[The sound found an echo in Wing's vocalizer, and his arms tightened around Drift again, wishing he could offer better comfort. ]

[He would hold Drift for as long as the other needed. He'd starved for contact: he needed it almost as much.]

[One hand strokes over the red spaulder of Drift's shoulder, fingers exploring the contours, learning them.]

We don't know the name. But we've all been stolen from our homes, our lives. And thus far we have no way home.

[Nothing can make the bad news hurt any less. He wishes he could offer more than a hug.]