I had been crouched over the hilt of a sword for hours, concentrating on the way the silver felt under my fingertips with an intense ferocity that I wouldn't have noticed anyone speaking to me or attempting any form of interaction. The silver was so malleable that it molded to my will as if my fingertips were its kryptonite and it simply could not resist. The beauty of the entire exertion was that once finished with the sword, I would be able to marvel at my efforts. It was not often that I made a weapon for myself unless it was an in the moment kind of need where whatever material I had in the closest proximity would become my armament. Trees, rocks, cars... There were all kinds of "raw" materials just waiting to be recycled as means of destruction. In my book? Anything could be used as a means of destruction if you are creative enough, and willing enough. Cars, in particular, have a variety of incredible uses. Mobilization, hobby, and my personal favorites: explosives and general, all purpose disasters. It wasn't often that I had enough time that I could create an ornate weapon for myself between creating them for orders and distribution, and my time spent inconveniently in the four walls of the multiple offices I contracted for. It was only as my fingers began to hurt that I realized it had been hours since I had arrived at the shop, accompanied by my brother who was, more likely than not, creating all kinds of his own personal disasters inside the building. I hadn't heard more than a crash or two earlier, and then I'd chosen not to pay attention as it was something he would probably deal with on his own. And if he couldn't? Then I would be expecting his arrival complemented with a demand that I fix it.

With a calm hand despite the shakes that I felt inwardly, I lifted a cigarette to my lips to ease the nicotine craving I hadn't noticed during the hours that I had been focused on my project. In my other hand, the weight of the crafted sword rested lighter than I'd imagined. I almost didn't notice its presence, though my relative excitement couldn't let me forget it, especially when there was an almost unquestionably willing participant in the next room. Finley couldn't have been amused while I was working, and though the lack of nicotine might normally render me uselessly irritable there was a general lack of the dysphoric emotion when I strode out of the backroom. With purpose, I more or less inhaled the cigarette as to free up my other hand. The swords on the wall rattled as if they were happy to see me contemplating their existence there, the chosen sword jumping to life as my fingers touched it.

"Catch."

The command was the announcement of my presence, inviting Finley to pay attention to me now that I had left the workroom that had become my dark cave. It was well past dark, a time when I often decided to close the shop if I was there and leave any customers helpless in the wake of the early closure. The sword I had plucked from the wall rested in my left hand before I had launched it into the air, allowing its weight to bring it to my brother's hopefully prepared fingertips. With a brief almost expectant look to the door, I simultaneously flicked the open sign off to ensure there would be a lack of customers to ruin the entertainment I decided I was owed after hours of work. I had been aching for the use of the power that often buzzed just under my skin when I was in this shop, and Finley was the perfect victim. Over the years, he had been suspect to copious amounts of brotherly affection (see: violence). Why opt out now? I spun the sword skillfully in one hand, waiting for him to step closer and make a move as I would use my consistent handicap and allow him first strike.