Chapter 2

Darkstrike woke up early the next cycle. She couldn't get much recharge.

How could she? It was hard going into a peaceful slumber when she'd be waking up to the first cycle of her new, dangerous life. It was petrifying to think about. She still had trouble processing it all.

Darkstrike was now a femme Gladiator.

How was she supposed to use that to her advantage? She would suffer, she knew. There wasn't much Darkstrike could do about it. This was the consequence of running her mouth in her last caste.

At least it was still better than living with the regret of never saying anything at all. Darkstrike shuddered at the alternate reality that could've been her life.

No matter what others thought, there was a worse fate than ending up a working-class fighter. Death or interface were her other options.

Luck had been on her side when she had taken a left turn while running away from her assassinators. Darkstike had successfully evaded them, but not long after, she realized she was taking refuge in a Gladiator arena. Within kliks, the small freedom she momentarily gained had once again been stolen from her.

Darkstrike had always been used to having some control, even if it was only of her life. Now, her own individual basic rights had been taken away. She was reduced to property. Darkstrike sympathized with the mechs in these Pits. The femme had always known how wrongful it was that they had to withstand tremendous amounts of suffering just to remain online.

She shook her helm. There was no good in empathizing with them when she was now in the same situation.

Her newly-colored optics looked up at the ceiling of her chambers.

Red optics.

Darkstrike didn't mind her new color of optics. It erased the memories of her previous home. She was growing weary of her green ones, anyway. Darkstrike despised the color green and how the color oh-so-proudly represented her old caste.

Green symbolized growth, harmony, hope, and peace. Green, as opposed to red, meant safety. Though Darkstrike knew (and preferred to think) that green was associated with ambition, greed, and jealousy. It was also associated with cowardice and discord. All which she thought most suited her previous caste. To Darkstrike, they were all a hypocritical group of Cybertronians that dared called themselves peacemakers.

Now her optics were red to symbolize her current low-caste status. Red meant war, danger, strength, and power. The color was meant to be affiliated with willpower, rage, and wrath. It was honest and true to the caste it represented: Gladiators.

It would soon be her turn. She couldn't hide from the reality that she was going to have to fight with nonexistent strength. Darkstrike may not have had brute strength like the rest of the mechs, but at least she had brute rage.

As much as it pained her to admit it, Darkstrike knew she had to let her anger guide her towards violence. Ironically, her anger is what led her to her current circumstance.

Her only combat experience was against her assassins. Darkstrike had fought with every ounce of strength that she had. Any potential she had for fighting wasn't completely unused. Her problem was that she hadn't honed such skills for official battles. Her lack of precision, skill, and strategy would lead her lower than the Pits.

She couldn't rely only on pure instinct anymore, even if it had gotten her this far. Darkstrike was smart enough to know that. She had to push herself in training because if she lost her first battle, her next stop would be in the closest brothel in Kaon. Not that being one of the only femme Gladiator wasn't already enough pressure.

Oh, no. She wasn't scared.

Darkstrike was terrified.

She stood up from her berth. The femme couldn't deny that she was still tired, but she preferred to get up on her own terms rather than having a mech escort her out. She slowly unlocked her door. The corridors were empty. She heard gruff voices echo through the halls.

Darkstrike assumed that the mechs were awake. She didn't know the procedures there; nobot bothered to explain them to her. That was probably supposed to be Soundwave's job. What a talkative mech he was.

What she needed was energon to fill her tank. She wasn't sure where to get it and walking towards the mechs didn't exactly seem promising.

After a few nano-kliks, she finally moved forward. Darkstrike decided that her method would be trial and error. She would experiment and see just how far she could stretch her luck, that is if she still had any.

The medic that spoke with her yesterday suggested that she consume whatever energon they gave her. His statement implied that they were probably going to give her a portion, even if it'd be a small one. Judging by the loud and exuberant voices, she inferred that there might be an area with energon stockings.

Darkstrike nervously made her way through the end of the corridors. Her pedes made quiet thuds. She was hoping that no one would notice her.

The door swished open. Darkstrike was greeted by a large group of mechs when she entered. All of them paid her no attention at first.

Once her optics made contact with a random pair of red ones, the mech began to get the attention of his acquaintances. Little by little, more pairs of optics turned to look at her. Most of them were red, but there were one or two pairs that were blue.

She felt a shiver pass through her spine. Darkstrike continued to walk through the aisle. She nervously glanced at the bots. They all audaciously stared at her. It made her a bit self-conscious. The femme attempted to remain indifferent... just like Soundwave had been with her the cycle before.

