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CHARACTERS: Drift and YOU
LOCATION: Various—Infirmary, Sunlight Room primarily with individual prompts in other locations
DATE: Dec. 1-5th
CONTENT: Several people have told Drift to remain in the infirmary for a few days after SEAL Team Hot Girl Shit fed the orb. Spoiler: He does not do this.
WARNINGS: description of (robot) severed limbs + odds-on mentions of suicide and substance abuse

INFIRMARY

The last thing Drift wanted to do now was dream— every memory or random sensation his subconscious attempted to catalog and make sense was a deafening echo chamber and the last place he wanted to be. Pulling himself out of the shallow grave of an artificially sedated rest made his vision blur. Everything he saw was like photographs burned with double exposure; the real overlayed with the imaginary. He thinks there was a hand over his chest—he imagines a voice over the drowned-out words of whoever was really at his bedside. ("You can't keep doing this to yourself, kid")

Only one person ever called him that, and they were long gone. That sharp pang of reality made Drift redouble his efforts to make sense of the oily stains that made up for the outlines of people moving around—rousing himself until he was pushing himself upright. His greatsword was propped against the wall at his (comically large) bedside. The amber siphoning gemstone inlaid at the hilt was visibly cracked—nearly cloven in two and only held together by the handle itself. His already aching spark stuttered at the sight of it.

(Take care of her.)

Drift frowned as he recalled Remi's words—drawn up at the sight of what it cost to bring the orb back. Drift was a mess. His color was dull, and his eyes barely a flickering blue light as he took stock of what damage he had taken by feeling alone. Some of his injuries were internal, but most had been just exhaustion from the strain.

Turning to the first person he sees, Drift voices the only question on his mind: "Is everyone okay?"

SUNLIGHT ROOM

Popular opinion was that a holoform was only a means of subterfuge—play-acting at being something more palatable for the sake of others. Drift saw the logic there but disagreed and found the idea limiting. Here, on a station designed with a crew manned by organics in mind, a holorform was just convenient. Drift took a more metaphysical approach to the whole concept of his human guise. Some of his fellow 'bots likened it to piloting a tiny suit, others to sleepwalking without real sensation. Drift, on the other hand, felt himself wholly like this. As close to a human as he could be, he was unburdened by the constraints of his massive frame still laid up and healing.

At least here, Drift could stand by the brook and feel the artificially winter-chilled water just starting to frost at the shoreline flow over his fingertips. Anyone who had met Drift before like this would note his appearance was more drawn with an impressive landscape of unkempt stubble on his face. He rises from the brook and sits back on a large boulder—idly twirling a sheathed sword by its hilt in his hand with its end poking into the frosted grass.

"Nice, isn't it?"

WILDCARD

( ooc: please feel free to hmu at bretons or bitchard#0228 for starters )

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Drift doesn't think he stares—in a creepy way, anyhow. He is aware he tends to be a little intense when his attention is focused on something in particular, but he chalks that up to an old bounty hunter's habits. So he swears he isn't staring at the girl sleeping in the bedside he had taken to sitting next to. All he was doing was watching for any changes.

He and Alina had never found time to be adequately introduced once plans were in motion to capture the orb. Even turning that monumentally awkward dinner, Remi had organized the conversation then had more or less all been shallow platitudes. Not a whole lot of time to find the right words for: Hi, nice to meet you. Looking forward to possibly dying to trap some talking rock?

Out of everyone who had followed through with Drift's plan once Eleven had tracked the orb, Drift felt a fraction more of responsibility towards Alina. She had been the one who ultimately saved the day, and it was her power Drift had been most drawn to. That living light—that spark that rose out of her like the very sun. And now it was Alina being laid up on an IV drip, paying for Drift's hair-brained scheme. He himself wasn't doing so hot, either. Mind still in a fog even as a holoform he was slumped in the chair, barely more conscious than his prone physical form in the bed catty-cornered to Alina's. Only when he saw her stir did Drift bother to sit up straight.

"Hey."

