'Con Training - 'Cade and Wreckage SMASH

[Barricade]

With both sets of games now over, and the observation room clearing out - and more importantly, the simulation room - Barricade is still feeling quite... dissatisfied with his performance in the exercise. Or, rather, more to the point, he didn't get to vent enough frustration, and Wreckage had seemed just as unimpressed with the proceedings as Barricade had.

Fortunately, they seem to have an empty sim room that they could take over now to alleviate that. Not that not having access to the sim room would have stopped Barricade from goading Wreckage into a sparring match now, really, but at least in the sim room, neither one needs to hold back against the other, and yet, they won't anger any of the repair techs with needless damage.

Best of both worlds.

Given the look Wreckage had favored him with just before stalking out of the observation room, it shouldn't be too difficult to talk him into a nice, satisfying "spar", either. Barricade turns and follows in Wreckage's wake, timing his intersection to occur just in front of the door into the sim room. Plating grates as he rudely pushes past Wreckage, tossing him a significant look, optics lingering over those fancy new wings of the former-Stryker's, before vanishing through the sim room door.

// Need to break something. Gonna spar Wreckage. Wanna play? // he transmits privately to Frenzy.


ooc: crossposted to radio thread with additional info.

[Wreckage]

Barricade deliberately getting in his way is nothing exceptional to Wreckage; he has never attributed the best of manners to the infiltrator. Wreckage himself is no pretty picture of etiquette, either, really. It comes with keeping the company he has kept; one does not fight beside the likes of Bonecrusher for very long and emerge spotless. He does find Barricade's continued drive to provoke him an annoyance, which, considering the fact that Barricade keeps at it, is probably what the smaller Decepticon wants.

If Wreckage is not mistaken by the glare Barricade throws him, he also wants a fight. This is one occasion on which Wreckage sees no disadvantage to obliging his compatriot; a chance to work out the lingering battle-lust is something he finds he cannot refuse. He pivots readily and treads after the infiltrator, hands twitching ever so slightly with anticipation.

Neither of them having programmed in a setting – an irritating oversight on both parts – Wreckage has to wonder as he follows into the deactivated simulation chamber if there is any preference with either of them or if it really matters. As far as he is concerned, even simply reloading the terrain from the games would suffice. Somewhere viable and versatile to fight.

[Barricade]

And Wreckage readily follows. Wonderful. Barricade's claws flex and twitch much more obviously with the same eager anticipation as Wreckage, save that the infiltrator makes no effort to conceal such.

Lacking further input, Barricade pauses at the control panel and simply cues up the previous terrain scenario for a background to fight. Something to shatter and destroy, and road for his tires to bite into.

The run down city flickering into existence is the only "warning", as such, that he gives. Turning to dash toward a building to duck behind, he snaps off a quick shot toward Wreckage and vaults into secondary mode, smoke boiling up from his tires the instant they touch down on the rubble strewn metal street. He wants distance, cover, and speed to set up his attack, and Wreckage is a considerable bit faster than normal in this winged form of his.

[Wreckage]

Wreckage, though pleased at the choice of setting, gives no outward indication. Instead, he tenses, waiting for the fight to start or ready to start it if Barricade stalls too long.

He need not have worried about waiting. Barricade pivots and fires on him almost before the city has fully resolved around them; Wreckage drops into a low crouch to evade, one knee scraping the ground, and a slight shiver runs through him. Ah, of course… this is a simulation. Pulling punches is not a concern here. All the better.

With a sound that is neither snarl nor scoff, Wreckage launches himself after the retreating Saleen, pushing those early vestiges of fatigue and the obnoxious system reminders of his low energy reserves out of mind while he transforms and follows, keeping as low to the ground as he dares. Faster he may be in this form, but his speed affords him only so much advantage against his inexperience. Enough advantage to close the gap between them almost too quickly and open fire, strafing as he passes. He reverts to primary mode once he has a lead on Barricade and draws one sword even before he hits the ground, aiming to drop in front of the infiltrator and cut him off.

[Barricade]

Fire splashes against one quarterpanel as Barricade doesn't quite manage to fishtail wildly enough to evade every single shot from the strafing Berkut overhead. He snarls, goosing his throttle wide as Wreckage screams past, dipping lower; he's going to land and try to cut Barricade off.

Perfect.

The Saleen's tachometer redlines, engine wailing with bane sidhe fury as the distance between them vanishes like the last, vital drops of energon spurting from a shattered fuel pump. The ground slips away under Barricade's tires, heaved away with a snarling grunt that is lost in the clatter-clack and shift of struts and panels sliding over themselves. In a flash of black and white, stooping like a vengeful falcon, Barricade transforms and uses the momentum of his speed to launch himself at the waiting Wreckage, claws outstretched and flail ready to lash out.

[Wreckage]

The oncoming tackle is met with a surge of elation Wreckage cannot suppress even if he is a few fractions of a second too slow to dodge, too slow to fully brace for the impact. Barricade slams into him, all speed and rage, claws catching and gouging, and Wreckage teeters with the momentum, one foot sliding back to keep him upright. He needs the leverage his wider stance affords him before he makes a grab at the weapon biting into his side, reaching for the chain. He raises his other fist, wrapped around the grip of his sword, and brings it down hard, aiming to pummel Barricade loose.

