Eh-heh. [A self-conscious little laugh. Because YEP, that hits nearer to the mark than he really wants to admit.]
Yeah. ... Yeah. [His smile gains a little confidence, reassured.] I wouldn't want to choose. I really just want everyone to get along.
[He'd had that, tentatively, on the Lost Light. Drift's never truly had a true place he could call home, a group of bots that was inclusive and accepting enough to call family. He'd thought he was on the way to that on the Lost Light before everything went bad. He realizes the mistake, the way dark secrets poison things. Not again. Here, here it could be different. He clings to that with a fierce determination that no one really knows of.
Drift blinks questioningly as Megatron maneuvers around, his spark growing somehow tight and bright at the same time. His plating slowly goes cold as the big mech speaks, drawing in tight the way his arms do around himself. The topic strikes his core, a wound never healed. He's teetering on the edge of too much emotion when one word breaks him, cold like the hand of death that it emulates. His helm shakes, rejecting the notion just as he knows the truth in it, a hand rising to stifle the choked noise that emerges from his vocalizer. Cyan optics squeeze shut under the bowed helm, taut red pauldrons giving a shudder of too-intense emotion.
They may be words Drift needs to hear and accept, but they're nothing he wants to think about right now.
It takes him a moment before he can respond, and it's a hoarse staticky whisper when it finally emerges.]
I just want us to have a future....
[If he could conjure the future instead of just foresee it, this he would make unerringly true.]
no subject
Yeah. ... Yeah. [His smile gains a little confidence, reassured.] I wouldn't want to choose. I really just want everyone to get along.
[He'd had that, tentatively, on the Lost Light. Drift's never truly had a true place he could call home, a group of bots that was inclusive and accepting enough to call family. He'd thought he was on the way to that on the Lost Light before everything went bad. He realizes the mistake, the way dark secrets poison things. Not again. Here, here it could be different. He clings to that with a fierce determination that no one really knows of.
Drift blinks questioningly as Megatron maneuvers around, his spark growing somehow tight and bright at the same time. His plating slowly goes cold as the big mech speaks, drawing in tight the way his arms do around himself. The topic strikes his core, a wound never healed. He's teetering on the edge of too much emotion when one word breaks him, cold like the hand of death that it emulates. His helm shakes, rejecting the notion just as he knows the truth in it, a hand rising to stifle the choked noise that emerges from his vocalizer. Cyan optics squeeze shut under the bowed helm, taut red pauldrons giving a shudder of too-intense emotion.
They may be words Drift needs to hear and accept, but they're nothing he wants to think about right now.
It takes him a moment before he can respond, and it's a hoarse staticky whisper when it finally emerges.]
I just want us to have a future....
[If he could conjure the future instead of just foresee it, this he would make unerringly true.]