Edited 2021-12-03 21:05 (UTC)

Megatron had taken some time to himself to rest once he had settled Drift in the infirmary and despite his own less-than-healthy disposition, he's imposed on himself the duty of caring for Drift during the other's recovery. Now, with a few days rest after the end of the mission, Megatron is investigating the possibilities or releasing Drift from the confines of the infirmary. As part of that, he had gone to Drift's chosen quarters, mostly to ensure that they were in a proper state for an invalid and that they were well-stoked with the required necessities. Energon, a bed, and so forth.

He hadn't intended to open the box left sitting next to the bed. He had been trying to clear it away, actually, so that Drift wouldn't have to move it himself when he was resting. It was the slight tremor in his hands, the murmur in the pulse of his spark that had come after the interaction with the orb. Megatron had fumbled it and it had spilled open--

To reveal a pair of hands. A pair of hands that Megatron knew well enough from the war and from the time he'd spent on board the Lost Light. The sight of the hands in itself hadn't shocked Megatron, but rather the idea of Drift's mental state. He was carrying around pieces of his dead conjunx. The box had been collected, repacked, and closed with as much gentleness, respect and care as Megatron could muster.

Then he marched himself to the infirmary.

He does his best not to loom over Drift's bed, but then Megatron had never quite lost the habit of coming off intimidating.

"Drift. We need to talk."

Few things were more irritating than a non-compliant patient—Drift knew this considering his long and impressive track record as being one of the worst. Difficult to a fault and stubborn about being laid up in the infirmary, Drift had made his thoughts on the matter clear from the moment they stepped off the teleporter. Even when Rat- when Drift had a doctor, he was a flight risk on the rare occurrence of needed medical care and rest. Rest never suited him; rest left him with his thoughts for longer than he cared for, and he had since made several attempts to leave. When Bones wasn't successfully guilting him, there was the less personable enforcer of the rule.

A long shadow loomed over Drift then, and it had only taken some four million or so years for it to no longer be intimidating. Drift looked up and met Megatron's grim expression with an impassive stare. The mean-mugging was nothing new to Drift, and he had no cause to question it—really, that was just how Megatron looked half the time.

"I haven't moved since you left to case my room," Drift said. "What now?"

Megatron leaned forward, his voice pitching lower. He frowned a moment, focused intently on his words remaining in Neocybex. This was not a conversation others needed to overhear or understand, thank you. And the infirmary has a tendency to have others dropping by lately, thanks to the end of the mission.

"I knew you were in a bad way, but I didn't realize the weight of your grief was so severe." He was bad at this. He wanted to help, he really but he had no idea how. Being gentle seemed beyond him at times.

"I can understand wanting mementos of your time together, but this seems like a step too far, Drift." He paused. Tried to gather a better way of phrasing himself.

"I'm concerned about you."

Edited 2021-12-04 00:19 (UTC)

[ Peter had been less than a decade old when he got convinced that hospitals were not places where people went to get better. They were places where people died. People like his mother.

And as such, he hates them with a passion that makes his pulse race, and that leaves him with white knuckles from how hard he's clutching the metal tray in his hands. And yet there he is, on an infirmary, on purpose, and the only reason why he's not running far, far away from this damned place it's because there are people here that he cares about. Friends who got hurt and that he hopes will recover well and not die (but you can never be sure with hospitals. Never, never.)

Peter's actually been waiting for Drift to come back to the world of the living, holding a couple of cubes of Energon in a metal tray, held in front of his chest. He's a little paler than usual and there are some dark circles under his eyes that speak of lack of sleep, but the moment Drift speaks, Peter gives him a reassuring smile. ]

Everyone's alive. Tired, but in one piece. [ Peter lifts the tray, bringing it closer to the Cybertronian, and silently offering the energon to him. ] How are you feeling?

Drift leans back on instinct as his EM field shuttered with the irritation of having his (admittedly large) personal bubble invaded. The look of anger flagged into confusion when Megatron suddenly shifted to Neocybex.

"What are you on about now, Megatron?" Drift huffed, not even sure why he was encouraging this by switching to the language as well. "Your accent is thicker than usual, by the way."

There was a drawn out sigh of annoyance and exacerbation as Drift noted his accent.