The femme internally scoffed. He was probably staring at her, too.

Her optics scanned the crowd of mechs, secretly searching for only one. When her optics were able to barely glance at Soundwave, her spark nearly leaped out of her chassis. Darkstrike turned away.

Okay, so he wasn't staring at her.

Her impression of Soundwave was that he was a very intimidating mech. He was the only mech she had met so far. Darkstrike was hoping that she would never, ever have to take him on. She was sure that she would easily get beaten. Soundwave was much better armored than she was. His upper body promised a lot of success, as well as his long arms. He didn't even need to say anything for him to cause fear to overcome her spark.

The mech didn't damage her yesterday, but his movements radiated with a threatening tone. Darkstrike was sure that if he got the chance, Soundwave would kill her. She preferred not to dwell on that subject; Darkstrike wasn't interested in making friends there. Her primary focus was to survive.

The femme pointed her optics towards the counter at the end of the room. She noticed a mech receiving his cube. Darkstrike traveled closer.

The mech behind the counter didn't seem particularly interested in her.

She would have to take the initiative to ask. Darkstrike didn't know what to say. She was never taken seriously in her previous caste; it would likely be the same in this one.

"Designation?" the mech asked. His abrupt words were enough to startle Darkstrike out of her thoughts. The mech stared at her with open amusement. The mech chuckled at her. "Do you know your designation?"

Her optics narrowed with indignation.

"Darkstrike," she stated. He looked down at the datapad.

The femme easily identify the system given her wide knowledge of technology. From what she could tell, each mech got a specific amount of surplus energon. Higher numbers next to their names meant more energon. The server checked her off the list.

The mech hardly regarded her as he filled up the cube. That was probably for the better.

Darkstrike quickly took the cube as soon as he handed it to her. She examined the low contents but didn't say anything. At this point, she was grateful to be getting anything. The flier dismissed the mech at the counter.

As she turned to face the crowd, Darkstrike realized that there weren't any seats that didn't sandwich her between two mechs. Some fighters noticed her again.

"If you don't have anywhere to sit, you can sit on my lap!" one suggested loudly. Many Gladiators began to suggest likewise. They laughed and stared at the femme for her response. Darkstrike chose not to say anything.

She avoided their dirty stares and went to a secluded corner off to the side. Darkstrike made sure to keep her distance from them; she was sure that they would reach out to touch her if given the chance.

The dark-armored femme sat on the dirty ground of the room. She pushed her legs to herself and looked at her energon. She dimmed her audios to avoid listening to the voices. Her optics lifelessly stared at her cube.

At least I'm not starving. Darkstrike sipped it, letting the liquid refresh her systems. She grimaced at the taste.

As Darkstrike continued to sit there, most stares eventually left her. Her helm rose to see a familiar mech standing up. Her optics watched attentively as he moved towards the counter. Soundwave expertly navigated through all the mechs. Unlike the other Gladiators, he disregarded her completely.

Never once did Darkstrike see his visor turned her way. She wasn't sure whether to be offended or not. He definitely carried himself with a sense of superiority. The femme stubbornly tore her optics away from him.

My primary goal is to survive.

She sat there, holding her energon cube. Darkstrike initially planned on sitting there until it was time to train. It wasn't until she heard the thump of pedesteps that she became aware. She warily clenched her cube. A group of mechs stared down at her. Darkstrike didn't say anything.

Her systems ran cold.

"How rude of us not to offer the femme a seat."

"We're not being very good gentlemechs, are we now?" one slyly chuckled. The three of them laughed at their mock politeness. They were insulting her. Just as condescending as her previous caste.

"Femme, if you stick with us and do us a few favors, we can get you through this... terrible experience." one lewdly suggested. She realized what they were implying.

Darkstrike curled her claws into a fist. She clenched her denta shut. The femme stood up slowly, her height passing only two of the mechs. One still stood taller than her. She glared at him but caught herself when she came to a realization.

They were baiting her, waiting for her to fall for their words and crumble.

The femme's first instinct had been to confront him with violence. Her temper would've gotten the best of her. She probably would've been pummeled on her first swing. The femme wasn't sure how skilled the mechs were, but from the looks of it, they could easily outmatch and outnumber her.

She stared at them dimly before beginning to walk away.

The mechs seemed thoroughly displeased with the response. The largest one gripped her wrist. She was forcefully pulled into their circle. Her optics widened with bewilderment.