If he can get a grip on that chain – if he can keep hold of it – he might be able to swing Barricade back in, keep him in reach of the blade.

[Barricade]

Oh the sweet feel of metal cleaving under his claws, bending and tearing as they find purchase in the folds of unfamiliar white armor. He'd hoped to tumble Wreckage, hoped that his momentum would topple the now-winged mech so that he might perch upon that canopy and rend those wings handful by handful until Wreckage could contain his rage no longer.

He's all too aware that Wreckage is a creature of war, just as he is. That too-stilted gait is still fresh in Barricade's memorybanks. They both need to purge themselves in fury and fire and tortured steel and no one else is allowed to drive Wreckage to that but him.

They are friends, in their own twisted way, and Barricade does not share what belongs to him easily with anyone. Except Frenzy, whom he belongs to, and who belongs to him as well.

The pommel of that sword crashes hard against one shoulder as he shifts to pull in his flail before Wreckage can use it to batter him about the terrain. It hurts, and he begins to slip free, claws slamming open in reflex to the massive pounding against his structure.

Stubbornly, those claws worm into the thin gap around that torso-mounted cannon; if he is to be pummeled loose, he is by slag taking something away with him!

[Wreckage]

Contact. Wreckage feels a fender buckle under the blow and, in turn, clenches his jaw, focuses through the jolts of pain that rise in those talons' wake as they dig into his plating. He has made one hit. There must be many more to follow; he knows this and he knows Barricade knows this. For this interval, any sense of camaraderie has no bearing.

Wreckage will take the desperate clawing at his cannon seams as tacit acceptance on Barricade's part, or yet another attempt to goad some new reaction from him by ripping into the narrow crevice there. The sound he makes is both snarl and involuntary yelp, and neither at the same time as he recoils. Too slow like this, too drained, too unfamiliar with the response times in this reconfigured form. He has to hit. Mistakes can ill be afforded.

That in mind, he brings down his sword this time; if Barricade wants to stay in close, who is Wreckage to argue?

[Barricade]

Oh, sweet music, that startled burst of sound. That is exactly what Barricade would like to goad out of the Berkut now, much more of that. But not at the expense of losing something vital to that crimson blade knifing down from above.

Not so soon. Not again. Not like getting buried in the dank darkness under ceramcrete and steel. Not like spending those interminable moments, minutes, forever, offline and dazed while his systems had struggled to reboot, leaving him helpless.

Leaving him harmless.

With a snarl of fury, Barricade leaps away, kicking free of the larger mech and rolling back out of arm's reach, the tiniest clatter of one sliver of his plating striking the pavement, cleaved free at that last moment, lost in the larger crash of his tumble and roll. Too close, that. A few micros later and Wreckage would have had more than an insignificant fraction of his from fender.

Barricade rolls back to his feet, claws curled as he circles Wreckage, engine snarling as he looks for that chink, that weakness, the flaw in the other's stance that will open into a target for the Saleen.

[Wreckage]

For an instant – a precious, brief instant – Wreckage can feel those minute vibrations as his blade slides through plating. He can almost hear the dissonant screech of the metal cleaving under the blow. Little more than a splinter, the result, not the fine ribbons he would rather make of his opponent. That can be rectified.

He does not immediately lunge after Barricade when the infiltrator struggles free, and though some part of him wants to scowl in thwarted rage at his hampered attack, he does not let it. He hauls up one gun instead, takes aim, and opens fire while Barricade circles. His sword remains ready in his other hand for when he will again close the distance. And he will. He refuses to be denied. He simply needs his moment– Now.

Wreckage does not wait for Barricade to find his opening; he breaks off the gun barrage and, as he is wont to do and cannot help, goes on the attack first, drawing his other sword mid-charge. Metal shrieks against metal underfoot, sparks flying, as he slides into a crouch and sweeps low with one blade, the other poised for a follow-up thrust.

[Barricade]

Bullets tear up the metal street in a sharp line of fire racing toward his retreating form as Barricade scrambles to get out of the line of the barrage. His concentration slips for an instant as he sideslips those wicked slivers of hot slag spat in his direction, and suddenly, Wreckage is there, blades swinging in sharply.

Servos complain and cables groan as he desperately twists and shifts, trying to avoid the attack. Air shrieks in a nearly inaudible whistle as it is compressed between his plating and that first sweeping strike.

He is not so lucky on the second.

Fire lances into his side, biting hard into his plating as Wreckage stabs upward. Predator instinct fires, claws flashing out. Momentum arrested, Barricade takes advantage of his proximity to fasten both sets of claws around that wrist wielding the sword impaling his side, tips crushing downward. A vicious snarl bursts forth from his vocal processor as he seeks out those lubricant and fuel lines, the hardened steel casing of that wrist servo. His mass settles against Wreckage, feet finding purchase against the Berkut's hip to brace Barricade as his grip tightens even further still.