"I never managed to go to finishing school to have my city of origin corrected. Nor did I want to. You should know that better than most."

Megatron's own field fuzzed with irritation where it overlapped with Drift's. He leaned forwards a little, still doing his best to speak in their native language.

"You're throwing yourself into the most danger you can find, offering yourself up as a sacrifice for everyone else around you, and then there's that macabre bit of memory in your habsuite. I think I have a valid reason to worry that you're not in your right state of mind!"

Edited 2021-12-04 00:35 (UTC)

"And I never had the opportunity, so it takes one to know one." Drift fired back, feeling more punchy than usual from all the pent-up energy built up over the last couple of days being stuck on bed rest.

Any chance of this conversation turning into good-natured ribbing dropped through the floor along with the Drift's spark as the point of this sudden interrogation revealed itself.

"Macabre bit of-" Drift's optics widened and before he knew it he was shoving Megatron aside as he jumped to his feet. Not even the sway of a frame wobbly from disuse slowed him.

"Megatron, what did you do?" The concentrated effort of keeping to Neocybex was too much with the maelstrom of emotions coming to the fore and Drift slipped. "Megatron, what did you do?!"

Megatron reached out to steady Drift on instinct.

"Nothing. I was clearing up to make sure you would have space for some things by the bed and I dropped that box. I put it all back where it belonged--it's where you left it--" He was trying to be conciliatory, to some degree, even if he seemed half-convinced that Drift was well on the way to going off the deep end. He was doing his best to maintain something like privacy with his choice of language but the effort of physically corralling Drift and making sure the words came out as the language he wanted proved too much to handle at once.

"Now lay back down. You're not in any fit shape to be running around the station!"

Edited 2021-12-04 00:43 (UTC)

"Don't touch me!"

Drift feinted to one side only to find himself being corraled back towards the bed. Even if they were the same height now, Megatron had him well outmatched in pure physicality. Still, taking on the mindset of a cornered animal, there was a non-zero chance this could turn ugly if Drift didn't rein himself in. Which felt increasingly impossible by the minute as he rankled under Megatron's pitying stare. Only snapping would prove whatever he must think of him now.

"And don't look at me like that, it's not what you think—I just-" Drift slammed the breaks on his caterwauling long enough to see more than one pair of eyes looking in their direction.

"Not here," Drift's voice dropped to barely above a whisper as he got himself under control enough to switch back to Neocybex. "I'll tell you everything just...please. Not here."

Edited 2021-12-04 00:55 (UTC)

Megatron didn't like seeing Drift like this.

If anything, he admired Drift for having been able to see what was wrong and change himself. Drift was much stronger than Megatron in all the ways which truly mattered as far as he was concerned. With a step back, he gestured for Drift to move towards the door of the infirmary. Drift's reaction was enough to tell him that he had perhaps overstepped or misunderstood--but he needed confirmation. There was a worried, unhappy twist in his chest as he watched Drift. There was pity, yes, but more than that it was concern. Concern for his only familiar face, concern for someone he had once called a comrade.

Any unwelcome eyes were met with a withering stare and then Megatron stepped towards the doorway.

"Let's go then. Quickly." His approach had been clumsy. He had allowed his worry to get the better of him and it had made things worse.

He was right to be worried though, wasn't he?

Edited 2021-12-04 01:27 (UTC)

[ Drift turned to Peter and offered a smile he wasn't sure quite reached his optics. Tired was an understatement, and even if they hadn't cycled through the infirmary, it seemed everyone was stretched thin and burnt out. Peter had faired no better, and Drift noticed that his human friend's aura was a riot of tension and unease even though he was clearly exhausted. ]

You even put them in little cubes? That's sweet, thank you. [ Drift's smile broadened at that as he took a pull of one and put the other on the nightstand. He was tempted to ask if the choice of container was something he learned from that cartoon of his but held off. For now. ]

Tired, but in once piece. [ Drift winked ]

What about you? Don't take this the wrong way but you seem...wrecked.

Edited 2021-12-04 01:28 (UTC)

Drift didn't like seeing himself like this either.

