Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Drifter. We need to talk.”

Arthur barely stopped as he passed, raising an arm to beckon the Drifter to follow.

“...that’s never a good sign,” they murmured as they watched Arthur walking away. He didn’t even turn to make sure he was being obeyed, which was, as per usual, a level of annoying that bordered on infuriating. Just assuming he’d be followed unquestioningly because he spoke in that tone, the one that left no room for argument. Prick.

That the Drifter did, in fact, follow him was incidental. And had absolutely nothing to do with the memory of the last time they’d ignored that tone, when Aoi had been conscripted to drag them to Arthur anyway by their piercings. And not just the ear ones.

They followed him through the mall, towards the security office that Arthur tended to use for logistics work. Why did this feel like they were a child being brought before the headmaster for misbehaving? They were countless centuries old; this man’s life was just a blip compared to theirs, and yet. And yet. And yet every single thing they hadn't done exactly perfectly since the last time that tone came out raced through their mind. They’d remembered to swap out the toilet paper rolls this time, and they’d stopped eating random leftovers from the fridge without permission… mostly… and sure, they kept breaking dishes when they were supposed to wash them, but it wasn't their fault that the damn things were fragile and slippery and the last time they actually needed clean dishes it was in the future where there was automation for that kind of shit so it didn't make a difference that they—

Maybe Aoi should make metal dishes and they'd break fewer plates.

But none of the infractions they could think of held a candle to the last time they’d gotten that tone from Arthur, just a couple of weeks ago.

That last time, it had been a race with Amir, on an otherwise routine supply run, that almost got something like two dozen civvies killed.

There’s a very thin line between ‘finding joy in a warzone’ and ‘recklessly endangering the very people we’re trying to protect,’ and you, Drifter, seem to think that’s a bloody challenge!

They’d never seen Arthur that angry, and that included their less-than-smooth introductions. Amir had gotten a dressing-down as well, but apparently the Drifter was held to a higher standard than the rest of The Hex. Or, more likely, Arthur had been concerned about them being An Amir Enabler. Rightly so, it was just so much fun to let loose with him, but…

…they’d been on their best behavior since then. What the hell could have—

As the pair approached the security office, the Drifter stumbled and slowed.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Ohhhh, dear.

They could see now that this wasn't a “we need to talk” between themself and Arthur. When he'd said “we,” he’d apparently meant We . The entire Hex.

Eleanor was in one of the office chairs in the back, feet propped up on a desk, arms crossed, and head down. Quincy was sitting backwards on another chair. Amir and Aoi were on opposite sides of the counter, Amir with one leg folded under his body and the other dangling and kicking a bit as he focused on his game, while Aoi was cross-legged and idly threading something made of metal between and around her hands. Lettie, one of her rats (Vaquero, maybe? They were still getting used to telling the cute little buggers apart.) scampering restlessly from one shoulder to the other and back via her crossed arms, was leaning against the wall with an unreadable expression on her face.

Actually, all of them — save the clearly-distracted Amir with his tongue-tip held between his teeth in concentration — had similar unreadable expressions. Not angry. Not frustrated. Certainly not happy , but… well. It was already difficult re-learning Actual Human Expressions after Duviri, but this—

Wait. Hold up.

Blank. Neutral. That’s why they were unreadable. There was nothing to read. Like Dominus Thrax’s own godsdamned blank, masked face. Sol and Lua and the space between, their faces were all terrifyingly impassive.

Their heart stopped, for a beat or two, before it resumed at double-time. Please don’t let this be a new evolution of Duviri. The old one was only just starting to be fun again.

Though, admittedly, that was a ridiculous fear — no real evidence for such a drastic change in all their centuries of time loops, even considering the change from “happy fun friend time” to “fuck you, specifically, in particular, repeatedly, and with great prejudice.” But, well… knowing it was a stupid, impossible thing to worry about didn't change the deep-seated terror that had them getting lightheaded and breathing far too quickly.

As they approached the security office, trailing just behind Arthur, Quincy stood from his chair and swiveled it around in one smooth motion; at the same time, Arthur turned to grab the Drifter’s upper arm, dragging them to meet the chair that Quincy pushed forward. Despite their survival reflexes, the Drifter found themself spun and pushed down onto the chair before they had a moment to react. And then, The Hex were between them and glorious escape.

Well, four of The Hex. Eleanor was still behind them, probably not even having moved, but she didn’t really need to, did she? And the other—

“Amir.” Arthur’s voice. Low, gruff, level. Commanding. The normally-delightful little boop-boop-boops of Amir’s game continued.

“AMIR!” The Drifter flinched at Quincy’s much louder attempt at redirecting the speedster’s fleeting attention. Amir’s startle response was a bit different, the handheld game flying a few feet into the air, followed by a mad scramble to catch it and join the others.

“Whuh- oh! We’re interventioning now? Don’t they have to be- oh. Hi Drifter, didn’t hear you come up.”

Now there were five of The Hex in front of them, between them and freedom, with Eleanor-the-calm-and-looming-threat behind them preventing Escape Via Wall Destruction.

“H-hi guys. You’re not gonna to kill me as a team-building exercise, are you?” The Drifter’s gaze shifted from unreadable face to unreadable face, trying to keep the nervousness out of their voice and off their own face. “Y’know it won’t take.” The ‘killing them’ part for sure; the ‘team building’ part less sure, but only marginally.

“This is not a ‘team-building exercise,’ Drifter,” Arthur started, before Aoi continued.

“Like Amir said, it’s an intervention.”

“What’s an intervention?”

“Ohhh no, babas, you are not getting out of this that easy.”

Probably-Vaquero gave a squeak as if to punctuate his mamá’s statement.

“Is, um. Is it about taking the last slice of pizza from the fridge again? I asked whose it was in the groupchat and nobody responded— or the dishes again? I’m sorry, on Sol I’m not doing it on purpose—”

Amir shoved between Aoi (who moved willingly) and Quincy (who did not) to get closer.

“It’s about the Atomicycles.”

Ohhhhhh dear.

“I haven’t touched any Atomicycles-”

“-=That, dear Drifter,=-” came the ringing honey of Eleanor’s mental voice, “-=is exactly the problem.=-”

Ah, fuck.

“You haven’t lost your keys, have you?” Aoi asked, though she cast a brief sideways glance at Arthur, instead of the Drifter, as she said it. Arthur’s growling sigh gave away the fact that he knew exactly what she was doing while asking that question.

The Drifter shifted in the chair, pulling their jacket aside to show the collection of keys (and keychains; more keychains than keys, actually—) hanging from their belt loop by a carabiner.

“They’re here. Somewhere.” The Drifter let their jacket fall back into place. “Can I go now?”

“Oi, cuz, if y’ tink we all here just for a key check, you’re proper mental.”

“Ah. Damn.” The Drifter looked between the looming protoframes, feeling smaller than they had in a very long time. This was not a line of questioning they had expected and it really wasn't one they wanted to follow to the end. “Then uh. What can I do ya for?”

“I got your Atomicycle running fast, shined it up nice for you, and I haven’t seen you use it once ,” Aoi said, a hint of genuine disappointment in her voice.

“Amir doesn’t use his Atomicycle.”

“Amir doesn’t have an Atomicycle,” growled Arthur.

“Amir doesn’t need an Atomicycle,” Amir himself broke in, holding up a single finger in his defense.

“Amir blew up his Atomicycle,” Aoi added with a rueful sigh.

“Great! Then he can have mine. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” The Drifter started to get out of the chair, but Quincy’s broad hands fell to their shoulders and pressed them back down.

“Nah fam, y’not leggin it now. You just got here, an’ we ain’t done.”

“Fffffffuck.”

Arthur rubbed one hand down his face and groaned.

“Okay, but really, what do you have against Atomicycles?” Amir practically whispered his question, holding a hand up next to his mouth and looking around conspiratorially like there weren’t four other people directly next to him and a mind-reader on the other side of the room.

“Nothing.” The Drifter said. “At all. It’s fine. They’re fine.”

“Pinche chismoso.”

“Gesundheit?” The Drifter hoped they were using that word right. They’d read it in some 1999 comic where someone was speaking another language, but—

Okay, the way Lettie threw her arms in the air — nearly catapulting probably-Vaquero in the process — meant the answer was no. Or yes and they’d pissed her off. Or no and they’d pissed her off. Hard to tell, really.

“Be serious, Drifter.” Arthur said, clearly getting exasperated.

“-=As amusing at it may be to see your newest creative avoidance of the Atomicycles, my brother has expressed some level of… worry… that said avoidance is slowing you down.=-”

“Soldier boy over here’s been right antsy over it.”

“Aww, that’s so sweet. You care about me?” The Drifter pasted a lopsided half-grin on their face, a nervous attempt at changing the subject to something, anything, else.

“DRIFTER.” Arthur’s voice was louder, his enunciation clipped and his tone paralyzing. The Drifter’s grin fell away immediately as they looked at the wall to their left and pursed their lips. There it was again, that feeling, like they were a helpless child, waiting to be punished like a beast for the indiscretions of a babe.

“I care. About. Readiness. If any of us waiting for you to catch up costs a single life, Hex or civilian—”

“I don’t need an Atomicycle to be faster than any of you. Including Amir,” the Drifter mumbled, head low to avoid any and all eye contact.

“Ooh, yeah, that bunny frame was super fun to race, I wasn’t even upset to lose—”

“Amir. Not the time.” Arthur tried to wrest back control of the situation.

“Sorry.” A pause. The Drifter looked up to see Amir’s expression switch from sheepishness back to an almost absent glee, clearly either unable or disinclined to keep from continuing his line of thought. “The ball was pretty great, too.”

“I liked the one with the fire Heelsies and the hoop,” Aoi said, before flashing a grin at Amir, who apparently took this as an invitation to continue. The Drifter mouthed thank you at Aoi as Amir kept on talking.

“Or the one with the stingray skateboard! And that hoverboard right out of Marty McFlea’s collection!”