"Running away shows cowardice. You're not a coward, are you, femme?" the mech asked, digging his fingers deeper into her wrist.

"The-the owner said you couldn't hurt me."

"Welcome to Kaon's Pits!" He grinned.

The mechs around them continued their loud talking, but Darkstrike could feel their optics on her. They were all watching her.

She wondered if they all thought she was weak.

A sudden thought crept up through her processor.

Was Soundwave watching?

Not a nano-klik later, there was a beep. A loud one. The mechs in the room began to stand up and head for the door. The mech snarled at her.

"Best of luck, femme," he stated. He roughly pushed her away, making her stumble back. Darkstrike glared up at him while rubbing her wrist. The mech and his group followed him out.

She realized training was about to begin.

Darkstrike continually punched the obstacles in front of her. She realized that her stamina and strategy needed much improvement. After countless joors of sloppy punching and keeping light on her pedes, Darkstrike was beginning to grow tired. Her servos were dented, and her claws were beginning to take the impact as well.

She jumped over the spiked metal but her landing was sloppy and mistimed. The spikes returned and hit her roughly. Darkstrike fell on her chassis. She groaned at her throbbing side.

The femme remained on the ground for a bit, feeling momentary relief. She needed a break. Judging by the sound of steps coming her way, it seemed that other mechs thought differently.

A familiar medium-ranking mech came her way. He kicked her side, making her yell out in surprise. Darkstrike flipped to her back.

It was mech from earlier.

"Get up, femme! Your training hasn't finished yet," the mech commanded. Darkstrike attempted to get up, only for her limbs to wobble. She fell back to the floors. She let out a hoarse curse.

"Figures. A femme... a Gladiator? How could Lanyard even think about making you a fighter? High castes are only good for one thing, and one thing only: looking pretty and talking bullslag," the mech snarled. She glared at him, baring her denta. As he left, his heavy steps kicked dust in her direction.

She gave a few coughs and gripped the floor beneath her. She was furious yet she felt utterly useless. Darkstrike didn't want to let a spineless mech think he was superior.

Her fingers twitched and something deep inside her seethed. Her claws began shaking uncontrollably, growing incredibly hot. She ignored it and made a move to stand.

She moved her arms to support her weight. They wobbled but the flier forced them to stay put. Firmly planting a pede on the ground, she slowly stood up, clutching her side. Darkstrike moved to grab a broken piece of metal off the floor.

The mech had stupidly turned his back to her. She threw the object in his direction, never taking her optics off the target. It hit his helm comically, making a loud thud.

The mech immediately turned around, looking enraged. His optics widened with slight disbelief and anger when he realized that it was her doing. Without saying a word or even returning the arrogant expression he wore earlier, the femme turned around to resume her training.

Just as she returned to her previous spot, she noticed a nearby bystander.

It was Soundwave. His helm was turned towards her. Darkstrike stiffened to a near painful degree.

He had been watching.

Her spark felt like it was going to lurch out of her chest. She forced herself to turn away.

Looking back at the other side of the room, the femme noticed RocketShield was glaring at her. Darkstrike prepared for the worst as the medium-ranking mech came her way.

Darkstrike was aching. She was absolutely exhausted. There were scratches and dents all over her frame. Energon leaked through her aching protoform. Her legs were just about to give out. They had commanded her, pushed her, thrown punches at her, threatened her, and tried to humiliate her.

Yet, it was much more simple compared to her previous home.

It was a good pain she felt. It was one she wasn't accustomed to, but that didn't mean that Darkstrike didn't welcome it. There was no hypocrisy. No lies, only harsh, painful reality.

In the end, those mechs were unintentionally training her mind and body for her first fight.

The medium-ranking mech, designated as RocketShield, had tried to punish her for her acts of "disrespect" towards a higher ranking Gladiator. Darkstrike took the abuse but didn't give him the attention he wanted. He eventually grew bored.

Frag him.

The femme laid on her berth. Her limbs were sprawled out. They were too heavy to move.

She chuckled at the ceiling. The smile didn't leave her lips. She had an absolutely horrible cycle, but at least there were no shadows.

In her old home, Darkstrike always hesitated speaking out for fear that the leaders of her caste would take everything from her. Surely enough, they did but now she had absolutely nothing to lose.

Her red optics finally represented something she was–something she was proud to be. There were no lies and no need to hide. For the first time, her spark was at peace.

