I felt like destroying something beautiful

[sword_redemption]

Who: Drift and open
What: Catharsis
When Nowish
Where Outside Vector's place
Warnings Damage to harmless innocent geology and if you look slantwise, suicidal tendencies maybe?

It's morning--or what passes for it here. And there's a sharp, ringing sound, of metal on stone, and then another. They keep coming, sometimes a quick flurry, sometimes one, or two at a time, like the blows are calculated.

Drift's standing in a rough circle, blades drawn, in a loose version of an old Decepticon training ring. On the main vectors of the circle, at the perimeter stand rough pillars of stone: crystal and schist, nodules of manganese and pyrite.

Fool's gold. It's fitting.

There are sparks, as the metal of Drift's blades strike flint in the sedimentary stones, or larger sparks, as he slices into the strange quartz of this place. His style isn't like Wing's--Wing's bladework is elegant, almost dancer-like: Drift's is sharp and explosive, honed less on a pretty, underground practice floor than in the thick of combat.

He's fighting something here. Not enemies, but himself.

After a moment, he throws the two short blades aside, their blades ringing on the stone, and draws the Great Sword. There's a blaze of light, like sunlight or flame, from the golden gem in its hilt, and bright energy skitters down the blade, filling the glyphs like liquid light, as he moves to attack one of the mindless chunks of stone again, his face set and resolute.

Comments

[shutupndrive]

It had become something of a morning ritual for Smokescreen to just got out and drive around Haven. It helped him get his thoughts together and it was, in part, him doing his own scouting and sweep of the area. He knew the police force kept tabs on things but old habits died hard and as much as he acted like a kid at times, he really did want to prove himself.

Especially to honor the memory of Optimus.

He was coursing through Vector's area when the sounds of another's morning ritual registered, the scout veering from his usual course to head closer towards the temple. Transforming not far from the makeshift ring, Smokescreen found himself just stopping and watching the other do his thing.

Because Primus was it pretty badass.

Eventually he drifted closer, staying far enough back that he wouldn't get in the way but he just wanted a closer look. Experienced bots never ceased to impress him after all.

[sword_redemption]

It was the only thing he could do well, that had kept him alive, given him any sort of useful skill or value, during the millions of years of the war.

He catches sight of the shape in the perimeter, a safe enough distance away, lowering the blade, the gold light still shimmering along the blade's length.

"...sorry about the noise."

[shutupndrive]

"Don't apologize. You're amazing," Smokescreen said without hesitation, offering a grin as a bit of that fanboy quality leaked into his current attitude. His door wings shifted as his gaze flickered from the sword back to Drift himself, the scout clearly intrigued by how good the other was.

"You remind me of stories I heard back home from Alpha Trion. Well, bots in the stories I mean. They were some of the greatest warriors from what he told me," he mused, finally inching closer.

[sword_redemption]

He gives a shrug. "Lot of practice."

He pauses, looking around the circle, as if noticing the damage for the first time.

"The great warriors, though, are the Knights of Cybertron. They probably don't need to do this." He bends down, scooping up his short blades with one hand.

[shutupndrive]

Smokescreen glances around a bit, moving closer now so he can get a better look at all the damage Drift had done.

"I bet even they needed to blow off steam at times too," he said with a slight shrug, peering over at the short blade the other had picked up. It made him wish he had more than just a blaster to use; made him wish he had something unique in some way.

"How long did you train for?"

[sword_redemption]

He sees the other's curious look, and in a swift move, reverses the blade, holding it out hilt first to the other mech. "I guess I'd sort of hope they had more answers than I do."

Drift sheathes the other blade. "I've had them for a while. Uh. No formal training." OJT, maybe.

[shutupndrive]

Well he wasn't expecting that. But he isn't about to object either.

Hesitantly reaching out, Smokescreen takes ahold of the hilt, eyeing it with a sort of wonder in his optics, carefully catching the blade with his other hand as he studies it. The sword really is a thing of beauty, Smokescreen turning it over just to look at every inch of it, unable to tear his gaze away to look at Drift when the other speaks.

"Really? You're pretty slaggin' good for no formal training. I'm jealous," he murmured and he really was. Natural talent like that? It was impressive.

[sword_redemption]

"It's all I've ever been good at." In the gutters, when Gasket died, he'd learned that. That violence just came to him, easily, effortlessly. It was why he had survived, why he had excelled.

"I'm sure you've got your own skills," he said, quietly.

[shutupndrive]

"I went through Elite Guard training but for most of the war back home I was on guard duty for Alpha Trion, so I'm not as skilled a fighter as most," he admitted, finally offering the sword back with an awed sort of look. "I did learn a lot from Trion though, so I guess that counts for something."

There was something to be said about the fact that libraries felt like home to him.

"I'm Smokescreen, by the way."

[vandalization]

Click. "Ow." Clack. "Ow." Skkffff. "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck."

Bless Skids' spark for having mercy and giving her a ride here. Crutching her way through the temple looking for him hadn't been easy, but she wanted to be alone with him and if she gets barked at for sneaking out, she doesn't want to drag anyone else into it.

So she crutches her way over the rough terrain, grumbling and bitching.

When she finds him, she takes a seat behind him, setting the cructhes aside and trying to get comfortable on a rock while she catches her breath.

"It's dead, Drift. You killed it. You killed the rock. It's not going to hurt anyone anymore," She drawls, leaning her hand in her chin.

She probably shouldn't be here. Just leave him alone. But she can't stay away.

"The things I do for love," She grunts, pulling one useless leg up to tuck under her.

[sword_redemption]

He hears her approach--it's kind of hard to miss--and you don't survive combat without being aware of things within your range. He draws up, holding the blade between them, tip resting on the churned up ground. It's clear that despite her tone, she knows that Drift isn't just getting a bit of practice.