“-=I’m partial to the shieldmaiden with the jetpack.=-”

“Eleanor! Not! Helping!” Arthur hissed through clenched teeth, his voice starting to take on the strained quality that meant he was keeping control of his frustration by the barest of margins at this point.

“Oooooo Jetpack Shieldmaiden would make a great band name. Aoi, wanna be the frontman? Frontwoman. Whatever.”

“AMIR.”

“YES! And I could make my own props! Quincy, you on drums? You’ve got rhythm.”

“Yeah, fine, so long as I’m front ‘n center.” Quincy was grinning, himself, at this point. Most likely, less for the new (potential? joking?) band and more from the audible groaning sound coming from Arthur.

“QUIET!” Arthur finally barked, cutting off Amir in the middle of something to do with learning guitar. The room went silent. Briefly.

“...you’re no fun.” Amir said, looking very much like he’d had a new gadget ripped right out of his hands.

“Facts.”

Arthur glared at Quincy, who shrugged. With another deep, longsuffering sigh, Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Drifter. Tell me. Why aren’t you using your Atomicycle?”

“Allergies.”

“...I don’t want to ask you again–”

“Then don’t.”

Amir started with an Oooooo before Aoi clapped a hand over his mouth, shaking her head, because Arthur had jerked forward, hand slightly raised and trembling faintly, like he was barely containing the urge to absolutely deck the Drifter.

The pair of them locked eyes, and then the air between them was alight, blazing tension held in their level gazes. Arthur’s rising anger crashed against the Drifter’s stubborn disobedience, and in the push and pull, their quickening breaths matched up, hot puffs of air hissing out in tandem between them. It seemed, for a few long moments, that the pair was a single errant twitch away from coming to blows like two alley cats fighting for territory. Seconds stretched, vibrating, crackling, thrumming with potential—

The boom of a gunshot split the air, and all attention turned to Lettie, her sidearm raised to the ceiling.

“Are you pendejos done with your pissing contest?”

The Drifter sucked in a quick breath before reaching out to one of their warframes, pulling it towards them with that weird wobbly feeling that they would probably never get quite used to.

“Yup. Toodles.” The Drifter was replaced by their frame and, in the same breath, winked out of sight with barely a ripple in the air. The ruffling of Arthur’s hair was the only clue as to where they might have gone next.

“Oh, for– Aoi!”

“On it!”

“Is that an invisible jellyfish? That’s a new one.”

“ -=To the left. Food court.=- ”

The next thing that the Drifter felt was being abruptly and unceremoniously yanked into the floor, face-first, by every stupid bit of Orokin frippery on their Ivara’s damned chassis. The tile beneath them shattered with the force, and one of the ceiling’s metal light casings crashed down and crumpled next to them.

Shit.

The next few seconds consisted of the Drifter actively struggling against the magnetism and mentally debating how bad of an idea it would be to pop back out of their warframe, what with their human body having various other bits of metal through various squishy bits with actual nerve endings instead of whatever void infestation nonsense was going on with their warframe’s nervous system. If it had one. Did it have one? It probably had one, they'd seen schematics for various “systems” so maybe—

A boot on their back stopped that train of thought, alongside their struggling. Well. Shit.

“Got ‘em.”

Damn. Damn damn damn. Quincy sure caught up to them fast— and how had he even seen through the— oh. Right. Giant cracks on the floor under them.

“Leave the ride, cuz. Aoi can hold you like this all night.”

“Promise?” Their voice had the odd, hollow half-echo to it that came from talking during transference, without being muffled by the fact that their Ivara’s “face” was for sure halfway into the broken tile by this point.

“Top game, ‘cept the part where you’re bein’ a right pillock. Way I see it, y’ got two options: walk back, or get dragged back.” They could feel Quincy leaning in closer, the pressure of the boot on their back increasing. “Bit a’ free advice, here: y’ wanna walk. Seen?”

The Drifter groaned.

“...seen.”

The weight of Quincy’s boot left their back, and they briefly considered just bolting after all once they were freed. Briefly. By the time Quincy had called the all-clear back to Aoi and the crushing pressure let up, the Drifter had already decided that today was not the day to learn whether they could run fast enough to outpace Aoi’s range before she flattened them in a much more painful manner.

The Drifter dropped the stealth field and pushed themself up with another creaking groan, freshly-powdered floor tile sprinkling down as it dislodged from the nooks and crannies of their frame’s carapace. Once they were standing again, Quincy fixed them with a pointed, expectant stare.

Oh. Right. Their shoulders slumped and they sighed as they stepped out of their warframe, standing just in front of it with the fractured pride of a chastised child. Quincy motioned back towards the security office with his rifle. Hey when did he— was he going to shoot them if they hadn’t—

“After you,” he said, words clipped between shining teeth. It was not an invitation.

The Drifter dragged their feet on their newest Death March back to the office. Honestly, getting caught by Thrax would be better than this. Catch, execute, sweet release, repeat. Pain was temporary. So was death, at this point. But this…

“Y’all are making a real big deal out of something that don’t need it…” they started, their tone no longer sly or defiant, but resigned. Maybe if they treated it like it wasn't a big deal, the Hex would believe them. Though… every one of them was smarter than that. The Drifter hadn't been here long, but they knew that much already.

When they reached the security office, The Hex parted to let them through in silence, and they all but fell back into the chair without having to be told.

“You can keep your secrets,” Arthur began, his quick breaths making it clear that his anger was only stifled, not dispelled. “Sol knows, we all have enough of those. But when they affect the rest of us, when they can get people killed, then the time for secrets is bloody well past. ” Arthur’s index finger leveled right in front of the Drifter’s nose. “Life and death are made in seconds. We may be stuck repeating everything, we may all come back at the end of this, but we remember . They all remember. So, whatever childish hangup you have about keeping pace? It’s gone. Ride the damn bike.”

“Arthur, I—”

“Did I stutter, Drifter?”

“No, but-”

“Did. I. Stutter.”

“Will you let me fucking finish?!” Leaping to their feet with their yell, the Drifter’s voice came out higher, strained, throat tight from frustration and- and fear. Every semblance of trying to play it cool was gone, replaced by the rapid breaths and jerking movements of someone barely keeping their shit together. The difference must have shocked even Arthur, because he blinked, stepped back, and straightened up, his expression softening from “probably going to stab them again” to “could be convinced not to stab them again.”

“Well?”

The Drifter brought their arms up to wrap around their own shoulders, a soothing, childlike gesture, as they looked away, trying everything in their power to ignore the stinging feeling in their nose and eyes that foretold falling tears. They collapsed back down onto the chair, into themself, smaller and smaller.

“I can’t. I don’t know how. I tried. Middle of the night, nobody around, I tried. Wiped out on four different warframes before doing the same damn thing outside of them. Thought maybe it’d be easier that way, but- well- last month when I disappeared outta nowhere for a few days? Shredded half my body. Crushed. Shattered. It was too bad to recover from before everyone woke up and… saw me… so…” They looked up at Aoi, eyes shining with tears that they were stubbornly willing to stay put. Their voice started to take on a quavering, nasal quality as they tried, and failed, to keep any more emotion out of it. “I used a warframe to lean the Atomicycle against the wall, in the shadows, so you wouldn’t see… all the damage… and then I just… I’m sorry. It looked really nice, before I…” They sighed and pulled further into themself, smaller and smaller. “I’m sorry.”

There. They’d said it.

They fixed their gaze on the floor between their feet, hanging their head and waiting for the blade to fall. Maybe this really was a new spiral. Shame, perhaps. Self-loathing. Incompetence. Please, let the blow come, let it be over. They couldn't take the weight of their own stupid failure to do yet another thing that everyone else seemed to find so damn easy.

The silence that followed crushed in on them, gripping their throat and chest, choking out every last breath from their lungs. They’d come here to help; they were trying to be trusted, to be respected, hell, just to be liked, and here they were… admitting to a level of… of powerlessness, uselessness, that would set every small step they'd taken back to the beginning, and without the excuse of a time loop to soften the blow.

They weren't sure what sort of response they’d expected, but it certainly wasn't the one they got.

The first sound they heard was Quincy chuckling and starting to speak, but not getting out more than half a syllable before he let out a surprised yelp of pain and fell silent. The Drifter kept their head down, pulled their arms tighter against themself, eyes squeezing shut. They didn't know what Quincy was about to say, but they were fairly certain it was Aoi who’d stopped him. She really was sweet as sugar… and sharp as honed steel.

The next sound was… movement. Steps in front of them. Rustling.

And then, they felt a tap on their forehead. They opened their eyes and looked up, gaze leveling with Arthur’s again, but this time he almost seemed to be smiling. He held his skana up and tapped the Drifter on the forehead with the end of its hilt one more time.

“There. See? That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”

“Wh—”

“Simple problem. Simple solution. We teach you how to ride.”

The Drifter sucked in a shaky breath and looked over at the others, where both Aoi and Amir were giving them big grins and thumbs up, while Quincy was rubbing absently at his solar plexus with a sour expression. Lettie, meanwhile, was as inscrutably irritated as ever, but if the Drifter didn't know better, they’d have thought her expression had… softened a bit. And the feeling of warmth that flooded them, almost like they were being embraced… that must have been Eleanor.

So that's what Amir had meant when he’d mentioned “brain hugs” before. It was… nice. It helped to deaden the cacophony in their head in a way that seemed… protective, maybe? Safe.

Slowly, barely, the tension in the Drifter’s entire body lessened, ebbing away in the tiniest of rivulets. The fear was there. The self-loathing, too, and the shame, and the frustration. But a tiny spark of hope flashed to life among them. A small, glowing ember that seemed barely visible, but… it was there, too, as sure as Sol and Lua dance.

They cracked a thin smile; it was still forced, but at least a small part of it was genuine.

“Arthur, buddy, you gotta know something about me before you start making promises like that.” The Drifter gave a dry, humorless chuckle and shook their head, back to making eye contact with the floor. “Six hundred and eighty-seven loops. And like another half of one. It took me six-fucking-hundred and eighty-fucking-seven loops to learn how to ride a godsdamned kaithe. And kaithes have four legs! They balance on their own! Do you want to spend almost seven hundred of these 1999s trying to teach my dumb ass how to keep a fuckin’ Atomicycle upright and going in the right direction?” The Drifter had to resist the urge to spit on the floor in disgust at their own incompetence. “You’d want to be dragged behind one of the damn things by March.”