He'll take this strike, but he's taking Wreckage's hand away with him. One way or the other.

[Wreckage]

Satisfaction, sweet and simple, buzzes along Wreckage's relays in the wake of that successful strike, echoing after the beautiful sounds of metal sinking into metal, edges shrieking against each other as he leaves a deep mark on his opponent. A very small price for testing his patience as the infiltrator does so studiously.

The price for his own miscalculation. The only sound Wreckage makes as Barricade's claws bite into the workings of his wrist is a low thrum, a bridled growl of annoyance – with himself for making such a basic error in judgement when he already has a disadvantage, with Barricade for making such damnably quick use of it. Much as he wants to flick his hand and twist his blade in further, those dagger-like talons biting at the seams of his servo casing send pain lancing plasma-bright up his arm. Too much more of this and Barricade will have his hand.

No matter. He will simply have to continue with that handicap; a limb is as capable of bludgeoning anyone as a fist. What would Brawl think to see him hesitate at the prospect of losing merely one hand? Or Bonecrusher? Wreckage has his pride and it will not be a spy who takes it from him.

"Not bad," he rasps, grip clenching too tight on the hilt of his weapon, wires snapping under the strain and the edges of Barricade's claws. Fluid lines follow, then the chorus of fine cables popping free and the ring of metal shearing as the servo gives way when he pulls his arm up and back, trying to drag Barricade inside his reach, lift him a little higher. It is and is not delight masked behind the cold determination setting his face even as all sensation in his hand and fingers abruptly ceases and his grip loosens, appendage pulling free of limb with a crackle. A hand for a headbutt – a small price to pay, he decides with a thunderous snarl of his own when he lunges forward, aiming to smash the crest of his forehead ridge into Barricade's face.

[Barricade]

Triumph, as much for that growl of annoyance as for the compliment. And both as much for the glee of having won his prize, with the sundering of those cables and servos. There is a clatter of that sword dropping to the littered street, and Barricade grins his murderer's grin, meeting that snarl with a feral rumble of his own.

This will hurt, but it is a small price for that brief fracture of temper. White rushes in to fill his vision; he initiates a brief processor cycle to cushion the shock of the blow, a trick learned in the dark back corridors of long-forgotten bases he'd betrayed and brought down in years long past.

Pain, and the crackle of static as, even through the offset of that cycle, his processors reel for a moment under the shock of the blow. Not long enough for Wreckage's sake, though. The Stryker-cum-Berkut is more sluggish than normal, and lacks his usual punch. Time enough as Wreckage rears back for another attack as Barricade tumbles free into a crash that he turns into a controlled slide for the Saleen to twist, seize up that still clattering sword, and fling it, scythe-like and spinning through the air at Wreckage's legs.

He follows swiftly after, Wreckage's own hand clutched in his claws by the servo cables like another flail. He means to beat someone to death with their own appendage today if it costs him his last erg of energy, he does. Hopefully, dodging the sword will provide enough distraction to at least smash that curved-fingered fist right into that snarling visage, right between Wreckage's optics.

Besides, Wreckage is spinning down from his trans-scan. No better time to press his fuel advantage than by bringing the fight back to the larger mech here and now. Fury and frustration make such a fine sauce, and the freedom of battle lust sings like a siren through his lines. Wreckage's too, for all that the white mech tries to suppress it, tries to stuff his rage deep down within.

And that is the sweetest sauce of all.

[Wreckage]

The blow connects. It catches more hood than head, much to Wreckage's dissatisfaction, and he rears back for a followup only to have Barricade fall away. Damn, he forgot about his non-functioning hand.

And the sword it was holding. Wreckage is not the most light-footed or graceful of Decepticons even at the best of times – he is a front-line combatant and built for those rigours – though he can sometimes look like a dancer beside his bulkier cohorts. This is not one of those times. Energy running low already and repair systems trying to respond to the loss of his hand while he tries to focus on the fight, his processes are splintered and his movements clumsier by the second. He staggers in his attempt to sidestep his own weapon and the blade rebounds off one leg, gashing the armour plate and tangling between his ankles. Rather than let the thing slice off a foot, he drops, one leg folding beneath him. He can recover.

Not quickly enough. Barricade lands not a glancing blow, but a full-on strike, with enough force behind it to sway Wreckage even in his crouch. He teeters and pivots, bracing with his remaining hand, sweeping out one leg to catch the infiltrator and knock him flat. He will be easier to pummel that way.

[Barricade]

And down Wreckage goes. Barricade's engine howls, upshifting with glee as he slams into the Berkut. Such a satisfying crash that is! Especially to see even Wreckage rocked back, if ony a few inches, still, those inches.

Oh, now isn't that nice? Wreckage is even presenting Barricade with a new target and everything! Servos whir as Barricade leaps upward, clearing that lumbering leg sweet, tightening his grip on Wreckage's own hand as he swings it for the white mechs face. Punched by his own fist. That will be one he won't soon live down if it lands.

"Slow, slow, slow, bulk," Barricade taunts. "Is that the best you have left?"