app
“I understand.” Drift’s mouth took on the flattened smile that had, in time, replaced Deadlock’s perpetual scowl. He did understand. And possibly Jazz was right. Possibly it was for the best.
Depending on how one defined ‘best’.
Drift didn’t know-didn’t presume to know-why Sunstreaker had done what he did. But he recognized the face of a mech making a last stand on principle. He’d seen that face before, in Crystal City. Less despairing then, mechs almost eager to die for what they believed in. What they knew was right.
Sunstreaker had been trying to right a wrong. And…Drift could understand that, recognize that, without knowing the details.
Ironhide…had not. He’d clung to Drift’s armor as he roared over the bridge simply on instinct, the Swarm gibbering and howling behind them, Sunstreaker behind them, and shoved Drift roughly away the second he’d gotten his feet under him.
But there was more going on here. Drift figured they thought Sunstreaker was the traitor and it didn’t make sense. Not all of it.
No. You don’t know him. And they already don’t like you, Drift. Do you need any more proof than this? Told to wait outside? They’ll suspect you, for one thing.
But maybe you can see more clearly. Maybe you have distance, no personal grudges, no favoritism.
Drift sighed, stepping to the front of the balcony, trying to distract himself from his thoughts by scanning the horizon. The city stretched, dark and silent. Just another battlefield he thought. He’d seen so many that they all ran together in a sort of muddy smear. This one, though, seemed unwinnable. The Swarm, mindless, sole appetite. There was no winning against that. He knew the odds. Knew the chances. They wouldn’t win.
But that made it all the more important to stay true to what was right. If you’re going to die anyway, might as well make it worthy. Die fighting. Die standing up for what you believe in.
He looked over his shoulder at the doorway. Ironhide didn’t want to talk to him. Well.
Drift hitched his shoulders, the movement of the Great Sword across his back plates a comforting weight, a solid, heavy reminder of what really mattered. It might be for the ‘best’ to stay out here, Jazz, he thought, turning to the dark yawn of the doorway, but this was what was ‘right.’.
Depending on how one defined ‘best’.
Drift didn’t know-didn’t presume to know-why Sunstreaker had done what he did. But he recognized the face of a mech making a last stand on principle. He’d seen that face before, in Crystal City. Less despairing then, mechs almost eager to die for what they believed in. What they knew was right.
Sunstreaker had been trying to right a wrong. And…Drift could understand that, recognize that, without knowing the details.
Ironhide…had not. He’d clung to Drift’s armor as he roared over the bridge simply on instinct, the Swarm gibbering and howling behind them, Sunstreaker behind them, and shoved Drift roughly away the second he’d gotten his feet under him.
But there was more going on here. Drift figured they thought Sunstreaker was the traitor and it didn’t make sense. Not all of it.
No. You don’t know him. And they already don’t like you, Drift. Do you need any more proof than this? Told to wait outside? They’ll suspect you, for one thing.
But maybe you can see more clearly. Maybe you have distance, no personal grudges, no favoritism.
Drift sighed, stepping to the front of the balcony, trying to distract himself from his thoughts by scanning the horizon. The city stretched, dark and silent. Just another battlefield he thought. He’d seen so many that they all ran together in a sort of muddy smear. This one, though, seemed unwinnable. The Swarm, mindless, sole appetite. There was no winning against that. He knew the odds. Knew the chances. They wouldn’t win.
But that made it all the more important to stay true to what was right. If you’re going to die anyway, might as well make it worthy. Die fighting. Die standing up for what you believe in.
He looked over his shoulder at the doorway. Ironhide didn’t want to talk to him. Well.
Drift hitched his shoulders, the movement of the Great Sword across his back plates a comforting weight, a solid, heavy reminder of what really mattered. It might be for the ‘best’ to stay out here, Jazz, he thought, turning to the dark yawn of the doorway, but this was what was ‘right.’.