The years had not been kind to either of them, but Drift had taken great personal pride in how he had changed. The scars of being the starved and angry mech from the gutters of Dead End to the ruthless assassin that stalked Cybertron for the Decepticons remained, but he was different now. It took a long time for Drift to finally accept himself after years of craving that same validation from others. All of it disintegrating with one diagnosis and the impossibly long road ahead of him destined to be traveled alone.

Drift walked closest to the wall on the way out if he couldn't steady himself, but the ordeal was uneventful, if fraught with the tense silence between them. When they finally make it to the hab suite, Drift moves with purpose through the room—making his way over to the now-closed box placed with care at the foot of the bed.

"It isn't what you think," Drift repeated himself. Back turned to Megatron as he laid one hand flat on the glossy black surface of the box.

"In Ratty's will, he intended these to go to Whirl as a medical donation. When Whirl declined he had given them back and then, well, I wound up here. Stuck with this...reminder."

Drift was quiet for a long time before he found the words—forcing them out slowly like a knife being dragged out of a wound.

"I don't know what to do. Throwing them away feels wrong but keeping them is just...well, you put it best."

Dragging herself back to awareness is an unpleasant reminder of everything she had once been. Sickly. Frail. Exhausted, from even the slightest bit of exertion. Unaware that the suppression of her powers had left her drained, a thing half-alive. Only this time, she can sense it — like something vital inside of her has dimmed, a sun peeking out from behind an eclipse, as fragile as a candle flickering in the wind.

Her sapped power is the first worry to come to mind, as she blinks groggy eyes open to the bright, sterile glare of the infirmary's lights. The second — the bits of bone threaded through the points of her collarbone, forcing her fingers to shoot up too quickly. And the third, once she's assured her turtleneck still covers the jagged edge of those antlers stitched into her skin — the sight of someone else stationed at her bedside.

Instinctively, she jerks, flying up in her bed so quickly it tugs the IV tethered into her arm. It takes a moment more to calm the racing speed of her heart, galloping in her chest to match the stricken doe-eyed widening of her eyes, skittish. But —

Once she clears the sleepy fog from her eyes, she can make out Drift's face, his posture. Seated like a guard at a post in a chair at her bedside, and not looming like an enemy. She swallows down her fright, rubbing at the (now sore) flesh connected to the IV.

"Hey," she rasps, hoarse, and frowns at the sudden throb that shoots through her head. It drops back onto the pillow behind her, casting a questioning glance in his direction. When words come again, they're dropped into a hush, trying to avoid the stabbing pains that want to prick through her skull. "They didn't have a bed for you?"

Edited 2021-12-04 02:22 (UTC)

The walk to Drift's habsuite felt far longer than it was--it wasn't as if they had far to go on the tiny station. The whole last month seemed far too surreal from the moment he had arrived until now, it was some sort of dream. A nightmare. Madness brought on by isolation. Seeing one of the better mechs he'd ever known falling to pieces in grief... it wasn't right. Drift should be somewhere with people who could support him. Not on some new mad quest.

Megatron's frame filled the doorway and he closed the doorway behind him, as much from a desire to not be looked at as from a desire to protect Drift from prying eyes.

As Drift set a hand on the box, Megatron tensed. Of course. Of course Ratchet would have wanted his hands to go to someone, to try and help one more mech even when he could no longer be a doctor. He shouldn't be surprised. Megatron's shoulders slumped forward slightly, at least some of the tension draining from his frame.

"I see," he says in a low tone. "My apologies. I assumed something I shouldn't have."

A heavy silence filled the room for a moment more, then Megatron spoke again. He had prided himself on motivating others with his words his whole life and yet now he felt clumsily inadequate to rise to the challenge of someone he cared for so mired in grief.

"Regardless of that, my concern for your well-being remains. I can see that you're struggling. The risks you're taking... we might not always be so lucky."

Drift didn't know if it was the haze of whatever he had been dosed with or how quickly things had escalated when Alina roused, but he could have sworn he saw something poking out of the collar of her turtleneck. Probably nothing—some weird human thing. Under all that skin, he knew they were rather pointy, what with the bones and all. He didn't know the finer points, but he liked to believe he knew at least the basics of human physiology.