“Drifter,” Arthur said, deadpan. They looked up at him, his expression deadly serious, and he continued: “What the fuck is a kaithe.”

A choking sound was about the only thing that came from the Drifter for a few long moments, their mouth half-open as they searched for a response. It wasn't until they caught the corners of Arthur’s mouth teasing up just the slightest that they realized: Arthur was giving them a taste of their own medicine, the bastard. So he did have a sense of humor in there somewhere.

The Drifter snorted, and the snort became a chuckle, and then a proper, breathless laugh. Their gloved hands came up to cover their mouth, cover the way their pale lips pulled away to show the flashing of fangs with their laughter. But only for a moment before they had to start wiping at the corners of their eyes. The tears that had been threatening to fall had managed to break through while they were distracted, and they had to do something about that before the Hex got it into their heads that the Drifter was a weepy little shit.

“Fuck. Fuck it. Okay. If you want me to learn, I’ll do my best.” The Drifter let out a huffy chuckle, their face feeling like it might split open at the jaw if they laughed any more than they already had. “Don’t blame me when you find out how shit of a student I am, though. Never any good at school. Learned everything the hard way if I learned it at all.” They shook their head before looking up at the gathered Hex, most of their expressions more readable, now, thank Sol. “So who’s the lucky teacher?”

“Amir, hand down.” Arthur hadn't even looked in Amir’s direction, but he apparently hadn't needed to, because Amir’s hand had, in fact, shot up a split second before Arthur had spoken.

“Aw, but—”

“No. For several reasons. Chief of which being what you did to your own Atomicycle. Anyone else interested in—”

“I’m out. You had your talk; I have people to treat.” Lettie gave a quick, almost absent wave goodbye and retreated out into the rest of the mall without waiting for acknowledgement of her words, the rapid tapping of her footsteps receding quickly.

“Quincy?”

“Hell nah. Your solution, your problem.”

“...Aoi?”

“I’d love to, buuuuuut I’m all booked up right now. I’ll let you know if something opens up!” The Drifter raised an eyebrow at Aoi’s response, and was still looking at her when Arthur had changed his attention to Eleanor. It was just long enough for them to catch Aoi wink at them and press a finger to her lips. Their cheeks tinted pink at the gesture. What was she up to? Did she just think it would be funny to—

“-=Well, brother dear, it seems as though it falls to you.=-” The Drifter could hear the grin in Eleanor’s broadcast, despite it being an entirely mental voice. H-how did she manage that?

Arthur let out a resigned sigh and rubbed his face with his free hand.

“Bollocks. Fine. Tomorrow, midday, meet me in the garage. Aoi, you’ll see to it they have a functioning bike by then?”

“Of course~”

“Wonderful.” Arthur sounded exhausted and so, incredibly, Done With This Shit.

“Hey, Arthur?” The Drifter started, unable to keep their own dumb ass grin off their face. Arthur looked over at them and apparently clocked their expression immediately, because he raised a hand to rub at his temple.

“If you ask me what a bike is, I’m throwing you outside and teaching an ice lolly how to ride tomorrow.”

“Point taken. What's an ice lolly?”

Chapter Text

The riding lesson was coming up both too quickly and far, far too slowly for the Drifter’s liking. And sanity. Arthur’s stupid muster call at 0500 started their day just as early as the rest of the Hex, despite their not technically having anything to do until midday. Why did they get him that stupid intercom. Why. And how did it manage to reach through the voidgate and into their quarters. What kind of Void Magic Nonsense was Kinemantik up to.

They were up until almost 3am — it took them that long to relax enough to sleep after the “intervention”  — and then back awake at 5am… did that even count as sleeping?

And were they ready for midday? Absolutely not. Nowhere in the realm of ready. It felt like yet another of the many times Thrax had decided they had caused so much trouble in their escape attempt that they needed to be Made An Example Of. Which invariably meant keeping them in a cell overnight, in order to gather the rest of Duviri for their flashy public execution come Solrise. (Were they really that grandiose and sadistic deep down? Hm. Better not think about that for too long…) Except, when it was waiting for the newest way their “best friend” had come up with to kill them, they knew that it would be over soon. This? Not so much. Somehow, this was worse. Than literally dying. Again.

Honestly, they tried to appreciate the fact that the hours were dragging, because that meant they didn't have to fail yet. But The Waiting was its own kind of excruciating. There was nothing to do.

Well, no, there was plenty to do. They just couldn't start anything, because they might have to stop in the middle of it. And that would be Worse. Never mind that there were things that would take mere minutes to do. What if something happened and they took longer? They couldn't start them now. They might be late.

And so, they paced. Back and forth across the lower floor, trailed by a black, and slightly concerned, Vasca kavat. Up the stairs. Down the stairs. Back up. Circles around the upper room. Back and forth across the little balcony, their shadow choosing to wait patiently between the sliding doors and watch their movements. Up onto the concrete windowsill, and then across it, back and forth, their breath puffing out in little clouds from the winter chill creeping through the glass.

They weren’t even, really, thinking. Not much, at least. It was the same detached, muzzy nothingness that came with waiting for their death. There was a part of them, in the back of their mind, telling them that they were being very dramatic over something as simple as learning how to ride a Sol-damned Tommy, but that part was easier to ignore than the anxiety by several orders of magnitude.

What if they couldn’t learn? What if it really did take several loops? They didn’t have anyone teaching them how to ride a kaithe, true, so maybe having someone to help would make this time go faster. Easier. But… what if they were just so damned hopeless that even having help wouldn’t, well, help? What if Arthur gave up on dealing with their shit? He wouldn’t be the first. It was a miracle Teshin had stuck it out for them, really, because until him…

Well. What was that again about not thinking?

A stuttery “Mraaw!” further broke through their fog, and they sank down against the wall with a huff, one leg dangling off of the windowsill. They looked to their right, out onto the stark Höllvanian winterscape beyond the glass, and sighed. Their breath crystallized on the pane to hide their reflection, which was a small kindness for their current emotional state.

“Yeah,” they murmured, turning their head just slightly towards the kavat. “You got that right, Mitts.”

The kavat made a cawing sound and put his paws up on the sill beside the Drifter. They reached over with one gloved hand to scratch under his chin with slightly jerky motions, giving a little half-grin as his eyes closed and ears folded back in enjoyment.

“So how long do you think Arthur is gonna last trying to beat his lesson into my thick skull, hm?” they asked their kavat buddy. Mitts, still clearly enjoying the scritching, didn’t respond. When the Drifter stopped and pulled their hand away to run through their own short, white hair, the kavat let out an indignant squawk and jumped up onto the sill in front of them. “Whoah- hey, buddy, warn a gal next time.”

Their words may have sounded a touch frustrated, but there was a smile on their face. Mitts, now facing the Drifter, flopped his front half across their legs with the most long-suffering, existentially tired sigh that they had ever heard. Including any of their own.

“You didn’t answer my question, you little shit.” They started absently petting him, scritching behind one leathery ear and then the other. “I give him an hour. Two, tops. What’s the over/under on that?” They ruffled the kavat’s headfur, his ears flopping comically with the motion. “…I should call Nef and see if I can bilk some credits off his ass for this.”

“Mraw.”

“Yeah, you’re right. He probably wouldn’t take a buy-in in Höllers.”

The Drifter brought their other hand into play, cupping the kavat’s face between their gloves and wiggling it around, starting to laugh at the squished expression he took on. Mitts was eminently tolerant of this behavior. In fact, the crackly purr starting in his chest might almost lead the Drifter to believe that he enjoyed being knocked about like this.

“So, you want to come with me and enjoy the show, big guy? See me eat pavement all day?”

“Raow.”

“I’ll take that as a no. I don’t blame you.” They sat back again, yawning. “Not even sure if I want to go,” they murmured, eyes glassy and expression a bit absent. “This was probably a mistake.”

“Mrak.”

“Oh, don’t give me that, I know I promised to. Why do you think I’m doing it? Drifter ain’t no liar.”

“Mrrrak.”

“Hey!” They roughly booped the kavat’s nose with a finger. “I didn’t teach you that kind of language. Was it the kid? Rude brat.” They grinned, then let out a huffy, tired little laugh, and returned to the scritches they had so rudely been denying Mitts.

“Mrrrrrrarrrrw.”

“I’m glad at least one of us thinks I can do this. Even if that one is a kavat.”

“Mrrrp.”

Mitts yawned. The Drifter yawned.

“Hey, don't start that; I’m barely awake as-is.” They let out a laugh, then looked out the window again. What time even was it? The sun looked awful high, where it was peeking through the muddy gray clouds…

They prodded Mitts off of their lap, the kavat making disgruntled noises at being disturbed, and jumped down to check the chronometer nestled between various other devices on the table.

“Shit—”

The Drifter reached the garage in record time, their Gauss’s pointed boots dragging ruts into the concrete floor as they slid to a stop a few meters away from Arthur. They barely managed to keep themself from wiping out by launching out of their frame and into a roll, leaping to their feet just in front of Arthur with their arms held akimbo for balance. …Hopefully he read it as an ostentatious “tadaa!” instead of the “oh shit, gravity” that it actually was.

“...showoff.”

Oh thank Sol. They couldn’t help the fact that Gauss was a bit… flamboyant. It was just the nature of the frame! Obviously.

“So…” they started, drawing the word out as they closed the last few feet between them and Arthur.

“So, you’re late.”

“Only a little.”

“Twenty minutes is a long time when bullets are flying.”

The Drifter bristled. Keeping the walls around their emotions and leashing their impulses was so much harder on little sleep, and how fucking dare Arthur frame it like some stupid lesson was that important—

“This is not life or death, don’t you fucking dare—” Arthur held up his hand, index finger raised, cutting the Drifter off mid-sentence. They flinched away, cringing, turning their head and closing their eyes, as if waiting for a blow that didn’t come.

