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Kostya approached Jordan, out on the fields, having seen him from across the way.

"Have time for spar?" he asked, and every inch sounded as exhausted as he looked. Where before, Kostya had always taken great care to be presentable -- he now looked ....dishevelled, and not in a good way. Dark circles arced under his eyes, and he had-- as some people would call it-- a beard of sadness.

But, still: there was iron in his spine, determination that he could be good at something, and that he had to be, despite the handicap.

His left arm was missing just above the elbow, covered by the long sleeved shirt that was pinned off there.

Kostya appreciated that Jordan did not, in fact, say much about the arm.

"Appreciated. And nyet, no," he replied, "but that is not uncommon." Syntax formed around his bad arm, and while it somewhat stayed in place, Kostya braced the weapon at the top, cradling it there. It'd be a handicap, unless Syntax switched arms-- but then, he'd have even less to work with.

Amusingly enough-- most people had not asked, if only because he had barely seen anyone at all in the last two months, becoming a borderline recluse.

Kostya held Syntax steady, firing a blast-- but there was a wobble to it, where it was not securely grasped by a hand that was now gone. He clearly look displeased, even if the blow didn't entirely miss the mark.

hp 50
dmg 4
charge 1/3

Even as Kostya was sent reeling backwards, the only resentment he felt was for himself. He tried to himself for the fall and succeeded-- but as his good hand caught soil, Syntax slid off of his arm entirely, rolling away.

He got up with only a head shake, but it was clear he was open for another blow, and warning sirens were blaring in his head, pounding as sure as a migraine against his brainpan.

We can't fight like we used to.

Error, Syntax's voice read, raising higher and higher pitched, an air raid siren playing behind a pointless number station backdrop. Error, error, error, error.

hp 40
dmg 0
charge 1/3

Kostya looked up at Jordan, clearly started, eyes sliding to Ferros by his head. He was so much easier to shock, these days-- so few remembered him, how he used to be, but it was clearly walking back the steps of progress. He was weak. He was weak, and vulnerable, and needed to double down to accommodate for it, because the things they fought weren't going to spare him out of pity.

It was good that Jordan wasn't, too.

From his place on the ground, Kostya scrabbled over to where Syntax laid, sliding him back onto his arm and charging a blast almost immediately, fear filtering out in favor of noiseless concentration, firing at Jordan with a sparking blast of red and cyan.

"Close," he wheezed, standing, not bothering to brush grass off his cargo pants.

hp 40
dmg 11
charge 2/3

"Spasibo," Kostya replied, hackles raised. Not at Jordan specifically, but at his own vulnerability, how much he'd slipped.

Kostya weathered the blow, this time, letting it thrum through him, feet planted heavily on the ground, shifting only to go with the arc of the swing, pointing Syntax's barrel at Jordan's face and firing.

Please insert coin, Syntax chimed, sing song and cheery, almost as if it was his way of trying to lighten the mood, to activate charge.

hp 35
dmg 12
charge 3/3

Syntax slavered for a charge, his wireform shape shattering and reforming at increasingly faster speeds.

Kostya, in the meantime, ignored the request, grinning with satisfaction as Jordan hit the ground-- and the arrogance led to the sweeping blow taking him entirely off guard. He yelped as he was felled, wheezing roughly as his back hit the grass.

He felt so much more, now, like a shadow had been lifted. Like all along, some sense of humanity was buried within him, and while he'd learned it with America, he'd also been locked into stasis thanks to Merlin, at a stand-off.

And now, he could feel. It never stopped being terrifying. Taking a chance, Kostya jumped to his feet and lunged forward, aiming for Jordan's kidneys with a crackling punch, the weapon itself smacking its curved edge against his shield.

hp 27
dmg 9
charge 3/3

Kostya, on the other hand, knew and understood that he was at a disadvantage. Syntax blared his siren, insisting on usage of the charge.

Which one?

A number of signs flashed in his head: RISK. ASSESS. CODE YELLOW.

Do you remember, the last time we did that?

A projected image: rocks crumbling, the ceiling falling, Obadiah's jaw broken. (A reminder pang, now, that Obadiah was dead and he shouldered no small part of that blame.)

TESTING. TESTING. TESTING. I++. CHECK THE LOOP.

And Syntax laughed, burbling laughter in entertainment. Even though his host was incapacitated, it was still just a game, because he was still little more than a child.

And so, with a ritual now familiar, Kostya imagined the code required to signal to Syntax Error that it was time, and around him glowed a red and cyan light, emanating from the barrel of his weapon. Strings of code ran alongside him in rows, winding and winding still, before a huge number of blasts erupted from his weapon, raining into the sky and cascading down like shooting stars.

Some of it always splashed back and hit him, and yet somehow Kostya managed to keep a hold of his weapon, despite the vibrations threatening to send it careening off, fingers cutting into the blade to hold it, and the pain was immense--

But lately, Kostya so rarely felt alive that the adrenaline and electricity arcing across his skin set him wild, grey-blue eyes burning with almost-mirth. He couldn't conceal his almost-grin, lips quirking around the edges, eyes crinkling.

Maybe, this would all be okay.

hp 18-6=12
dmg 17
charge 0/3