With a grunt, Drift rose to his feet and was at Alina's bedside. He wobbled slightly and raked a hand over his face to scrub away the exhaustion still clinging to him like a layer of dust. Human guise or not, it still took a bit of effort to get his bearings, and he felt everything just as keenly as if this were his own body.

"Easy there," Drift hovers, but he doesn't touch Alina as he takes a cursory look to make sure the IV drip is still in place. "Leave it in. At least for now, you're probably more dehydrated than anything. It's better to be uncomfortable than have Bones passing out from the conniption he'll throw if you take it out and that veins go off like a geyser."

"I'm in one of the beds under strict orders to stay there," Drift's weary face flashes a conspiratorial wink and small smile as he sinks back down into the chair. "They forgot I can be in two places at once. I wanted to see how you were doing."

Edited 2021-12-04 03:13 (UTC)

"You thought I went crazy," Drift intoned as he still kept his back to Megatron. "Let's not dance around it—you probably still think I'm cracked in the head."

While Drift appreciated the privacy now afforded to them after Megatron relented and brought them to his room, he still couldn't shake that feeling of being cornered. Something in the way Megatron was both genuine and smothering with all of his 'concern' had Drift tilting further into his already fractured state of mind. He might not be crazy, but he was undoubtedly piqued right now.

Drift stepped away from the bed and faced Megatron.

"You were a constant in my life for three million years, Megatron. If you're trying to make up for lost time by working yourself up over my 'well-being' now it's a little late."

His tanks churned at the hypocrisy of his own words. Few understood the strides it took to become better than one's own past than Drift. Of course, he understood Megatron was changed and he had long since moved past that. Only it was hard to be level-headed while arguing over a box containing all that was left in this world of a life whose death destroyed him.

"I think you're impaired in your ability to make logical decisions. Albeit for entirely understandable reasons," Megatron agreed bluntly. He did think Drift was a bit off his head, but Megatron couldn't say that he hadn't felt similarly at times. There were deaths that had threatened to send him completely off the edge--losing Ravage and nearly thrown him away from all the progress he had made with himself in one horrible moment, after all. When Drift turned towards him Megatron straightened, refusing to allow himself the luxury of seeming uncertain.

As Drift spoke, Megatron could feel the words dig into his spark. There was a flicker of emotion on his face, unreadable, before that taciturn mask that Megatron had grown so used to wearing over the years descended into place. Having his concern thrown back in his face was not unfamiliar to him--he had heard similar things constantly aboard the Lost Light.

For some reason the fact that it came from Drift made it sting a little more.

"It wasn't the same then, for more than one reason!" He struggled not to raise his voice, but he could feel the anger roiling inside of him. Eager to be let loose if he allowed it.

"I want to help you, Drift!"

[ erik has traveled the world. immersed himself in many cultures. he had to, in order to achieve his goals. to sam, he called himself an empire-breaker and that still holds true. if there's a system that takes advantage of people, he wants to be the hammer that shatters the framework.

but he's not immune to beauty. at least. not lately. the sun has set. his hands are in his pockets as he wears his ratty denim jacket and pants. ]

I'm more of a summer person.

[ Drift doesn't startle, but when he does turn to see Erik standing there—intact and very much alive he stares at him for a moment, just shy of an awkward one before speaking. ]

When someone believes you to be dead, it's considered rude not to let them know otherwise.

"And now that's just saying I'm crazy with more syllables," Drift bit back with a renewed line of tension running through his shoulders, now hiked up as his entire posture went rigid and defensive.

Grief had taken control, and Drift was becoming a backseat passenger to his own words. Lashing out while being entirely mindful that he was only digging at Megatron because he was the only one here to be considered an 'acceptable' target. It wasn't fair, but neither was having to process his own misery around someone he never thought he would have to see again. What happened to Megatron was cruel, perhaps even unjust, but Drift had years to move past it all and put everything they had done behind him. They hadn't precisely spoken since retrieving the orb and sidestepped their sojourn into their shared past altogether. That same argument was being rekindled again, and Drift genuinely feared how far he might go if it ignited.

"You think I don't know that? You're trying to stop me!"

