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He’d been all over the city with Wing, and still it felt foreign, strange. He knew this was just another not-subtle form of coercion—he was supposed to slowly, slowly be won over to the wonders of the city, he presumed, and in short order vow never to leave, and be cured of his wayward Decepticon ways.
Right.
But let him try, anyway, Drift thought, trailing after the jet. It helped pass the time, and knowing it was all a waste of Wing’s precious time in the end made it all the sweeter. And besides, he thought, watching the smooth rolling sway of Wing’s hips, and the way the jet turned, the gold optics glowing over his shoulder, mouth curved in an inviting smile, there were other things to enjoy.
While it all lasted.
“I was thinking,” Wing said, slowing down by one window, “have you ever had your spark read?”
Drift looked in the window Wing stood next to, seeing a velvet drape of burgundy cloth, shimmering in the false daylight, scattered with crystals. The window had something he couldn’t read—an ornate calligraphic script in gold and black. “No.”
“Have you ever wanted to?”
Drift shifted his weight onto one him, tilting his head. “No.” They barely heard of stuff like that down in the gutters. And in the Decepticons, only superstitious fools believed stuff like that.
Wing laughed, the kind that crinkled the corners of his optics, as though Drift had told a joke. “Well. Would you like to try?”
“Probably don’t have a choice.”
“You have a choice. You can have fun, or you can not have fun.” He gave a satisfied nod, as though life were always that simple.
Maybe his was.
He tossed his head. “Fine. Let’s do it.”
“That’s the spirit!” Wing said, catching his hand. And Drift wouldn’t admit it, even to himself, how he thrilled at the jet’s touch, how those patient smiles seemed to warm something around his spark.
The shop itself was dim, and smelled clean and sharp and sweet. It reminded him, for some reason, of one planet he’d been on, those taut moments before sunrise, where the optics strained through the light, strung with anticipation. The smell of the unknown, he thought, before he pushed that thought aside as nonsense. He wasn’t a mech known for high flown fancies.
He didn’t know what to expect: this was the stuff of bad holovids. The walls were lined with shelves, each weighted with hundreds of stones, crystals and minerals of different shapes and lusters. He lingered on one shelf dotted with white and opalescent stones, that seemed to glimmer in the dimness, almost like miniature moons.
Wing moved to the back, stroking one finger along the rim of a white bowl, sending a deep tone thrumming through the room.
There was a rustle of sound from a back room, and the smooth slide of a door. The mech that crossed the threshold, well, if terrible holovids had any truth to them, he should have been stooped and rusted, small and eccentric. Truth was, he looked…normal. Utterly and completely normal, with a tidy finish and a clean smile. The only difference about him was that he was utterly, completely blind, his optics blank and dark. It was uncanny, then, watching him negotiate the room, steering easily around the tables.
“Wing,” Wing offered.
“Ah, yes,” the mech said, before turning to Drift. “And this one is new.”
“Drift,” Wing said, as the mech tilted his head, as though he could see, even though from this close, Drift could see the hollowed sockets. It was uncanny. He felt himself trying to pull back.
“Drift,” the mech said, as though tasting the name, his glossa flicking against his lip plates once or twice afterwards. “A dark past, you’ve had.”
Drift scowled. “Decepticon. You could say that of any of my kind.”
“Ah!” the mech said, and reached forward, seizing Drift’s hand. Drift tensed, the touch so unlike Wing’s. “A doubter, you are. Good. Good.” He pulled Drift toward the back. Drift shot Wing something almost like a panicked look: Wing shot back one of simple amusement. Of course. What did he expect?
The mech tugged him toward a table, finally releasing his hand. “Sit, Drift.”
Fine. He was here, and it didn’t seem that this mech could actually do anything. He flopped into the chair, with ill grace.
“Drift,” Wing admonished.
“He is fine, Wing.” The mech extended his hand. “You come here, as well.”
Wing moved, settling next to Drift. “This is Scry. He is the best of his kind.”
‘The crazy kind’ Drift almost sniped, but bit it back as this Scry moved over to the white bowls. He ran his fingers around them, slowly, sending long peals of tone into the air, looking back, from time to time, at Drift. Just as if he could actually see.
The sound seemed to fill the room, waves of rippling notes crossing each other. Drift could feel them, strangely, over his frame, resonating with the deep, pure tones. Until he felt one powerful note seem to thrum at his very spark.
“Ah!” Scry said. “A good note for a strong mech.” He lifted his hand and the sound still seemed to fill the room, like a sonic velvet.
Right. Blandishments. Flattery. Drift shot him a derisive look before remembering Scry couldn’t see.
“What does it mean?” Wing said, tilting forward.
Scry bustled inside a cabinet, murmuring almost to himself, “Vortex of power, self will.” He straightened, holding a small box. “Every mech, Drift,” he said, as though snapping Drift’s attention, “has unique circuitry. Even spark twins have subtle differences in current. And each will resonate to a different frequency—as you did.” Scry stepped closer, tapping Drift’s abdominal plating. “You were here. Your friend Wing, however,” he reached up, to rub Wing’s helm almost fondly.
“Suppose that means he’s smarter than me or something.”
Scry shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that. One resonance vortex is no better nor worse than any other.”
“Then what’s the point?”
“Because it tells a great deal about the mech’s character.” Scry reached with one foot, hooking a chair and dragging it over before settling down on it. He placed the box in front of Drift, hand resting on the lid. “You are stubborn, for example. Where you’ve gotten in life is mostly due to force of will.” Scry smiled. “And many of your problems stem from the same.”
Wing gave a soft laugh. Drift scowled at him. “It certainly sounds like you,” Wing said, blandly.
Scry gave a benign chuckle, before tapping the box. “Reach in here and pull a stone, Drift.”
“A stone.” He squinted at the box, figuring there must be some trick.
“The stone you pull reveals your future.”
“How?” How the frag can a random grab at a mineral do anything? The whole resonance thing almost kind of made sense. But this?
“Destiny, Drift. Now.” He tapped the lid again. “Select one.”
Drift shot Wing a look, but he saw nothing but glowing, gleaming faith on the other’s face. Fine. Whatever. He reached over, groping in the box and pulling out a hard, angular shape, flipping open his palm with an expression that said ‘so?’
Wing gave a startled sound, almost a gasp. Drift looked at his hand, to see the hard facets of a diamond glittering on the black metal.
Scry touched the stone, a smile flitting over his lip plates. “Ah. And do you know diamonds, Drift?”
“Valuable.” It’s all he knew. And he was—or he hoped he was—to Megatron.
Scry canted his helm, amused. “Valuable for its hardness, yes.” He grinned. “You see that in yourself, at least.”
Drift didn’t want to admit it, but that…felt good. Strange but true.
Beside him, Wing gave a sort of giddy giggle, as though he’d been proved right about something.
“But also, Drift,” Scry said, tapping the stone. “The diamond. It represents life itself, carbon. And it’s beautiful and shining, yes?” He said it as though he could see the gem as he rolled it across Drift’s palm. “It’s formed under tremendous pressure and pain, that transforms the darkness inside.” His hand moved, fingertips resting on the joint of Drift’s wrist, as though offering sympathy. “You have a difficult road, Drift. You always have. But always, always remember, how brightly you can shine.”