The Drifter opened one eye and looked at Arthur, whose face didn’t seem angry; hell, they couldn’t even see any of the frustration that he’d shown when they first arrived — he seemed more… confused? Concerned? Shit. His hand was still half-up, relaxed now with his finger still somewhat raised and the rest in a loose fist, but it seemed like he’d forgotten he was holding it up. They flicked their gaze between his hand and his face another time or two, and it seemed to be enough to remind him. Arthur dropped his hand, changing the motion into crossing his arms before they were all the way down, and sighed.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Drifter.” Arthur’s voice lacked the… edge that it often had, and that realization felt like a punch to the chest. Was that pity? Fuck. Shit. FUCK.

The Drifter straightened, crossing their own arms, trying not to look like they were hugging themself.

“I didn’t think you were.”

Arthur let out a long, slow breath through his nose, his eyes falling closed and the frustrated tension returning to his face.

“Sure. Fine. Whatever you say.” Arthur turned towards the waiting Atomicycle and beckoned the Drifter to follow. “Lesson time. Saddle up.”

The Drifter circled around the Atomicycle, sizing it up with the air of a wary, wild animal. They were still shaking off the trembles of their previous panic, shoring up their walls with the familiar patches of snark, sass, and Being The Problem.

“It’s not going to bite you.”

“It might. Maybe yours is more tame. Been ridden more. Less skittish around new people.”

“I will kill you again myself.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” The Drifter gave Arthur a stupid little grin, a mix of defiance and self-satisfied mischief, but did finally swing a leg over the seat. “Alright. I know twisting this one makes it go,” they pointed at the right handle, “But that's about all I could figure out before things got crash-y.”

Arthur was silent. The Drifter looked over at him to see him deep in thought, arms crossed, head tilted, brows knitted.

“How the bloody hell did you get it started without the clutch?”

“Clutch?”

Arthur pointed at the lever on the left side. The Drifter made an aahh sound, nodding absently.

“I mostly just fucked with the controls until I figured out the right combination that made it start up and sound… right. Which I guess was holding down the… clutch? And turning the key… then stepping on that…” They gestured towards a slightly back-set pedal, then another on the other side. “Then… wiggling that one a bit. It’s hard to tell what kind of nonsense y’all are doing on the handles when we’re all bookin’ it like our asses are on fire.”

“So, you know a bit more than just the throttle, then. Not a bad start, for a squid.”

The Drifter could almost see a smile pulling at Arthur’s lips. They opened their mouth, about to ask—

“It means a newbie.” There was for sure amusement in Arthur’s voice, this time, and they couldn't keep a smile off their own lips when they picked up on it.

“Damn. Beat me to it.”

“It’s also a kind of… fish? Sea life.”

“Wait. Have fish changed that much in—”

“They’re unrelated,” Arthur sighed, clearly immediately regretting adding to his statement.

“They sound pretty fuckin’ related.” The Drifter’s dumb grin was still on their face; hopefully, that was enough to show Arthur that they weren’t actually picking a fight. Arthur just groaned and rubbed his hand down his own face. Though, now the Drifter was trying to figure out how a fish would ride an Atomicycle… hm. Maybe they’d ask the kid if Fibonacci knew how to ride one. Or how he would ride one, in theory? Could he even do it without hands? Could they teach Mitts how to ride one, once they learned how themself—

The sudden snapping of fingers in front of their face jerked them out of whatever weird-ass path their tired mind had wandered down, and they blinked up at Arthur sheepishly.

“Your head together now, Drifter?”

“Never, but continue. Clutch, throttle…?”

“If you aren’t up for it, we can—”

“Do not offer to reschedule. I will agree to it, and then avoid both it and you at all costs,” the Drifter said, flatly, before blinking, groaning, and dropping their head into their hands. “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

“You did, yes.”

“What do I have to pay you to forget that?”

“Attention,” Arthur said, a wry smile creeping across his face. The Drifter blinked, trying to process both what he meant and why it was amusing.

“O-oh! Oh. Right. Yes. Paying attention now, oh forgiving and hopefully forgetting teacher.”

Arthur indicated the first pedal that the Drifter had mentioned before.

“Starter pedal, kickstart pedal, kickstarter, take your pick of what to call it or make up your own. Nobody here uses the same damn word anyhow.” Arthur sounded mildly irritated about that. The Drifter made a mental note that the man had some opinions about Tommies that they hadn’t expected.

“Out of curiosity, what did Amir—”

“The ‘Kicky-Vroom’ and… some numbers.” The pain in Arthur’s voice and face at having to say it out loud was palpable.

“How about—”

“Drifter. Focus.”

“Sorry.”

“And you already know how to start— do not start it.” Arthur growled the last part as the Drifter reached for the clutch and key.

“Why not?” The Drifter asked, their hands still halfway to their destinations. For once, they weren’t being a little shit, and were genuinely confused.

“One, I am not going to yell to be heard over it. Two, where are the brakes, Drifter?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be- oh. Right. Yeah, that makes sense.” The Drifter’s pale skin reddened considerably as they crossed their arms and looked away. They could feel the heat coming off of their cheeks and ears. Stupid, stupid, stupid—

“Just… keep your hands to yourself until I’ve walked you through everything, got it?”

“Yeah. I. Yeah, that’s fair. Where are the brakes?”

Arthur indicated the lever on the right handle, then a pedal on their right.

“Top is your front brake, lower is your rear. This model can stop dead almost instantly, so… be careful. Stop too short and it’ll buck you faster than a horse.”

“Gonna guess a horse is something like a kaithe, if it bucks…”

“Most likely, yes.”

“At least that’s something I’ve got experience with,” they chuckled, feeling a bit of their embarrassment ebb away at Arthur’s half-smile. Despite his frustrations, he seemed much less… off-putting? Abrasive? Overbearing? While explaining the way the Atomicycle worked.

Arthur indicated the pedal on the other side.

“That is how you shift gears. Pull the clutch, hit the pedal, release the clutch. Up while accelerating, down while decelerating.”

“...how do I know… when to do it? Just? Accelerate ‘n pump the pedal?”

“Sol’s balls, no, you listen for when the engine sounds…” Arthur paused, sighed. “You’ll be able to hear a difference in the engine. Hard to miss.”

“Can I just… not shift gears?”

“If you want to blow the gearbox and have Aoi out for your blood, be my guest.”

“I take it the gearbox is important.”

“Yes, Drifter, the gearbox is important.”

“Noted and filed,” they nodded, eyeing the handlebars of the Atomicycle and the different readouts on the HUD, as well as the number of buttons and levers remaining. This was gonna take a while, wasn’t it…

Arthur pointed at one of the readouts.

“That’s your speedometer. Tells you how fast you’re going. Doesn’t matter now, because speed limits mean nothing to Techrot or Scaldra, unless they want a reason to stop and search you.”

“The Techrot can do that?” The Drifter asked, their dumb little grin back on their face. Arthur looked at them, then closed his eyes with a sigh.

“It’s more important when we’re doing recon or supply runs. Most of what Scaldra has can’t catch a Tommy, but a loaded lorry… well. Those damn things corner like a pensioner.”

“What’s—”

“Old person.”

“Ah.”

Arthur indicated a string of numbers, and then the other readout.

“Odometer. Tells you how much wear is on the engine. Doesn’t really matter now, because we’re in a sodding time loop. Only other person it does matter to is Aoi for tune-ups; she keeps track of everyone’s but mine. And that’s the rev counter. Tells you how fast the engine is spinning. That’s another way to tell when to shift gears, but by ear is faster and easier.”

The Drifter nodded along, trying to commit all of the new words and controls to memory. It was… hit or miss so far. Worse even than it would normally be, since they were running on such little sleep. Hell, it was easier to parse shit on no sleep than this fucking tired—

Arthur pointed out a few more things on the handlebars and HUD as they watched.

“Petrol level. Aoi keeps everyone topped up, so unless you’re doing laps around the city, doesn’t really matter. Headlight toggle, high beams. Self-explanatory. Horn—”

Whonk whonk whooooooonk!

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose.

Whooooonk whonk!

“Don’t. Please.”

“Just one more?”

“...one more.”

Whonk!

The Drifter settled back with a gleeful, childish grin on their face, silver eyes sparkling bright. Their arms were pulled tight to their chest, much like when they hugged themself to calm down, but this time their hands were in loose fists and wiggling a bit, the maille on their gloves giving off a faint, dull jingle with the movements.

They looked up at Arthur expectantly, ready to move on, but froze at the look on his face. It was… soft. A gentle smile, a thoughtful head tilt. The weight of his gaze felt suffocating, despite what… they thought was kindness in his expression.

“...What?” they asked, angling away from him in a wary, guarded motion.

“Nothing,” Arthur said, his expression returning to a more normal, grumpy almost-scowl. “Perspective, I suppose. Moving on.”

The Drifter let themself relax, re-center, watching as Arthur continued to point to things in front of them.

“Turn signals. Pointless, again. Traffic laws here have gone to hell, and it’s not like anyone used them beforehand. Choke, for starting in the cold. Hold it down while you’re using the kick. Not normally a problem from the garage, but once you’re outside, it might be an issue. This switch changes the riding mode. You can see which one you’re in on the display there. Don’t bother with it, just let it do what it wants.”

“So another pointless bit, then?”

“For you? Yes. It changes on its own by default, based on… several factors that I’m not getting into right now. Just leave the setting on auto and don’t think about it until you’ve got more experience.”

The Drifter nodded, and Arthur continued.

“Overdrive boost.”

“Go-Fast button?” They grinned, and Arthur chuckled, shaking his head.

“Sure. You get two seconds and it’s hell to handle if you aren’t used to it, so straightaways only for now. And last, this button launches micro homing missiles. Be careful where you aim them and try not to ride directly through the blast zone.”

“Great. Awesome. Thank you. Which button blows it up?”

“If I told you, Aoi would kill us both.”

“...wait does that mean there actually is one—”

“No.”

