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..."