That femme lasted through the first cycle. Barely.

Soundwave observed her well. He noticed many weaknesses. She reacted very restrained to harassment. It displeased him and lowered his expectations. Not that he had much for the femme.

He saw the group of mechs toy with her in the morning. She didn't attempt to defend herself nor did she cower into a corner. Instead, the femme had chosen to walk away from the mechs.

In most situations, that would have been wise; however, considering her ranking, her decision to be left alone would be ignored. Until she won her first fight, she was as insignificant to them.

Darkstrike had only succeeded in angering them. For a moment, he had seen the clear rage in the femme's optics. It was a weak flame, waiting to be fully ignited. Much to his disappointment, she had extinguished any type of fire and let the mechs intimidate her. The femme lacked fighter instincts. She was accustomed to conformity; it would be difficult for her to break the habit.

Soundwave was less displeased when he had seen her train. The femmebot had determination. She didn't seem afraid to lash out on the obstacles or even back at RocketSheild.

There was also that moment when he had let the femme know that he was watching. Her red optics looked directly at his visor. The femme had immediately stiffened, which pleased him. His first intention hadn't been to frighten her, but it seemed that not many actions were required to achieve this.

She had managed to stay one piece. Darkstrike had survived her first cycle. Not impressive when she still had to survive the rest of them. The femme was a fool who had much to learn.

Soundwave shook his helm to clear her away from his thoughts. That femme's future interested him.

That femme, the newcomer, was a whole datapad waiting to be unraveled.

He was cautious, aware of everything. He'd keep an optic on her... for now.

As expected, the orn went by in a flash.

It went by too fast, in Darkstrike's opinion. Granted, an orn wasn't very long anyway.

She practiced long and hard. Her paint had gotten less shiner, and her armor adorned more dents and scratches. Her aches had gone away for the most part. Though, she was sure the worst had yet to come. Darkstrike expected herself to receive the most injuries in battle.

It was time to see if her training had paid off.

The mechs hadn't lessened their taunting or humiliation; Darkstrike had only gotten more tolerant of it. All her anger was used wisely in training. Lucky for her, they hadn't grabbed her again.

The only upside was that Darkstrike discovered that if she avoided RocketShield, she could train without disturbances. Much to her relief, she didn't need to spar with any of the mechs for training; that was mostly optional. Darkstrike knew it would aid her greatly to actually spar and get a feel of what a fight would be like. Unfortunately, she couldn't stand any of the mechs there.

Darkstrike knew that if she failed tonight, she might as well have been programmed to be a pleasure drone.

The femme knew that she needed to build more strength, but one orn wasn't enough time to achieve that. Even worse for her, this would be combat fighting meaning she wouldn't have any weapons to defend herself with. Darkstrike's armor wasn't durable enough to protect her.

Only if the she won, she would get her upgrade. The armor Darkstrike currently had was thin, meant for an office job. The thickest armor resided on her wings.

Despite what the other Gladiators believed, she was a flier, not a seeker. Darkstrike chose not to correct them to gain the upper hand in the arena. If any fighter targeted her wings, they'd be surprised at their durability.

A random thought crossed her processor. Darkstrike unconsciously wondered if Soundwave would be watching.

She shook her helm. Of course, he wouldn't. Darkstrike was hardly worth his time. He was on a different league than her.

It shouldn't matter to her. They had only interacted one other time since her first cycle there.

She wasn't sure why she held such a curiosity for the mech, especially when there were plenty more in the Pits.

Maybe it was the rumors.

From what she had heard, he was a Gladiator legend. This was no ordinary bot. He seemed to be sleek in comparison to the bulky bots, which surprised her. Darkstrike was glad that he stood as a testament that size didn't always equate to strength.

Not to say he was small by any means. His height surpassed the majority of the mechs there. Soundwave had a well-armored upper body and large arms. He was equipped with a powerful frame and an intelligent mindset.

Darkstrike heard he was a very reserved bot. Interaction with him was almost nonexistent.

She had only spoken to him once after their first meeting. The memory was still vivid in her processor.

Darkstrike had chosen to avoid RocketShield so she wouldn't have to deal with his nasty comments.

She had wandered down the expansive corridors. The femme quickly caught on that there were different dormitory halls. Each one was probably for different ranking mechs.

Not considering the danger, Darkstrike continued on her path, letting her instinct guide her. It wasn't "instinct" as much as it was curiosity.

