No matter how powerful the opponent,
How insurmountable the challenge,
There is always a weakness.
"Two and a half joors to the next match," the announcer's voice boomed through the halls. "Starting off this decaorn's novice matches are… Blueservo and Shinyshell! Place your bets, right this way!"
"Lose now, and the surface mechs won't ever forgive you. Remember, they're the ones funding this whole arena. A crowd favorite is good news for everyone. But if they don't like a mech, that mech's the first to offline." Greyspring dropped his voice to a whisper. "You'd better win, or I won't get paid for training you."
"I see." The red mech grimaced, lining up his pulse rifle again. Even here, energon was all that mattered.
"Oh noes! The shiny mech is going to get his finish scratched!" Terrorstrike laughed, flinging another energon knife at the target. The glowing blade flew in a perfect arc, burying itself deep in the metal surface.
"Why does everymech say it wrong? It's Spinyshell!" An exasperated Shinyshell lifted his crossbow and fired at his target.
The moment before the projectile struck, the doors on the end of the range closed. Instead of hitting the target, the crossbow bolt dented the weaker sheet metal.
"Hahahaha! Yer gonna hafta pay for that! HAHAHA!" Terrorstrike spun around, flinging a knife at the target. The handle hit the target, causing the blade to ricochet into a nearby display. A web of cracks appeared across the surface.
"You'll pay for that," Greyspring boomed, looming over Terrorstrike. "Shinyshell, you owe Sharpspike half a cube. Terrorstrike, you owe ten cubes."
"WHAT? That's an outrage," Terrorstrike shouted, apparently stricken with terror. "Shin—er, Spinyshell, Blueservo, back me up here!"
The red mech grudgingly agreed with Terrorstrike's outburst, though he remained silent. Ten cubes was, admittedly, a lot for any fighter of their caliber to earn.
"Yeah, ten does seem a bit steep." Shinyshell headed for the door, but he turned around at the last moment. His optics sparkled brightly. "Hey, I've got an idea! Terrorstrike can move down a rank!"
"Thanks a lot, Shiny," the brown mech grumbled, knowing it would take far longer to regain a lost reputation than to earn ten cubes.
"Hmm… you're right," Greyspring muttered disdainfully, ignoring Terrorstrike's complaint. "Six cubes. And you can mentor the four newest recruits."
"New recruits? No way! I'll get you those ten cubes," the brown mech hurriedly replied.
"It's final. Besides, you'd be far more suited at training those incompetent scrap heaps for the scrapyard."
"That—what—argh!" Terrorstrike scowled and went to retrieve the knife from the broken display.
"Ey Ultramarine, how long d'ya figure we've been sitting here?" The rusty mech looked around at the walls of the waiting room, counting the innumerable scratches in the walls.
"All I know is that it's been far too long." Shadow said, then stood up and moved to the opposite side of the room from the door.
"What are you doing?" Ultramarine watched Shadow impatiently test the ground with a pede.
After a moment of what appeared to be deep thought, Shadow lowered his shoulder and charged at the door. Just moments before he hit solid metal, the barrier slid aside and he crashed into an angry-looking brown mech.
"Hey! How dare you attack me," the new mech shouted. "I am Terrorstrike, scourge of the seven galaxies—" one fist lashed out, striking the slightly-dazed Shadow across the faceplates. "And you will learn to fear the very sound of my name!"
"Eh? I thought that name was taken." Shadow reset his optics and shook his helm to clear the static from the unexpected blow. "How didya get there, Rust-mech?"
"What?" The rusty mech perked up at Shadow's words. "I'm over here—"
"I AM NOT RUSTED!" A fuming Terrorstrike pulled out an energon knife and swung at Shadow, fully intending to put the other brown mech out of his miserable, worthless existence, but Ultramarine stopped his arm.
"One klik… what're you here for?"
