Strength in Numbers
The moves were natural, as instinctive as his beastmode but ingrained instead of inborn, beaten into metal resistant to change. It flexed and relaxed in a set pattern memorized through brute force, one of many patterns meant to be used in a greater rhythm, that of a strategy harnessing and controlling the power behind an individual warrior.
For that was the ultimate goal of the training, no matter how each 'bot approached it. Solitary fighter or a soldier absorbed into an army, they learned the moves and became part of a larger class, the warrior class, distinguished only by their grasp on the situation. The lowest Predacon cannon fodder was not set apart by his pinpoint accuracy with a gun, but rather by his knowledge of when and how to use his ability. The highest rank was little more than a minor achievement if one lost that tenuous hold on the ultimate pattern, that intangible thing behind every action.
Honor, to a true warrior, was what held the movement together.
The point of his sword impaled his shadow, and he nodded with somewhat lackluster satisfaction. He had salvaged his honor. The exercise was no challenge, nothing but a reminder at this point of the perfection he strove for. He was, for all intents and purposes, a warrior. He was part of a more important body, however much he insisted on his individuality.
Yet as he slowly sank down onto his berth, head cradled in his hands and sword hilt held to his forehead, he wearily wondered if it was worth it. He had his honor, his warrior status...but he was the only one on this world who could truthfully say such a thing. The Maximals were naive and weak, refusing to put forth the effort needed to reforge themselves into something more than their petty goals and worries. For short times he could lose himself in their false friendship, but after a while he would find himself alone, with no one who understood what he yearned to achieve. It was not their shallow companionship he wished for; it would not last. He wanted camaraderie. He longed for another blade to complete the other half of the pattern, to change the rhythm completely in a planned attack on his concentration, a challenge he couldn't ignore, a 'bot he could respect.
But there were none here, and it was becoming increasingly tempting to forget his training and allow the vapid Maximals to fill the gap inside him with inane banter and wishy-washy morals. When that happened, he would lose the bigger picture and be left with nothing but the empty exercises.
He rose in tired determination, not because he wanted to, but because he had to. He was something different, a warrior separated from his comrades, and he would not succumb.
So he planted his feet and began again. The moves came easily, a well-worn reminder that he didn't fight alone.
.
The idea of Dinobot of fighting off depression by clinging to his honor. That's it.