Darkstrike pursued the feeling in her spark. She took turns, going left and right until she finally ended up in a surprisingly clean corridors. She stood still, her red optics marveling the hallway. There were fewer doors, most likely because not many mechs made it far into the ranks.

Darkstrike could only dream of making it that far.

She walked down the halls, her pedes producing soft thuds. Her curiosity led her to one of the doors. It looked like any other, yet there was something peculiar about it.

Darkstrike stood in her spot, staring intently. A few kliks went by.

Much to her horror, the door hissed open. Her optics were met with a mech's chassis. Darkstrike's gaze hesitantly drifted up to his faceplates.

Much to her surprise, she only saw a visor. The femme took a step back.

"Soundwave..!" she gasped. The mech took a step forward, making Darkstrike back up into the wall. The door behind him hissed shut. His helm tilted in a questioning, yet threatening way.

"Corridors: Prohibited," he spoke.

His voice sent her spark to a wild pulsing. Darkstrike did not miss the threatening edge his vocals held. She gulped, realizing that this was the first time she had heard him speak.

He had a thick Kaonian accent, though his voice sounded different than anything she had ever heard.

"Apologies. I was lost," she lied. Usually, lying wasn't difficult for her, but doing it in front of a mech like Soundwave seemed almost dangerous.

His optics weren't visible, but she could still feel his harsh stare. Darkstrike's attitude faltered. Her optics drifted towards the floor the longer he stared at her.

He began walking to her. Darkstrike was pushed against the wall. A surprised gasp left her mouth at the familiar feeling of being restrained.

Darkstrike began shifting and only stopped when Soundwave's helm advanced closer. The femme flinched back, pressing up against the wall further. She resisted the urge to feel fear. She turned her helm to the side when his visor was only inches away from her.

The femme noticed he stopped before their frames touched.

"Femme: Lying. Reason: Ignorant curiosity," Soundwave uttered in her audios. Before Darkstrike could fully process his words, Soundwave was already gone.

That had happened before she learned who he was in the Pits.

Since then, Darkstrike decided that it was good that Soundwave ignored her. It was what she had to do to survive.

Snapping her processor out of her thoughts, was an all-too-familiar beep. Darkstrike clenched her energon. Her battle was about to begin.

Darkstrike stood in the corner of the arena. She was surrounded by a large audience.

They all shouted, impatiently demanding violence. A lot of them laughed and jumped in their seats in anticipation. Darkstrike felt disgusted. They all looked at her for a source of entertainment. They would eventually toss her away like an empty energon cube once she wouldn't be able to provide entertainment or pleasure. They would all let her rust if she fell.

Darkstrike would not fall.

Her competitor stood on the other side of the large arena. A speaker was in between them, announcing exciting words to the audience. The Cybertronians gulped down their high-grade energon, some letting the liquid spill down their mouths. Darkstrike grimaced.

Once the large crowd of Cybertronians simmered down, the speaker began the match.

"Fellow Cybertronians! For the first time in vorns, we have a femme fighting in our arena! Now, this a fight to surely remember," the mech spoke. The crowd cheered louder. "Now, it's time to see whether our femme will survive or offline in her first battle..."

The audience grew wild. Mechs were out of their seats, calling at her, trying to get her attention. Darkstrike tried to ignore their obscenities. It made the Gladiators' torment seem like child's play.

"In this corner, we have last orn's newcomer, Plasmo!" the crowd cheered at the mech as he arrogantly threw his arms up, relishing in the cheers. "And, as his femme competitor... we have Darkstrike!"

She heard rogue calls and audacious complaints towards her. Darkstrike dead-panned and almost felt impelled to tune down her audios.

"Gladiators, get ready... and BEGIN!" The speaker was quick to get out of the way and travel towards the stands.

Darkstrike's attention was fully averted when she heard a fierce battle cry. The mech ran towards her, his upper body prepared to collide with her. Darkstrike noticed the mech was about her height. Perhaps that could be helpful.

Instead of moving out of the way like she probably should have done, Darkstrike firmly planted her pedes on the ground. She leaned forward. The mech came at her, his brute force slamming into her thinner armor.

Though it was painful, Darkstrike was able to take the impact. She clenched her denta and grabbed the mechs larger arms. She used her force to throw him off her, but it only seemed to make him stumble back.

Quickly recovering, Darkstrike ignored the tingling sensation in her claws. Clenching her servo in a fist, she ran and swung at the mech. He was also quick to compose himself.

