Drift is, at first, incredibly thankful for the distraction, because maybe that means he can escape this increasingly painful situation and possibly never look Wash in the eye again? That would be great. Except then it becomes immediately apparent that the distraction is now their problem: a bunch of what Drift has gathered are juvenile organics without mature supervision, who are very clearly not supposed to be here.

Wash seems to have a handle on the situation -- Drift gets the gist of what he's doing with all the theatrics -- and then Wash is gesturing for him to help and Drift doesn't see any other organics chasing after the kids and he's not really sure what there is to do except play along. So he does.

"That's right!" Drift says brightly, his demeanor doing a neat pivot into something bordering cheerful as he steps up alongside Wash. A dozen sets of tiny eyes follow the sound of Drift's voice as they look up...and up. "Myself and, uh..." The human hadn't given a name. Right.

"We're here to teach you all about being a Legionnaire! Lesson one: know your weapon!" Drift promptly draws one of the swords at his hips with an audible scrape of metal. It's perfectly proportional to Drift, but it's also a little taller than Wash is. He draws his arm back, looking down the blade of his sword like it's a sniper scope. "You should it so intimately that it becomes an extension of yourself. If you treat your weapon like it's a part of your body, then it's a lot harder for your enemy to turn it against you -- and in the heat of battle, sometimes your life hinges on that true harmony."

Please stop him, Wash, he does not have any concept of what 'age-appropriate' means.