"I, the mightiest mech in the seven galaxies?" Terrorstrike appeared to calm down slightly once Ultramarine's question registered. "This is but a minor setback in my path to ultimate glory, yet I must teach you scrapheaps how to be better cannon fodder. Not that I would have any experience with such inferior things..."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Scythe growled, offended. "We're not cannon fodder!"
"Alright, here's some advice," Terrorstrike grumbled, quickly forming a plan. Chances were, he would be facing at least one of these mechs in the next free-for-all. Since actually helping them train would be rather counterproductive to his own future well-being, he could instead take this opportunity to help himself. "Audience favorites win more energon, so you must focus all your energy on winning their favor. When the match starts, wave at the audience. Spend a good thirty breems waving at the audience. Even if someone attacks you, don't stop waving at the audience. Got it?"
"That seems like a terrible idea," Ultramarine muttered.
"You dare question my words?" Terrorstrike angrily strode up to the blue mech.
"So what kinda wave d'ya want for the audience? This?" The rusty mech stood and pulled out a heavy mace that he promptly attempted to swing.
"What are you doing, Rustheap?" Terrorstrike watched as the mace gained speed, moving in an uneven arc around the rusty mech.
"Waving at the audience! They're gonna be all around us, y'know?"
"Terrorstrike, we aren't gonna be waving at the audience, that'll get us offlined faster than attacking Chopper! Plus we aren't here to be cannon fodder, as you seem to think." Shadow narrowed his optics, taking a threatening step towards the smaller gladiator. "We're here to earn us some energon, one way or another."
The other three mechs nodded in agreement.
"Fine. You want some real advice?" Terrorstrike crafted his faceplates into what he thought was an incredibly knowledgeable expression. He sized up the four new recruits, quickly turning towards the two he thought looked the weakest. "Rust-mech, Ultramarine, you should definitely fight in the free-for-alls. Shadow, Scythe, don't even think about joining them."
"I heard we are all fighting there," the rusty mech disagreed, looking very confused at Terrorstrike's odd expression. "Uh, what's wrong with yer faceplates? Yer facial motors malfunctioning or something?"
"There's nothing wrong with my faceplates," the brown gladiator shouted, drawing two energon knives.
"...What happened?" The green medic seemed absolutely bewildered as he looked between the five battered mechs and Greyspring. Three of the mechs stood together by the door, supporting a fourth. The old gladiator deposited the most damaged mech upon a table. "There weren't any team matches this orn."
"Good question," Greyspring replied. He was positioned between the four new mechs and the damaged brown one. "Found Terrorstrike brawling with the new recruits."
"Those insolent fools dared insult my mighty faceplates," Terrorstrike shouted, attempting to lunge off the examining table. The warped metal around one elbow joint creaked, and he collapsed backwards.
"Sure, sure. Don't move," the green medic warned, turning to his patient. "Your arm is broken, and it looks like your spinal strut is damaged."
"Do not hinder my vengeance." Terrorstrike tried to shove the medic's servos away from his damaged limb. He tried to sit, but his legs twitched erratically instead of obeying his processor's commands. "They must pay!"
"So it's our fault?" Shadow's equally angry growl would have been a lot more menacing if he had been able to stand without Scythe's support. "You're the one who attacked Rusty."
"Yeah!" The rusty mech's servo pressed over a long, shallow gash on the opposite arm. Energon sluggishly trailed from the wound as he shook his helm in confusion. "No idea why."
"Well, you're all going to need repairs." The medic sighed. "Who's first?"
"Me," Terrorstrike instantly snapped. One knife vanished into subspace as a partially full mini-cube appeared in his servo. "Half a cube?"
"Your repairs are going to cost a little more than that," the medic said, frowning. The brown gladiator's broken limb would be an easy enough fix, but the damaged spinal strut would likely require a fairly expensive replacement.
"I'll pay one for all of us," Ultramarine offered, glancing at his comrades. He unsubspaced a normal-sized energon cube.
