying to aim him. Take him over, as if he had to be one or the other. If not one, the other. If not blackness, white.
Drift wanted to aim himself. Make his own decisions. He’d let others make them for him for too long.
THAT was the other lesson Wing had been teaching him, in the rigid, stultified, self-righteous atmosphere of Crystal City. That was the point, the quiet subversion of teaching war in a city sworn to peace. That was the clarity in the opaqueness of the ‘Crystal’ City, buried deep in the blind, dark ground. “How little you know.”
The shadows moved, a fist flashing into Drift’s damaged sight to strike, hard and fierce, against his helm. “Yes. Let’s explore that.”
Drift brought his hands up in a cross-block, shoving the hand away. A weapon is nothing without a wielder: a warrior was nothing without will.
He had will. That could not be taken from him, at least.
Turmoil’s other hand struck, digging in, fingers harsh, tearing at the circuitry of Drift’s arm. Sparks flew, blinding Drift’s damaged video feed with white stars of static and pain. Drift bit down on a cry, bringing his free hand around, prying up the fingers, bending them back against their functional range.
Turmoil grunted in pain.
Drift shifted his weight, stabilizing his legs, seizing the larger mech’s hand in a wrist-bar.
Drift went down hard, abruptly, Turmoil cutting one of his legs by a blow behind his knee-joint. He sank his grey fingers into Turmoil’s black plating, refusing to let go, dragging down with his weight, straining the larger mech’s servos, using his mass and weight against him. As Wing had taught him.
“Show me pain,” Turmoil hissed, holding Drift’s weight on his arm. “Show me what you have learned, traitor.”
“Traitor,” Drift echoed, the word meaningless to him. Traitor to one meant loyal to the other. No. He had not cut himself free only to tie himself to another dangerous frame.
He let the rest of his weight fall, kicking his feet into Turmoil’s midsection. Turmoil grunted, struts collapsing, a whine of metal as plating gave to the heavy force, like anvils, of Drift’s armored footplates.
They tumbled to the floor, limbs lashing at each other, both blinded by darkness from without, and rage from within.
Turmoil reared up over him. Even Drift’s damaged video saw the moving darkness, the hateful red optics blaring a hot fury upon him like malevolent suns. “You will never escape me, Drift. Do you know why?”
Drift growled, bucking his hips, trying to shift the heavy pelvic frame off his chassis. His arms were pinned, useless, by Turmoil’s knees.
Turmoil chuckled, rocking forward, Drift’s forearm armor yielding with hissing pops from blown hydraulics. Drift’s sensornet flared whiter than Wing’s armor, then blue. He could feel the hot slickness leaking over his palms, his hand actuators sizzling into failure.
Drift drove his knee against Turmoil’s back, his greave armor edge biting into Turmoil’s backplate in one last, desperate attempt at freedom, at self-assertion.
“I won’t let you get away,” Turmoil leaned over, whispering the words, near, intimate, his EM field blooming over Drift’s own, which was staggering and clouded with bad current. “Because we’re exactly the same. Just inverse images of the same thing. You don’t leave until you see that, Deadlock.”
“Drift,” Drift insisted, feeble, but resolute.
Discard hypocrisy. Find your own path, your own way. Let no one make your decisions. Even if you have to fight through them, fight through yourself, fight through pain, and humiliation.You are not Autobot, nor Decepticon. You are not Turmoil's shadow. You are not Deadlock. Discarded selves. Discarded identities that no longer serve, that merely confine. You are Drift.
Whoever that is.
Turmoil laughed. “We can solve your drifting.” He sank one hand into the shoulder panel, tearing at the Autobot insignia. He leaned closer, so close that Drift could feel the heat of his optics on his cheeks. “And those blue optics are next.”
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Thanks! :D
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<3
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Glad you liked!