“Arthur there’s stuff you haven’t explained yet.”

“That ‘stuff’ is unnecessary to our operations. No touching.”

“How will I know what not to push? What if I accidentally blew up my Tommy?” they asked, their goofy grin putting their fangs on full display. This was a completely innocent question with no ulterior motives whatsoever.

“I’m not going to tell you whether there is a self-destruct. And if there is one, I’m not going to tell you where it is, either.”

“Suspicious.”

Arthur gave another long-suffering sigh.

“Sure. So, ready for your first real ride?”

“A few centuries too late for that, but—” They paused. Blinked. Turned bright red as what they had actually said sank in, and covered their face with both hands. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud I am so sorry.” Curse their sleep-deprived brain and its malfunctioning filter. Fuck.

After a few moments of awkward silence, they looked up to see Arthur standing a few paces away, his back to them and his shoulders shaking. O-oh dear. The panic started to rise again, right up until Arthur burst out into loud, almost breathless laughter, head back and hand covering his face. The Drifter looked around the garage, confused, and then back to Arthur.

“Oh sweet Sol, you really are something,” he managed to wheeze out after what felt like hours.

“I don’t know whether to thank you or apologize,” the Drifter mumbled, shifting their body weight a bit and looking off to the side. It was the truth. And, much like when they were a child, they couldn’t… tell for sure if he was laughing at them or not. And — again, much like when they were a child — they didn’t like that. At all.

“No, no– hoooo,” Arthur bent over, hands on his knees, apparently trying to properly catch his breath. “Don’t apologize. It’s- I needed that laugh. Thank you. Truly. Are you ready to ride, now, or do you need a moment?”

“Uh…” the Drifter looked off to the side, then down at the Atomicycle beneath them. “Yeah. I think I’m ready, yeah. Is there… anything special about… like… balance?” they asked, remembering the last time, when they’d barely kept it upright for more than a second.

Arthur tilted his head to one side.

“If you can ride a horse — a kaithe, I suppose — you can ride a Tommy. You’ll be fine.”

“If you say so…” they mumbled, looking down at their gloved hands. When they looked back up, Arthur was walking another Atomicycle over with practiced ease and a confident gait. As he pulled up next to them, he swung his leg over and settled down into the curve of his own Tommy, before looking over at the Drifter with a self-assured grin.

“Start slow. We’re not racing, we’re learning. Show me how to start it up.”

The Drifter nodded before looking down at the handlebars. The key was already in the ignition, so it was an easy matter to properly get everything running, though they missed the kickstart the first time. They looked over at Arthur with their chin up, trying not to beam with too much pride. It was a silly, little thing to be proud of, but— they were, dammit. Arthur nodded approval and started his own.

“If things get out of hand,” Arthur raised his voice to be heard over the engines, “Clutch and brake. Lay her down easy so you don’t flip.”

“I have no idea how to do that,” the Drifter said, having to raise their own voice as well.

“Then don’t let things get out of hand.” Arthur gave the Drifter a brief smile and a nod of his head. “Shift into first and throttle up slowly. I’ll keep pace. We can turn back at the end of the tunnel. Try not to hit anything.”

The Drifter nodded, sucking in a shaky breath and trying not to let the quivering fear in their chest reach the rest of them.

Clutch. Shift. Throttle.

Movement.

They couldn’t ease the throttle up as directed — their wrist balked at a smooth motion, instead jerking into a quarter-circle from nothing.

The Atomicycle leapt forward, almost out from under them, and they pressed as close to the body of the bike as they could, holding on and trying to keep their gaze forward, keep the damn thing level. Their tired brain kicked into high gear, and time seemed to slow down… but not enough. Not enough to make up for how everything they’d just learned got left behind in the space their damn Atomicycle just vacated.

Steady steady steady fuck fuck shit fuck—

They could feel the same damn wobble as every other time.

Left. Right. Left. Right. Lean with it? Against it?

This was nothing like riding a fucking kaithe—

Distantly, they could hear Arthur’s Tommy roaring closer.

They wanted, needed, to warn him, tell him to stay back, they weren’t steady—

Ease off the throttle—

Instead — a familiar pain twitched and their hand jerked, wrenching forward—

BRAKE! Brake you idiot it’s—

Fuck which one is the brake—

Right? Left? Right??

Fuck it.

They forced their hand to release. Curl around the right-side lever. Yank it back.

The Atomicycle stopped.

The Drifter didn’t.

Chapter Text

By the time they realized they were airborne, it was too late. Too late to slow their momentum, too late to redirect it, too late to do anything more than flail their hands out to try and handspring into a roll to minimize damage. They were airborne, turning, weightless, smudges of colors twisting in their vision too fast to process before a new smudging shade took over, and then—

Impact. Blunt, red, thudding pain. White-hot, piercing pain. Seeping, scratching, gray-buzzing pain. A screeching cacophony of sensory input, all of it familiar and none of it good, as they hit the pavement and tumbled ass-over-teakettle at high velocity. They came to rest, face-down, in a crumpled heap several meters beyond where their Atomicycle had bucked them.

The Drifter groaned, lifting their head and trying to blink away the blood that was definitely coming down over one of their eyes. That shade of red wasn’t from damage to their eye, at least. Scalp, maybe, head wounds bled like hell, but that was… less of a pressing matter than—

As they shifted to push themself up with their left hand and right elbow, they could feel more… wrong. Everywhere. Just an all-encompassing dissonance of sensation, of pain, of bad. Pinpointing it all would take more focus, but they turned their attention first to wiggling their toes. The horrid scratching sensation of their nails against the inside of their boots and socks was a thin relief — at least their bottom half wasn’t incommunicado this time.

And surrounding the immediate, clamoring pains was a deep, agonizing ache.

In the scant seconds they spent systematically assessing their injuries, they could hear Arthur’s Atomicycle roar up and stop, but they didn't bother greeting him as he ran over, didn't bother calling out. With the adrenaline coursing through them, their body desperately trying to drown out the pain, any control over their emotions was a pipe dream at best. And after their brief assessment — leading to the sage conclusion that they had been absolutely FUCKED up — the frustration and humiliation crashed in.

And with them came rage . The bitter, blazing fury at their own failure, lighting up every neuron and pathway, burning away at the edges of their consciousness.

The Drifter could hear Arthur’s footsteps, could hear his voice, but couldn't process the words.

They screamed. It wasn't a scream of pain, of panic; it was the scream of a child denied, of a beast bereft, of a feral, keening creature clawing at the walls of a cage. A scream that didn't even sound fully human with the way the edges of the sound whipped and tore and reverberated. They could hear Arthur’s steps pause, and they balled up their still-functioning left hand and slammed their fist into the ground, letting out another bestial howl of rage. They weren't even processing the string of expletives rushing from them, some unholy pidgin of Galactic Common, Orokin, Corpus, Grineer, and the Britannic their initial transference had imprinted from Arthur’s mind.

Something snaked around their upper arm and they snapped towards it, snarling, and bit the hand that they had broken free of, fangs sinking into the spaces between armor plating more from luck than precision. The hand did not retreat, and the Drifter wasn't sure if the blood on their tongue was their own or their attacker’s.

It didn't matter. The hand stayed, their sharpened fangs still buried in flesh and fabric, and as the initial rush of rage and fear subsided, words began to filter back in.

“ -ter! Listen to my voice!”

Arthur?

“ Focus on me, come on, can you hear me?”

They blinked, their breaths hissing in and out around their teeth.

“ Focus, Drifter, stay with me—”

Their jaws relaxed. How long had they been biting Arthur’s hand like some fucking animal?

They released their grip and leaned back, panting. Pain and shame closed in to take up the space ceded by their ebbing rage.

“ That’s a good girl. Got your bearings?”

After a few long, agonizing seconds, the Drifter nodded, slowly, shakily. They rolled the words around on their tongue before they finally spoke, a strained forlornness in their whimper despite what they finally said.

“ I-I tol’ya I w-was a shit student. ”

Arthur pulled the Drifter’s head and shoulders against his chest, briefly, in a motion that the Drifter could only assume was relief. One pat on the head, a quick exhalation, and they were released again, practically shoved away.

“I already radioed Lettie; she’s getting a trauma room set—”

“ No—” the Drifter’s voice was hoarse, clunky. “I’ll- I’ll b’fine. Save it f’civvies.”

“The five-meter red smudge on the pavement calls bullshit on that, mate. Here—”

Arthur moved as if to haul them to their feet, and the Drifter pulled away before wincing, gasping in a ragged breath and letting it out as a strained fuck.

“Jus’- jus'- tell’er I’ll be back inna bit ‘n she c'n check me over, jus'- gotta- get t’ my place, ‘n… sleep i’ off.”

Thoughts were getting harder, again, the pain taking over more of their consciousness by the second.

“You’re not sleeping this off, Drifter. Let’s get you to—”

“Drifter, mate, someone has to carry your daft ass back to base, and it doesn't look like that's you.”

“‘m fine.”

“You are not.”

“‘ma be fine.”

“If you let me get you to Lettie—”

“No.” Their denial sounded almost petulant. “I c’n- mh—”

Their brow furrowed and a vacant frown creased their face. Thinking was getting… harder. Their brain was fuzzed with pain and adrenaline, now, instead of rage and shame. They could feel thoughts slipping around in their head, but grabbing them long enough to sort anything out was proving harder and harder by the second.

“Either you let me help you to medical, or I wait for you to pass out and carry you to medical. Pick one.”

“Mmmmmmmnnnnnnno.” The Drifter murmured, shaking their head. They immediately regretted the motion as their consciousness got all… wavy.

Arthur dragged his hand down his face. The Drifter noticed it left a smudge of red down his cheek. Whose was that, they wondered.

Mh. They blinked. Wrinkled their nose. Yeahhhh, unless they did something fast, they could feel darkness creeping in at the edges of their thoughts.

O-oh.

Right.

Dizzily, they reached out through their transference link, blindly grabbing at whichever warframe they could reach with their muzzy mind, hoping for whatever stabilization transference could provide with their body this fucked up.