"You shouldn't be here." For...so many reasons.

[vandalization]

"Story of my life," She mutters, sighing.

"But if you don't want me here I can leave." Even if that would hurt, she'd understand.

"Can't seem to stay out of your hair... earsn. Fins. Whatever. You know what I mean."

[sword_redemption]

"It's not that. I want you here. It's just...how did you even get here?"

[vandalization]

"Bribed Skids to help me sneak out. "

She shrugs, like that's totally an acceptable thing.

"You hung up on me, you know. Dunno what I said, even." She doesn't sound angry, just stating a fact.

[sword_redemption]

"Bribed...how?" That didn't sound good. On either part.

"It wasn't you. I just...couldn't talk." He's not doing much better now with the whole talking thing, honestly.

[vandalization]

"Not important," She sighs, waving a dismissive hand.

"Coulda' at least said something. Rude, Drift. Tsk tsk." She doesn't really sound angry still, though. She understands.

"I'd like to finish our conversation, though."

[sword_redemption]

He knows enough of Skids to be dubious. But it's not his place to pry.

"Sorry. I am. It's just, something I thought was a good thing, turned out...not good." He shrugs, wishing it was easy to dismiss.

"You know my answer, Karrie."

This okay?

[winged_knight]

He's deep in meditation, trying to find his center, to bolster it, to be a steadier object in this tumultuous sequence of events that touches so many. So deep in it in fact, that he doesn't quite hear the noise of ringing sword blows that echo through the gorge.

However, when the Great Sword is activated, the sensation is impossible to miss, even through all the work he's done to try to shut it out. Wing sits a moment, stark, wide-eyed and quivering, his own spark giving frantic pulses in its chamber.

It doesn't matter that he's not perfectly certain, just the mere chance of what it might be is enough to get him moving, his only concern whatever danger may have warranted the Sword's activation, all past thoughts and other considerations gone.

Wing owns the air at the speed of thought, easily spotting the location by the telltale flicking light for the sword. When he arrives he leaves his alt and draws his weapons in one smooth motion, touching down with optics casting about to asses the situation. He wavers then, slightly confused at the scene (or lack thereof), weapons hovering in his hands, inactive.

sorry for late

[sword_redemption]

Drift still feels...nothing, other than the sizzling sharp pain of the Sword's connection with his own spark, a pain that's sort of cleansing, he thinks. If nothing else, it obliterates all thought and focus, down to one thing: his next move, his next strike.

no worries :3

[winged_knight]

Neither Wing's optics or his HUD lie...there are no other combatants save Drift in the area. He straightens from his combat crouch, stowing his weapons. Watching Drift move with the Great Sword is...breathtaking, as it were. But the longer he watches the more his spark aches. Not because of the bizarre electric tension and discomfort that radiates from his core--the echo of the Great Sword he was once bonded to--but for the mech in front of him, lost in a divine sort of pain, a symphony of motion and power. The arching energy would be dazzling, save that he knows its source: something treasures, lashing out and being consumed.

It cuts Wing in its own way, a piecing sorrow too profound to rightly put words to. In any other situation he'd be loathe to interrupt this dance of death and beauty, except that he knows the former portion is not quaint symbolism.

More than that, Wing doesn't understand why. But he wants to.

He approaches, slowly, hands out, trying to get the swordmech's attention.

"...Drift?" A little louder, "Drift, it's me..."

[sword_redemption]

He hears the voice, barely, over the aching haze of the spark's link to the sword, and the sharp red focus of battle. It's probably sad that it's the only thing he is good at, the only solace he has, is in violence. He'd called it a gift once, and he felt the 'gift' as a bitter burden.

The sword seems to hear, as well, the blade becoming heavier in his hands, and he draws back, the golden light licking down the blade like a banking fire.

His face moves through a half-dozen expressions, before settling into a fragile mask. "Wing." And then he realizes why Wing's here. The sword. Of course. "...sorry."

[winged_knight]

"No, no...don't be. I'm the one. I. I shouldn't be bothering you." He shifts back even as his arms come up, hands open, wanting very much to stay, to reach out, to hold, but at the same time feeling like an intruder. "I was worried... I thought..." He waves a hand, not wanting to put words to any of it. The ways this place could take their lives.

[sword_redemption]

Nothing is as clear as a fight: kill or be killed, strike or be stricken. And for millennia that's been an anchor for Drift, the simple, if amoral, rules. He wishes everything could be that simple, that clear. He was good at that. He wasn't good at....

...this.

There's a long moment where he wavers, words flying unspoken out of his open mouth, like butterflies, and then he closes the distance between them, still holding the Great Sword in one hand, even as he throws his arms around Wing. Because that, he hopes, is simple and clear.

He tips closer, his mouth wanting a kiss, before he draws back, as if stung. No, that's what had gotten him here in the first place.

[winged_knight]

Wing can't hide the tremble in his limbs, his ventilations stilled as that moment stretches on, wobbling on a precipice of uncertainty until Drift reaches out and rescues him from it. He clutches maybe too desperately to the swordmech's frame, his fear and shame gusting out in a sob.

He turns into the would-be kiss: it's simple habit and instinct, or perhaps magnetism, but either way it's altogether natural. The processor likes to complicate things though and there's a timorous flutter of other would-be kisses before Wing let's go a nervous chuff of air, a small sound daring to laugh, and pushes his forecrest against Drift's instead.

[sword_redemption]

The non-kiss tingles between their mouthplates, and Drift lets himself get lost, just for a moment, in the golden light of Wing's optics.

And then Wing laughs, and Drift finds his old voice. "What's so funny." He sounds truculent, but his hands cling around the other's shoulders.