Drift vented, and the beginning of a growl rumbled in the back of his throat. Drift kept his balled fists firmly pressed to his sides and stared hard at the floor, barely reining himself back in.

"If you want to help me, you can take it," Drift's voice dropped to a murmur as his head canted in the direction of 'it.' That deceptively innocuous box that was so small yet loomed over them both. "I can't do it."

"If you choose to see it that way, there's little I can do to correct you," Megatron snapped. He was patient. He had always been capable of great patience! This tested that, though. He wanted to help--but one could only help someone who wished to be helped, when it came down to the wire. Especially with something as personal and heavy as grief.

"Take it? You want me to..." There's a moment of uncertainty, then Megatron scowled.

"Fine. We can find an airlock and give him a proper funeral. That's what I would do with it, if I took it. Is that what you want, Drift?" It's true, but Megatron also said it in such a way that it was clearly meant to bite. To provoke. To test at Drift's resolve.

Maybe poking him like that was a bad plan, but Megatron needed something to work with.

Ah...I thought cubes were customary. [ Drift is 100% right that Peter's reasoning comes from what he saw in that cartoon as a kid. He's looking a little sheepish but smiling, and the comment about his current state. ]

I look like shit, you can just say that. I'm aware. Eh... I'll crash and take a long rest eventually, I promised that to Bones back in the castle, and I have the feeling he will hold me to that promise. I wanted to check on people first.

[ Peter's got certain priorities, you see. Maybe not the best, but he's got them. ]

No one died, I think we can consider the mission a success...[ He eyes the cracked gemstone of Drift's sword, grimacing. ] ...more or less. Can that be fixed? You said that sword was like your soul, lifeforce?

Megatron had been right about one thing—Drift hadn't even been giving the courtesy of a day to mourn. The funeral hadn't even appropriately concluded before he wound up on the station, and the cracks were beginning to show. Heavy was the weight of grief still pressing down on Drift at all sides that it was at times almost paralyzing.

And then Megatron's words sunk into him like tiny daggers, and Drift was jolted out of being so mired in his own head that he forgot he was still debilitated from the spark transfer.

Find an airlock. At any other time, any other person could have said that, and Drift would have likely agreed. Only this was Megatron, and all Drift heard was mockery. Get rid of what was inconvenient and in the way—even if it was to get a rise out of him. To dangle his pain in front of him to get him to show teeth. Well, it worked.

With a lighter build than the warframe he had as Deadlock, Drift had speed on his side. Megatron had maybe the span of a millisecond to process Drift standing stock still one moment to rushing him the next. Drift let out a guttural, purely animalistic sound that shattered at the end like a sob as his fist connected with the side of Megatron's head with all his weight behind it.

Megatron should have expected this. He knew the anger and impulsiveness that lurked underneath Drift's cool exterior better than anyone still alive and yet he pried and poked at that still fresh wound. He wanted a reaction. A choice. Something from Drift that wasn't this horrid, quiet, despair that seemed to suck Drift downwards and mire him in his own mind.

And Megatron had touched a very raw wound. Was it any surprise that the animal would bite? Megatron barely managed to react--he was out of practice, though he had once been one of the deadliest warriors that Cybertron had ever produced. He jerked back on instinct, but not quickly enough to avoid the blow glancing against his helm. He stumbled back against the door, winced.

"I'm not going to fight you--" He started, before he realized that whether he fought back or not, Drift was probably going to want to fight him. If he could keep the fight here, in the small space of the other's quarters, he might have an advantage--or he normally would, anyway. Usually he had superior reach, superior height and weight. Here, though, he had only the weight and more heavily armored frame. All of this was processed and possibilities considered in less time than it took for a person to blink.

He could work with that.

Megatron braced himself for the next blow that he knew was coming, then as it came he ducked into and underneath it. At the same time he pushed himself off the doorway with the aim of smashing forward and bearing Drift down onto the floor where Megatron could pin him until the tantrum was done with.

If Drift needed to punch it out, then Megatron would help him punch it out.

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CLOSED to Alina Starkov

WILDCARD; CW: Grief and uh... well we'll see what else besties

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( sunlight room )

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