In the darkness between them, someone responded.

Their consciousness snapped back into unsteady focus to realize that Umbra had answered them, and Arthur was now staring down a gleaming white blade, wisps of light flickering off of it.

<anger>

The Drifter felt a rush of relief that they had stabilized, though the pain was still there, almost overwhelming. At least they could keep conscious.

<confusion>

Umbra only really communicated in flashes of emotion, but there was sentience, humanity, within him, and they could communicate. He’d met their call, come to their aid.

“‘Sokay,” they said, out loud, still too scattered to manage the mental communication they normally used while working with him. On top of the half-echo that came with speaking during transference, Umbra gave their voice a growling edge, no matter what they were saying.

<anger> <pain>

“I’m fine.”

<doubt>

“I’ll be fine.”

<DOUBT>

“Hush.”

<anger> <pain> <danger>

<question>

“‘S not ‘is fault.”

<doubt>

<hesitation>

<trust> <threat>

Despite Umbra’s response, the Drifter was able to take control of the blade, and instead use it to push themself up, unsteadily, onto their feet. Even in Umbra like this, their legs nearly collapsed beneath them, the damage to their body so bad that it carried over with transference and affected their warframe. They dispelled the blade once they were standing.

“‘Sokay. ‘Sa friend.”

<wariness>

“Are you finished talking to yourself, Drifter?” Arthur asked, still half-kneeling next to them. He seemed completely unaffected by the fact that just a moment ago he had been staring down a blade eerily similar to his own.

The Drifter looked over at Arthur and cocked their head to one side, the weak smile that would have been on their face lost in the transference.

“See? Tol’ja I’d be fine.”

Arthur stood up, himself, and crossed his arms, frustration evident in his features.

“Something tells me I could knock you over with a feather right now.”

“Try it, asshole, see where it gets ya.”

Arthur shook his head; the Drifter could swear there was a hint of a smile on his face.

“No feathers here. Come on, I’ll put the Tommies away, then I can help you limp your ass to med.”

“Not goin’ t’med,” the Drifter grumbled, starting to, in fact, limp their way back down the tunnel, towards the garage. “Goin’ t’bed. ‘n don' send Lettie t’me either. Don' tell no one else.”

“Suit yourself,” came Arthur’s reply from behind them.

<pain> <concern> <question>

The Drifter made their way through the mall with small, slow, limping steps, their voice low as they responded to Umbra. It seemed like no member of the Hex was currently loitering about the route to their backroom; thank Sol for small miracles.

“Tried t’ ride a Tommy. Failed.”

<confusion>

“‘Magine a kaithe, a k-drive, ‘n a archwing hadda baby ‘n it hated me ‘n wann’ed me t'die.”

<doubt>

“Fine. Fuckt up drivin’ a ve’cle cuz m’hands ‘n m’brain ‘n m’body don' work f’shit.”

<doubt> <confusion> <concern>

“Nah, ‘strue. Dunno why.” A pause. “A’mean, a'know part’a why. B’not all.”

<question> <pain> <fear>

“Y’gonna hafta be clearer there, buddy, brain ain't workin great ri’ now, sorry.”

There was a pause, and the Drifter could feel Umbra as he tried to work out the best way to “rephrase” his question.

<question> <pain> <fear>

Followed by a feeling that the Drifter couldn't quite place, like nostalgia soured, or homesickness turned to nausea.

“Y’mean if it’s from… before?” Their head nodded without their input. “Yeah, part’a it. How’d y’guess?”

<understanding> <recognition> <concern> <care>

“No, ‘m fine now.”

<doubt>

“Whass wi’ y’swordyboys ‘n callin’ me out like’at.”

<concern> <frustration>

Followed by the distinct feeling that he thought they were being an idiot.

“Rude.”

<confidence>

“ Rude.”

They couldn't help but chuckle, though, the sound dry and closer to a cough. Fuck that still hurt. No more laughing.

At the stairs, they stopped. Groaned. How had they forgotten the fucking stairs.

They stared at the first step, just in front of them, and willed their leg to raise, to start climbing, but they couldn’t seem to make themself do it.

“Izzat you doin’at?” they asked Umbra. Their head shook on its own. “Fuck.”

There was the feeling of being pushed, gently, less like Umbra was actually trying to throw them out and more like he was just urging them with the suggestion.

“Y’gonna scruff my ass ‘n drag me up, then?” they asked. Their head shook, no. “Y’ain’t carryin’ me.”

They were not, in fact, given the choice, because what had been a suggestion the first time was a command the second, and their current mental state didn’t stand a chance. They found the transference broken easily, their body forced out, and their legs buckled immediately beneath them. Umbra caught them before they crumpled to the ground, picking them up with ease, one hand under their legs and one against their back.

Whatever part of the Drifter’s face wasn’t red with blood was now red with embarrassment as the warframe carried them up the stairs easily. Of course without the transference link, his body was fine. That’s some kubrow shit. They crossed their arms as carefully as they could with one of them still Very Broken, hissing with pain. The position hurt, the movement hurt, they would have preferred dragging themself up the stairs one-handed to this sort of humiliation—

“Hate this. Hate you.”

<amusement> <doubt>

“Drippin’ blood on th’floor,” they murmured, petulantly, instead of trying to keep up their bluster.

<amusement> <fondness>

“Ey, no gettin’ sappy while’m tryin’a die here.” They sounded grouchy, but if they were honest with themself? They really did have a connection with Umbra. The kid had made the connection first, had started to soothe his pain, but the first time the Drifter had activated the link and stepped into his body… there was a sort of understanding. They saw, in each other, the same pain, the same self-loathing, the same animal rage. Of all of the frames they had jumped into and out of since they gained the ability… Umbra was special, and for more than his origin. They hadn’t brought him to 1999 yet, not wanting to have to explain Why This One Could Move On Its Own, but- well. He did have a mind of his own, and apparently he didn’t want to spend his days meditating in the garden they’d cultivated for him. Apparently he didn’t want to rest when the Drifter was calling out for help.

<confusion>

The Drifter’s thoughts snapped back into place, and they immediately regretted it. Ow ow ow ow ow.

<lost>

Oh. Right. They’d reached the top of the stairs, and it seemed like Umbra wasn’t sure where to go next.

“I-I can take it fr’m’ere, buddy. Lemme in.” Umbra shook his head. The Drifter patted his chest with their working hand. “C’mon.” Another no. They groaned and closed their eyes, leaning their head on his shoulder, against his scarf, despite their protests. “Jus’ wanna go ‘n sleep,” they mumbled.

<lost>

They gestured with their working hand and sighed, immediately regretting the deeper breath as their ribs screamed in disapproval.

“There,” they directed. It seemed like Umbra didn’t need any more guidance, as it wasn’t long before the Drifter felt the wispy wobble of the void-gate into their quarters. They slitted open their eyes at the change in light, wrinkling their nose and frowning.

Kalymos must have gotten back since they’d left, as she and Mitts were immediately circling Umbra’s legs, making concerned chirruping sounds and apparently trying very hard to get stepped on despite being much too large for that.

“‘m fine, both’a ya chill.”

Cawing sounds in stereo.

“Why won’ nobody b’lieve me,” the Drifter grumped. They were clearly getting ganged up on here. Unfair. Mean, even.

 They moved to pat Umbra’s chest again 

“C’mon, lemme in f’ra bit, please. Gotta grab stuff ‘n iss easier’n givin’ directions.”

<doubt>

“No, a’promise it’ll be quick ‘n then ‘m out. Gotta…” They paused, brow furrowing. They made a vague motion with their good hand as they tried to sift through their thoughts to find a word. “The.. thing. Wi’ the- makin’ bones- gotta keep m’arm still. That.”

<confusion>

“Jus’ trus’ me?”

<resignation>

Umbra nodded. The Drifter gave a sigh of relief and immediately regretted it, as they were reminded — painfully — of why they had been taking shallow breaths. Their good hand rested gently, affectionately, against his chest again, and their eyes slipped closed. The silvery glow of transference suffused their body and swept them away in a river of light, motes filtering into Umbra’s body in a much more sedate pace than usual.

<concern> <hurry>

“Workin’ onnit,” the Drifter murmured, carefully realigning their equilibrium to suddenly being Standing Again. “‘Saroun’ere somewheres…”

They limped over to the corner, where Albrecht had left one of his piles of questionably-useful junk, and started sifting around. Somewhere in here was what they needed—

After a bit of rustling, they let out an Ahah! and straightened up, a pair of slightly curved golden panels in one hand. Okay, actually, they were the one who had tossed them there — they may have slightly broken one of Entrati’s weird vials and kept the casing because it looked neat — but, hey! It worked out!

The panels went onto the table as they limped past, on their way to the piles of random shit under the staircase. Their feline entourage continued padding around just behind them, the both of them now less interested in being underfoot, Lua bless the pair.

One of the bags under the stairs had clothing in it, so the Drifter was hoping that there would be something they could rip into a strong — and long — enough bandage. After tearing the bag open, though, they pulled out a (slightly tatty) woven belt and held it up to the waiting kavats.

“Jackpot! Better’n I hoped!”

They got a pleased squawk from Mitts, while Kalymos blinked, slowly, and swept in front of Mitts, heading back towards the table just ahead of the Drifter. The vasca caught up a moment later, his claws tippy-tapping on the floor, with the Drifter themself still hobbling a bit more slowly behind.

Once at the table, the Drifter pulled one of the slightly more comfortable chairs up and rested one hand on the table itself.

“Ey, Umb, ‘m gonna… pop out now. C’nya make sure I don’ uh… mh. C’nya get me inta th’chair?”

Their head nodded.

“Thanks, bud.”

The swirl of light motes coalesced into the Drifter’s broken body, and they immediately started to collapse. Umbra grabbed the back of their coat and settled them carefully into the chosen chair.

“Yeh… thanks,” they rasped as the scruffing let up. Umbra nodded.

<question>

He pointed at the materials, then at the Drifter’s arm.