"Alright," the medic agreed, picking up a welding torch. Most of the recruits' injuries were clean slashes from the brown gladiator's energon knives.
Greyspring glanced at Terrorstrike's wounds before turning to the four recruits. "You clearly know how to put on a good show. You can join the fights once you get repaired."
"Great." The rusty mech looked mildly excited, though his expression could have been relief that the medic turned off his pain receptors.
"There's surveillance in the holding room," Greyspring added. "Sharpspike doesn't like his fighters brawling outside of matches, but your punishment won't be as severe if the audience enjoys the security footage."
"Five breems until the next match," the announcer shouted. "Featuring Blueservo and Shinyshell. Don't miss this limited opportunity to place your bets!"
"If we stage the match, neither of us will get hurt, and we could split the energon." Shinyshell waved his servos around excitedly. He was still convinced that his idea would work. "No matter who loses, we'd both get a share!"
"No." The red mech stared at Shinyshell disbelievingly. He had known the other fighter was a bit slow in the processors, but… split the energon? Had he taken a hit to the helm? "That energon's mine."
Silence filled the small room.
"Two breems!" the announcer's voice echoed through the arena.
"C'mon! It'll work," Shinyshell assured him. "Just pull some fancy moves and let me beat you—"
"Not happening." Chances were, if he agreed to lose, Shinyshell would just keep all the energon.
"Or—or you could beat me." A pleading note entered the shiny gladiator's voice. "Just make it last for a while, so the audience is happy... and use lots of fancy, impossible moves—"
"You're entering from the other side of the arena," the red mech interrupted, sliding his visor into place. The idea might have merit, but time was short. "You'd better hurry before the—"
"One breem," the announcer cheerily boomed. "Take your seats, mechs!"
"—match starts," the red mech finished, pointedly motioning towards the door.
"It'll help both of our popularity ratings," Shinyshell called, dashing away.
"Proudly presenting our old champion, Shinyshell! Renvad Paints is glad to fix your plating with polish that will display your fine inner character!"
Shinyshell dashed into the arena, looking relieved that he had entered in time.
The crowd's cheering was so loud that the announcer had to wait a few nanokliks for it to die down.
"And our recent undermechdog, Blueservo, still sporting the rusty but trusty tech of the last great war! Cyrek's Antiques sells the best, most authentic ancient weaponry on Cybertron!"
The red mech stepped out into the ring, lifting his blue servo and turning in a full circle before crouching down in a ready position.
"Let's get some bets now that you see the contestants! Starting in five! Four!"
The crowd took up the chant.
"Three! Two! One! FIGHT!"
Shinyshell ran towards the red mech, lifting his crossbow. He fired off two bolts, but his aim had either rapidly deteriorated—highly unlikely, considering his excellent scores in the shooting range—or he was purposefully missing the red mech.
The red mech prepared to scan his opponent's frame for weaknesses, but the two shots diverted his attention.
The instant the two projectiles left the crossbow, the red mech's linear prediction algorithms analyzed their trajectories… and calculated that both would miss.
Perhaps Shinyshell really did intend to go through with staging the fight. However, the mech needed to be certain before he let his guard down.
He decided to test Shinyshell's motives by charging forward slowly. The decreased speed was less practical than normal fighting, but it also reduced the mech's energy expenditures.
Shinyshell swung at him, narrowly missing the red mech's side.
The surprised red mech noted that, even if Shinyshell had hit his mark, the light blow would not have caused significant damage. Both mechs ran at each other, barely avoiding each other.
The red mech spun around at the other side of the arena and skidded to a halt on one knee.
He paused in a semi-kneeling position, tilting his helm towards Shinyshell. A black visor met orange optics, and he gave the other fighter a curt nod.
Some Cybertronian units:
nanoklik - second
breem - minute
joor - hour
orn - day
decaorn - 10 orns / 1 week
vorn - year
megavorn - 1,000,000 years
mini-cube - 1/4 of a standard cube
Thanks for reading!
~The Voids