DRIFTER

“No. They are animals. They walk on four legs, are covered in fleece, and make a ‘baaahh’ sound. These particular ones have aggressive-looking eyes, as well as green fleece. The chiefs have large spiraling horns.”

// Oh--that sounded cuter than he expected. The Drifter gave a slightly more concerned look, shifting his shoulders upward.

                                                                                   ﹁

      How do you train against something with horns?             I assume they charge--do you mean to         increase your physical resistance to blows,             or to outrun a temperamental animal?

      I assure you there are better ways in this world.

﹂

// It had been long enough; the Drifter was well aware that exercising their chain-dash ability would do nothing to raise its time limit. A minute covered plenty of distance in little time, yet they confined most of their time chain-dashing in tight areas no larger than two king-sized beds.

Their intent to practice the ability came from a want to refine it, and with restraints imposed onto it, it helped the Drifter perform better than he had in the world before. Control and discipline meant nothing without persistence, however, so they continued to train their chain-dash as frequently as possible.

Some spaces they practiced onto were littered with rubble, other times they trained on beach sands for greater resistance. For today’s milder routine, they settled with a public park, using the same space they had every other week or so.

Over time and practice, they eventually set patterns on the ground as proof of training, flattened lines of grass forming a triangle with circles of dirt at its points. With warm-up over, they took a moment to rest on top of a circle, reaching for their phone before noticing a wayside observer.  The Drifter slowly bowed his head once in greeting, letting their loyal drone project a screen for them as they rested.

                                                        ﹁

                   Curious, Avian?    Or were you hoping to train here?

“I know, I know! I need to work on my punchlines!”

He turns to greet the hovering robot, not once acknowledging its faintly glowing companion. If anything, he seems briefly confused by the hand-waving, his optic clicking as he alternates his focus between the Drifter and his fellow machine. Are they together?

“Where do you come from, friend? I don’t recognize your design!”

     // A Sentient working on punchline execution would be a first, count the Drifter surprised. Pathfinder’s design strikes them as incredibly similar to the Sentients of the Bone Wastes, who were known more to be ruthless killers than stand-up comedians.      At first, they assume Pathfinder’s referring to themself, as it wouldn’t be the fifth time someone in Spirale had mistaken the Drifter as a robot. They fold their arms underneath their cloak and prepare to explain, before noticing where Pathfinder was fixing his attention.

                                    ﹁

    Do you mean   this?

                 <-

﹂

     The holographic arrow slowly slides across the screen toward the companion bot. The screen blinks out once it reaches the edge, and the now-exposed Drifter gives a casual wave over to Pathfinder. The companion bot floats downward, closer to its user, so that the next screen projected is off to the side rather than in front of the Drifter.

                                                              ﹁

             Neither sentient, or for sale.

           Its purpose is to assist me with     exploration, combat, & communication.

mid-to-long length starter call capped at 2.

come try your luck by liking this post.

It had been days since a mysterious package had inexplicably begun to exist in the Drifter’s room. It was rather generic-looking; boxy, medium-sized, and covered up in cutesy seasonal gift-wrap, the gift had come from a certain individual that many others had claimed to not know of.

Indeed, instead of rushing into tearing it apart (much less, touching it), the Drifter had been sure to quietly collect what information he could from others about the package. Eavesdropping and lurking around the Internet helped to lessen the Drifter’s suspicion of it, but he’d also heard of the gift going wrong, depending on the sender. More importantly, the gifts often seemed personally tied to the receiver. He had been troubled with this pattern, worrying over what could possibly await inside the box; it was much too small for anything like the Cell or his missing firearms. Was it one of his old companion robots, perhaps? ...Beyond that, just how would a vision of Justice or the unknowable form of Panacea wait for him within?

Back in the privacy of his assigned room, the Drifter knelt down toward the package, cloaks pooling onto the carpet. It had started to collect a very fine film of dust, but nothing substantial enough to have obscured the label on its top. Underneath his name, a neat scrawl of ink:

You’ve always wanted this, but have you ever realized it~? A joyous Snowtide to you.

- Noel 

The package’s wrapping and tape are torn apart with ease, owed to the Drifter’s claws. The box’s top flaps are unfolded, exposing the gift inside with a crown of cardboard. It was something from the world he used to know--he hadn’t even remembered it existed until now.

They stared at it.

@hyper-light

Noire was frantic.  This was the nightmare scenario.  She quickly sent a text to the person she trusted the most.

[      To: The Drifter      From: Noire >>> Can you come over?  I need hello >>> Help* >>>  I don’t know who else to thrust >>> … trust*

The goddess slaps her friend’s hand.  “Cut it out, Neptune.”  Neptune promptly sticks out her tongue, but does stop poke-ing the cell phone.  Noire sighs.  ‘I hope they get here soon…’  She waits by the front door of her apartment, as patiently as is possible, for the Drifter to arrive.  Neptune, bless her heart, waits with Noire, though much less patiently.  

When that friend arrives, they will find an exasperated goddess chastising a purple-haired nuisance attempting (badly) to make pancakes in the kitchen.

// “Noire”’s urgent text was met without a response except for the Read receipt.

The Drifter had been keeping a less-busy, lower profile as of late, prioritizing the discovery of warp pads and quietly helping Spirale’s more vulnerable citizens out with their various problems. It made for a lot of dead time, most of which was allocated to existential contemplation, and the rest into smalltalk through texts.

But it wasn’t that they were ignoring her troubled message; in fact, it had sent them into a frantic rush of energy, galvanizing themself into using whatever possible means to reach Noire’s housing as quickly as possible. Transforming themself into a rush of lightning, wind, and light itself, the Drifter completely fell for Neptune’s trick.

An echo of the past withheld them from knocking the front door off of its hinges, though restraint did not come easy. He comes in without knocking, head sharply turning from one side to another before catching the sight of Noire and her favorite troublemaker. He stops, putting a hand on the doorframe for balance, to account for the incredible whiplash.

// If I had accepted that sword, what then? Would it really have stopped him for a time? Or would have it proven ineffective; that it were a test of my will?