“Ye, need y’help f’this.” The Drifter leaned forward a bit with a breathy groan at the shooting pain, pulling a knife out of their left boot. It was an old Zariman kitchen knife, reinforced with Maw Fangs and wrapped tightly with aged and stained fabric. It was still razor-sharp despite the years, clearly having been kept up over that time.

Mitts immediately perked up with a concerned, rolling mraaw! and put his paws up onto the Drifter’s leg. They hissed at the contact with their open wounds and couldn’t stop the shudder that went through their entire body.

“Nah, Nah, Mitts, don’worry, ‘s not f’that.”

“Mrrrrawr?”

“Jus’ need… mh.” The Drifter used the tip of the blade to pull the belt closer by its buckle, then flipped the knife around and stuck it into the wooden table-top, inside the buckle’s opening. “See? Keepin’ it… still, ye?”

Mitts seemed unconvinced, squinting warily at the Drifter, but sank back to the floor. The Drifter used their left hand to carefully move their right to the table, arranging the curved gold pieces on either side of their forearm so that they were cupping their still-clothed arm. It was barely tight enough for what they needed, but it didn’t need to keep it perfectly still, it just needed to keep it from getting worse when they made the jump back to Duviri to sleep this shit off. From experience, healing breaks like this one was much easier if it was kept set and secure. Transference had set the break; they just needed to keep it there for a bit.

They indicated their arm with a nod towards it, panting softly at their current level of exertion, at the way this all-encompassing pain was rolling in and settling down now that their adrenaline was no longer keeping any of it at bay. Words were getting harder, now, not just because pain was taking their focus, but because pain was taking their breath- taking everything.

“Jus- h-hol’ i’still f’me?” they asked Umbra. The warframe took their arm, and the plates around it, between his hands with a gentle security so diametrically opposed to his nature — a creature of violence, created by rage, holding such a fragile thing with the steady care they so desperately needed right now.

The Drifter started wrapping the belt tightly around their arm, keeping the plates in place, having to pause and rearrange things, redirect Umbra’s hold, multiple times. By the time they brought the end back up towards the buckle, they were panting shallowly and growing steadily more disoriented, blinking and shaking their head as their vision blurred. It wasn't even blood loss; transference had a way of at least semi-cauterizing open wounds to slow and sometimes even stop bleeding. It was just the constant thrum and spike and rattle of pain with each move, each breath, each fucking thought.

They pulled their blade from the table and dropped it immediately, their fingers trembling. As they tried to thread the end of the belt through the buckle with one shaking hand, they could feel tears of pain and frustration finally, finally starting to gather. Their breathing quickened, the crackle of their ribs adding even more to the cacophony of bad clanging about in whatever was left of their fucking soul.

It wasn't until their rapid breaths became soft, frustrated whimpers that Umbra’s hands closed over the Drifter’s, taking both parts of the belt from them and completing the task.

<apology> <pain> <care>

“Th… thanks, buddy,” the Drifter mumbled, looking up at their friend and giving him a weak smile. At this point, they didn't even have the energy to bluster.

Umbra raised a hand and patted the Drifter’s head. Coming from him, it felt… more soothing than patronizing. The Drifter closed their eyes and let out a long, slow breath, trying to gather what little strength they could to take the last few steps to retreat into the Zariman, into Duviri, and sleep through the worst of the healing. They would still heal fairly quickly here, but not quickly enough.

Fuck. Maybe they should just… take a quick nap here. Get a little strength back. Then go confuse the hell out of Teshin for a bit. Even as bad as everything hurt, they could feel sleep calling.

“Y’c’n go’n chill wherever,” they mumbled dazedly, eyes half-opening. “I’mma… snooze a lil…”

Umbra brought his hand up to his chin, and the Drifter could feel it as he seemed to be thinking his way through his own internal debate. Were they not currently exhausted and in pain, they might be able to follow it. Instead, they just let their eyes slip closed again and their head lean down absently.

<warning> <safety>

The Drifter’s eyes snapped open, just in time for Umbra to bodily lift them like he had before.

“H-hey—”

<calm> <safety> <calm>

The Drifter didn't have the energy to struggle, merely allowed themself to be carried now.

As it turned out, Umbra only wanted to carry them a few steps. He settled them down onto the lounging couch near their incubator and gave their head another soothing pat.

<concern> <request> <calm>

<alone> <request> <need> <warning>

“Mhhh…” The Drifter furrowed their brow, trying to process Umbra’s flashes of emotions. “Get rest ‘n call’fi need’ya?”

Umbra nodded.

“Will do. Thanks.”

<affection>

Followed by the same feeling from before, that he thought they were being an idiot. Affectionately.

“Ye… you too.” The Drifter flashed him a tired smile. Umbra gave them a bow, and some time between their slow, sleepy blinks, disappeared.

Mitts jumped onto the couch in the space left and settled down, curled up right against them, purring aggressively. Meanwhile, Kalymos settled down onto the floor in front of them, a protective gargoyle.

Despite the clangor of pains echoing through their mind and body, exhaustion closed in and sleep took them as soon as they released their death grip on consciousness.

Chapter Text

“Hellooooo! Knock knock! How’s our daring Drifter doing?”

The Drifter jerked awake at the bright, peppy voice’s intrusion into their blessedly dreamless sleep. They looked over towards the door, squinting. It was Aoi, carrying a cup in each hand, with a bag hanging off her wrist.

She started walking towards the Drifter, and they struggled to sit up, hissing in pain as every battered nerve burst alight at once. They didn't feel any less pain, so they probably hadn't been asleep for very long at all. Fuck.

“How’d you… get in…” they asked dazedly, squinting. “Gate’s’posed’ta keep threats’n stuff out…”

“There’s your answer: I’m not a threat! Duh. I come bearing milk tea and morphine.”

“Whhhhhhat?”

“The milk tea or the morphine?”

“...yes?”

“Sorry, sir, I need to be where you are right now,” Aoi said, shooing Mitts off the couch. Mitts obeyed with a grumble and settled down on the floor just beside them, while Aoi sat down next to the Drifter. She offered them one of the cups, that they could now see was half filled with a pink liquid and had a straw in it. “Milk tea. Strawberry flavor! It would be boba tea, but I’ve been out of tapioca for… a while now. At least I had enough stuff to make us each half a milk tea! It’s better when shared, anyway~”

“O-oh, uh… thanks,” they murmured, absently taking the cup. They took a wary sip and flinched, letting out a whimper at the lances of pain that shot across their chest, unable to stop their reaction fast enough.

“That bad?” Aoi asked, sounding disappointed. The Drifter shook their head far too quickly, having to focus hard to stop things from spinning.

“Ribs,” was all they could choke out at first. “Broke. Hurts.” A pause. “Tea’s good tho, thanks,” they added, giving Aoi a weak, forced grin. They weren't lying, they were just in fucking pain. Bigger things to think about than a drink that they were sure they would love were it not for the fact that their entire body currently hated them and wanted them to die. But they had to re-do all of their piercings when they died and that was incredibly annoying. So, no death today. No matter how much the pain and shame wanted it.

“Oh, right! That’s what the morphine is for. Pain.”

“Tol’ Artie notta sen’ anyone,” the Drifter grumbled. No need to spend time and resources on them when they would just bounce back no matter what. Especially when it was their own damn fault.

“ Teeeeeechnically you said not to send Lettie.”

“Balls.”

Aoi giggled at the Drifter’s flat response, and they couldn't help the heat that rose to their cheeks. How was she so damn cute. And nice. And happy.  

“Anyhow, let me see your arm. I need a vein for this.”

“Whhhhat.”

“Faster and stronger than just giving you a pill,” Aoi explained as she rustled through the bag, pulling items out and settling them on the chair next to them both. Needles. Tubing. Syringe. Vial. Gloves.

“Fffffuck,” the Drifter groaned.

“Don’t tell me you're afraid of needles,” Aoi said, her voice softening. The Drifter shook their head, more carefully this time. It wasn't that they were afraid of needles — after all, there were some kinds of pain they rather enjoyed, Atomicycle crashes notwithstanding, and needles were one of the more pleasant options — but getting out of the transference suit under their other clothes was a pain in the ass when they weren’t being held together by luck and spite. Even just freeing up an arm was multiple steps.

“No, jus’ uhhh… com’licated.” Some wiggling got their left arm free of their jacket — accompanied by a series of pained hisses and gasps — and then there was… their sleeve… and the skintight transference suit under it. “D’you have… a knife…?” they asked sheepishly.

“You want me to cut up your clothes?”

“A’mean… can’t get much more fucked up, yeah?” they asked, indicating the giant, bloodied rips in all of their clothing, courtesy of friction and Höllvania’s finest asphalt.

“You got me there,” Aoi said with laughter in her voice. She drew a tactical knife and got to work on the Drifter’s sleeve.

“Mh, suit un’er it’s gonna be tough… don'worry bout hurtin’ me whenya cut in. A’had worse b’fore.”

“Roger dodger,” came the reply, Aoi’s gaze on the fabric she was deftly flaying from the crook of the Drifter’s arm.

“Do this of’en?” The Drifter asked, trying to make some conversation to fill the silence.

“Mhmm,” Aoi murmured as she started working on the transference suit itself. “All of us can field-dress most wounds, do basic first aid. Part of the job, y’know?”

The Drifter watched with interest as Aoi managed to not only peel the suit away, but do so without nicking their skin. Then she got to work with the items she brought, drawing from the vial and humming to herself.

The first, longer, thicker needle was swapped out for a smaller one at the end of some tubing, and then she pulled on the disposable gloves. She pressed a finger against the Drifter’s skin briefly before nodding absently. She tore open one of the packets she brought, and a sharp, acrid sting hit the Drifter’s nose as Aoi wiped down their skin.

“C’n you like…” the Drifter blinked, thinking. “Feel blood? Cuz… iron… ‘n stuff?”

“Basically! If I focus on it, at least, I can pick up faint traces. Makes it easier to find a vein. Lettie usually calls me in to start lines on difficult patients, because of that and, y’know, needles and metal powers.”