Plasmo caught her arm with ease. Darkstrike swung her other fist at him, hitting him squarely in the faceplates. The mech stumbled back from the force. Darkstrike took the chance to take her arm back.

Seeing that he was momentarily distracted, she ran up to him, prepared to kick him down. She realized her mistake of hitting his most guarded area. Plasmo grabbed her leg and swung her down. Darkstrike hit the ground roughly. Pain shot up her back-struts.

Plasmo threw her in the air and uppercut her abdomen. Darkstrike was sent flying back. Upon impact, she coughed up blue fluids. Her blurry vision prevented her from seeing the mech launch at her.

Plasmo grabbed her neck and pulled her up. The femme struggled in his grasp.

Darkstrike extended her leg and kicked his abdomen, making him lose his breath. She was quick on her pedes when he dropped her. Plasmo actually seemed to be affected by her attack and stumbled back. Darkstrike's optics widened in pleasant surprise.

I have a chance!

She launched forward and struck at his ankles, making him fall back. Darkstrike was too slow to decide her next move. Plasmo used his legs to trip her down. Darkstrike landed on the ground with a hard thud. Plasmo stood up before she did. He kicked her once more against the wall. More energon leaked through her plating.

He looked down at her, wiping the blue fluids from his mouth plates.

"Stay down, femme," he uttered. The cheers around her became dull in her audios. The blurry images hardly reached her optics. Recharge seemed like a gift from Primus at that point. Darkstrike weakly lifted her helm and saw many Cybertronians celebrating her pain.

Her arms wobbled as she attempted to stand.

No, it can't be... She had trained too hard for this cycle. Darkstrike had shed lots of energon and had ached for cycles to prepare for this battle. The femme couldn't believe how futile it all had been.

She wasn't dead yet, but she'd surely be the Pit's new courtesan.

The femme had run from her assassinators in order to live. Darkstrike knew her life was worth something...

Was it really worth it if she had to fight that hard to survive?

Stand.

Her optics snapped open.

Do not be pathetic. Stand.

Darkstrike couldn't recognize the commanding voice. It was a graceful sound moving throughout her processor. It almost felt like a whisper.

She did as she was told. Her arms managed through the pain. Her red optics darkened. Inner systems seethed as her claws twitched.

"High castes are only good for one thing..." echoed in her mind. The taunting came back to her; the humiliation filled her processor. Darkstrike had constantly been reminded of how worthless she was, but this was her moment to feel superior for once in her life.

Her rage returned once more, fueling her actions.

She would survive.

The energon running through her pulsed harder. Her spark palpitated hard against her chassis. She roared and jumped on her pedes. The mech seemed bewildered at her sudden appearance, only to realize too late.

Her fist violently struck his faceplates. Her other pede impacted his chassis. Her claws couldn't bear it anymore and a primal instinct overtook her. Darkstrike's claws were soon dug into his plating, puncturing his protoform. She stabbed him twice, each time she retracted her claws, more fluids covered her servos. A wild heat seemed to transfer from her claws, attaching itself onto the mech.

Plasmo released a raw scream. He clenched his optics shut as he was suddenly brought down to his knees. Electricity pulsed throughout his body. The seething heat seemed to leave her systems completely as the mech before her shook.

Darkstrike retreated at the sight. Her vermillion optics widened in surprise. Plasmo fell on his front side. The thud made wisps of debris float around the arena.

Smoke emanated from his frame, but it was hard to see.

Something inside of Darkstrike was severely disturbed. She watched as the mech gave her one last look before his optics shut. She looked down at the blue energon on her claws. The femme looked at him in disbelief.

She had just done that...

Plasmo was only a competitor. It had to be done.

She checked his spark chamber. He wasn't permanently offline… just extremely wounded.

This was what she had to do to survive.

There was no need for her to feel remorse for him. It was clear that he would feel none for her. No one ever seemed to feel penitence for her.

She claimed herself a warrior that fight. Darkstrike should've been frightened at her primitive side.

While it scared her to an extent, the sensation of unadulterated rage and power were something she had never experienced to this degree. It was unnerving, but not entirely unwelcome.

Darkstrike's optics dimmed to their previous red color. She flicked the dripping energon off her claws, staining the ground next to her.

She slowly walked over to the fallen mech.

The arena had gone silent. Shocked expressions overcame the audience.

Darkstrike placed her pede on Plasmo's helm and looked up at the crowd. She grinned and raised her fist.

The femme had never experienced the same exhilaration as when the audience chanted her name.