“...neat,” was all the Drifter could think to say in their current state. They wrinkled their nose, frowning a bit,  thinking as best they could in their current state.. “Does… ev’ryone help wi’ med stuff?” they asked after a moment. Aoi paused, the smaller needle just over their skin.

“I mean… yeah, basically. Arthur and Quincy as extra hands, Amir as a runner and defib, I make tools and run lines as-needed… even Eleanor helps with putting people out sometimes. Pretty sure Lettie hates that, but if it helps the patients and we’re out of other anesthesia, she’s willing to do it.”

“Mh… a’wanna help too,” they mumbled, squinting.

“You can always ask her. Oop, big stick—” Aoi had the needle in and out in seconds, and a cotton ball over the site immediately as she rustled for a bandage.

The relief was almost instant. Like a heavy blanket falling over their entire broken body, they felt the pain deaden and a hazy disconnect settle in.

“Oh. Shit.”

“Yeah, that's the good stuff,” Aoi said as she replaced the cotton ball with an On-Lyne bandage.

“Feels… floaty.”

Though there was something… off. They squinted. The pain was still there — stifled some, but still present, still insistent — they just found that they didn't care so much.

As Aoi started cleaning up, the Drifter raised their working hand and grabbed her shoulder. Well- they missed the first time, but made it the second.

“Aoi. Thank you. But- please—” their voice sounded choked, and to their ears it sounded far away, almost alien. “Please don’t- I can’t- don't give me this again. Please. Please.”

“...wait, why not?”

Their mind was- muzzy, muddled, outside of their body in a way that felt comfortable but at the same time Wrong. They couldn't quite find the words to explain what it was that made them beg not to have it again. They weren't even quite sure themself. But they just knew that they couldn't do this. It felt-

Gods, it felt like apathy. Like an old, close friend that they never wanted to see again. And pushing it away, grasping at even the deadened pain to keep it at bay, was growing harder and harder as the pleasant, gray blanket wrapped around their entire being. They loved it, and they despised it.

“Mh– I jus’ I- I can’t—” Tears pricked at their eyes, and they couldn't bring themself to care when they spilled over, but at the same time, what small part of them remained outside of the blanket was screaming, thrashing, begging, demanding that they stop being emotional, stop being irrational, stop showing this weakness— and they didn't listen.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. I’ll tell Lettie. Are you gonna be okay?” Aoi’s hand rested gently on their shoulder, and they didn't flinch away.

I’ll be fine.

“N-no,” they mumbled, their voice weak and thin.

Fuck.

“Do you want me to stay here with you?”

It’s okay. I’m okay. You can go. I’ll be fine.

“ Please.” It was barely a whimper.

FUCK.

“I’m here as long as you need me.”

“Mraw!”

“And so is… what was your name again, big guy?”

“Mitts,” the Drifter answered absently, a quiver in their voice. They grabbed at the thread of conversation, trying to hold onto- anything, really, at this point. “Or uh, Mr. Murder Mitts. Th’ kid likes namin’ pets weird shit.”

“...kid? And how weird?” Aoi asked. The Drifter wasn't sure if it was genuine interest, or just trying to keep them distracted, but they didn't care. It gave them something to focus on, something to help push away the comforting wrong.

They couldn't stop the words from pouring out, anyway, even if they wanted to. Catching them and shutting the fuck up seemed an impossible task—

“Kid’s me but- well- a’won’ say luckier. Jus’ dif’rent. Timeline split. Eternalism. Void-fuck’ry. ‘n she’s got like…” the Drifter looked up at the ceiling and started listing off the names they could remember. “Trip Hazard. Butt Sniffer. Tax Evasion. Insurance Fraud. Other shit. Thhhhhhhaaaaat last bit’s not one’a th' names tho.”

“...tax evasion and insurance fraud are still a thing in the future?”

“Ye, Corpus’ve basic’ly made ‘em art forms… ‘mong other… stuff.” They sighed. Their ribs hurt, lances of pain crackling through their chest without really reaching them.

“Corpus? Other stuff?” Aoi asked. On some level, the Drifter realized that she was, in fact, prodding them to distract them from their own mental state. They appreciated it, in a sort of stifled, distant way. It was comforting in a way that felt right, instead of this… soft, gentle wrong.

“Don' really got th’brains t’ esplain either’a those ri’ now. Rain check?”

Their denial was less to keep from speaking — they had a feeling they wouldn't be able to shut the fuck up if given half a chance right now — and more because the hazy gray of the morphine’s heavy blanket felt almost like it was immobilizing every aspect of their psyche. Thinking felt like they were trying to wade through chest-deep syrup, despite the way a part of them was trying so hard to wrench back control. Even that part was growing harder to hold on to; the drab comfort and fuzzy warmth was sapping their will to do much more than sit and fervently wish for sleep.

“Rain check it is,” Aoi said with a nod and a grin. “For when you’re feeling better.”

The Drifter didn't want to be alone, but… at the same time, they didn't want to take up any more of Aoi’s time than absolutely necessary. Not when they were just dealing with the consequences of their own failure and stupidity.

Even that realization, though, didn't come with the shame that it should have. It just… was. It wasn't acceptance, merely… acknowledgement?

The Drifter distracted themself by grabbing their milk tea and taking another sip. This one, too, hurt, but not enough to make them flinch this time, or even outwardly react. This time, it was a small smile that escaped its bonds to rest on their lips, instead of a grimace of pain. At least there was some level of pleasure within the gray blanket…

“Thank you,” they said, after a few long, silent moments. Outside of their body, their voice sounded weak. Pathetic. “For…” they trailed off, the words to describe what they were feeling staunchly refusing to come within reach. “...this. All’a it, I guess?”

They looked up at Aoi, who was looking down at her hands, an expression of… okay, they couldn't tell the exact expression, but it seemed like a sort of… sadness? Guilt? Their inability to think clearly would be infuriating if it weren't for their inability to think clearly.

“...sorry,” Aoi murmured. Her voice was missing its usual pep, and that was… should have been… worrying.

“Huh?”

She gestured at the Drifter’s… everything? Lingering on their arm.

“All of this. Letting things get so out of hand. I thought I was helping, but…”

The Drifter was fairly certain they were manifesting physical representations of their confusion in the form of floating question marks at this point.

“Y’didn’t make me crash?”

“No, I mean—” she poked the tips of her fingers together. “I should have stopped Arthur, or convinced him it wasn’t a big deal. I thought maybe, in a different capacity, the two of you wouldn't… butt heads so badly. But I saw you crash those first times, weeks ago. I should have…”

“...whhhhat wait wait you? Saw?” The Drifter blinked at Aoi, whose cheeks flushed as she let out an awkward laugh.

“Uh. Yeah. Sorry. I can sort of… feel when the Atomicycles start up, and I was afraid you might’ve… needed help.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” They sounded almost hurt, despite the hazy blanket still wrapped around their mind and emotions.

“...you were doing it after everyone was asleep. You didn't want an audience. I just stuck around in case you needed help. But then, when you did need help…” Aoi raised a fist and rested her knuckles on her temple, sticking her tongue out sheepishly for a moment. “By the time I got back with a kit, you were gone.”

“Oh. Good. At least you didn't have to see me off m’self. Prolly not pleasant, even knowing I’ll come back.” The Drifter’s delivery was flat; not out of any sort of irritation, though, mostly just a sort of absent frankness brought about by their drugged disconnect.

“Do you… do that often?”

“What? Kill m’self at the slightest inconvenience?”

“Choose death over being vulnerable.”

The Drifter narrowed their eyes at Aoi, whose expression had definitely changed to one of concern. Possibly pity? Sadness? Expressions were hard enough without fighting through sludge just to think.

They clumsily raised their hand to point at her. Opened their mouth. Closed it. Words were hard.

“Ouch.” A pause. They dropped their hand and sighed. “It’s faster ‘n hurts less. …jus’ don' tell th’ others.”

“Secret’s safe with me,” Aoi said with a soft smile on her lips. “But only if you stop doing it.”

“...no promises,” the Drifter mumbled. Old habits die hard. Often repeatedly.

“...okay, try to stop doing it, then? Trying is better than nothing.”

“Mh…” The Drifter squinted at her. “...ok. A’ll try. No promises still.”

“Trying is all I ask, for now,” Aoi said, flashing a grin. Dully, the Drifter did feel a little rumble of happiness to see Aoi’s cheer returning, and they mirrored her grin with a hazy half-smile of their own.

A moment later, though, they let out a muffled surprised squawk as Aoi brought her hands up to either side of their face, squishing their cheeks together until their entire face was scrunched up. Her eyes narrowed and she looked Very Serious, what little the Drifter could see through their squished line of vision.

“I’m serious, Drifter! Don't let me down, got it?”

“Mmmm owkei Awwi, gattit. C’nai abb mai faes b’ak blis?”

Aoi cheered up immediately as she released the Drifter’s face.

“Good. Thank you. How’re you feeling?”

“...sleepy,” they mumbled after a moment of consideration with a brain made of fuzzy gray pudding.

“Think you can handle going to bed on your own, or do you need a hand?”

Another moment of thoughtful pudding consideration.

“Ye, ‘m good. Thank you.”

Aoi finished gathering up the various bits and bobs she’d come in with, giving the Drifter a grin and a nod on her way out.

“That’s what friends are for~”

The Drifter had a little smile on their face as they settled back a bit. Just a moment, and they'd get their arm back in their sleeve and head to Duviri…

-

The Drifter popped into Teshin’s cave directly over the hay bales near Korvus’s paddock, landing flat on their face with a whumph and a puff of straw. They would have groaned in pain about the sudden sharp sticks in open wounds, but the hazy gray seemed to carry over, which was… somehow both vaguely worrisome and mildly appreciated.

From across the cave, Teshin turned his head towards them.

“Well met, Drifter. I take it you’ve found yourself in trouble again. How do you fare?”

From their prone position, the Drifter raised their working arm and gave him a weak thumbs up. Teshin nodded.

“Care to enlighten me on what you did this time?”

The Drifter sighed.

“...affer nap,” they mumbled into the hay.

“Very well.”