Flashback - Tempered Steel (closed)

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[Takes place after the enMatrixating of Optimus Prime but before the final exodus.]

Though weapons practice wasn't on the agenda, the One's collection of weapons was cleaned and displayed along the walls of the training room. The floor was cleaned and buffed, flat and shining like a mirror: no errant rivets or buckled floor panels to trip anyone up. No distractions from the serious business of sparring.

Elita stood by the far wall, adjusting her new greave - the old one having been bitten off in a recent battle. Hearing footsteps, she straightened and smiled.

"Welcome, Optimus Prime."

Decepticons bent on his deactivation had spoken to him with less menace than that mild, cultured tone.

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Optimus, who entered from the far side of the room, was not remotely surprised by the malice embedded within the honorifics of how she addressed him. He was also entirely unsurprised by a small gathering of Order member in the hallway behind him – whispered radio tones sending runners out to find other femmes who would ‘not want to miss this’.

For his part, the Prime did not answer straight away, taking a moment to inspect the training room – not the same as the last time they’d met – possibly a section had been rebuilt. He’d heard a report of a bad bombing, but nothing specific. His own reflection, slightly darker and dulled in the polished flat of the walls, seemed to peer back at him – bemused. That the Autobot's vanguard had crossed paths with the Order's latest encampment was partially coincidence, partially logistical preference.

Short of Megatron himself... Decpeticons didn't generally start trouble as quickly with The Order in the area.

“Thank you, Elita One, as always for your hospitality.”

Optimus crossed the floor to the center of the room, the florescent flights catching in the raw alloy grooves notched deep, in some places, in his exo-plating. The red armoring of his upper chest had clearly taken shrapnel recently, the overheads glinting silver in the paint chips. He folded his arms, posture (though only temporarily) relaxed, the bright blue of his optics catching Elita One’s with long-time familiarity.

“I have not seen you since before the assault in the Sonic Canyons.”

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Elita's smile warmed a little, barely noticeable if you didn't know what to look for. "I'm sorry I missed you during the assault. I hear you made quite a showing."

Another boost to the once-librarian's reputation. Optimus was quickly becoming a legend to rival any Prime of the past. At his approach, Decepticons quailed, Autobots found new vigor. The Neutrals the Order rescued spoke of him in hushed tones. More than one of Elita's own sisters had crushes on the mech, and it wasn't only because of his fine, strong figure.

But it clearly wasn't enough for Optimus. He'd never been one to rest on his laurels before, and he wasn't about to start now. That's why he was here: in pursuit of self-improvement. In this one instance, Elita was honored to serve.

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“Fifty shanix he puts her on the floor this time!” said Sola, announcing this with the grandeur of a fanatical pamphleteer. “Not sayin’ the nerd-Prime’s gonna win, but I’ll lay money on him giving her a run for her money. Fifty. Fifty shanix on a flooring. You all saw him coming in; battle hardened to the ground that one is. Aint nothin’ of the library left in ‘im. He’s got her this time. Bet on it. I’m betting on it. Who’s gonna call me on it? Fifty shanix!”

In the time it took Optimus Prime and Elita one to make pre-throwdown pleasantries, Sola Dex had set up a small betters circle just around the corner down the hall from the training room, just out of earshot. The bright blue of her optical band flashed, her rotorblades twitching in an excitable manner while various off-duty Order members stopped to ponder the odds of Optimus Prime laying out Elita One. Considering his track record, most of the blade-class didn’t look real confident in Sola’s bluster and some of them laid money on it. Sola made note of all bets made, one foot propped up on the cannon barrel she’d laid to rest a moment.

Balancing a datapad on her knee, she took bets.

“Oh! No faith! C’mon, Hide.” She elbowed the weapon specialist, one of Prime’s minor entourage this visit. If he was annoyed at her for derailing their trip to the armory for gambling, she... honestly wasn't paying attention. “You’ve been tagging along with him so what’s your estimation? Nobody likes an underdog today.”


((Tag for Neko. :3))

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Stuck in the middle of a group of femmes wasn't a position the heavy frontliner was used to being in, but he took it in stride, the same as he'd taken the abrupt shift of target from armory to sparring hall. In truth it was a complacence that Chromia routinely took full advantage of, and it hadn't even occurred to him to protest when Sola had hooked a hand around his elbow and hauled him off to the training rooms. She was, after all, doing him a favor, however anyone else might look at it - a weapon specialist of any rank that wouldn't take whatever bits an Order weaponeer was willing to dole out was a glitched in the processor specialist not worth their rank, in Ironhide's opinion.

There was a grin hovering at the edges of his mouthplates, barely noticeable except for the gleam in his optics. "Fifty shanix?" he rumbled. "Don't know about that. Granted, Ah think he'll come close, but Ah'm th' one who was chasin' him 'round th' ring last joor an' Ah'll put fifty on Elita polishin' th' floor with him." Which was unfair and vaguely disloyal of him, really, but it would be worth it when the news of the bet got back to their Prime's audials - which it undoubtably would - for the fleeting glimpse of the confused rookie he had once trained behind the solid facade of the Prime he was becoming.

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Technically, Hot Rod was supposed to be in the medbay, taking inventory and stocking supplies. Technically she was not even supposed to know of their Autobot visitors - probably because her teachers knew exactly how she would react. Technically she was not, in fact, shirking her duty to go catch a glimpse of the Autobot warriors. She'd just - switched shifts with someone else. The work would still get done. And she'd wind up pulling a double shift to cover for her friend, which was way worth it as far as Roddi was concerned.

Even so, a bit of a guilty conscience made her slink behind the bigger bots, hugging the wall all the way to the training rooms. She was behind the bulk of the crowd, much to her consernation, but just before they closed ranks she managed to catch a glimpse of a tall, undeniably mech-shaped form striding fearlessly into the room Elita-One had claimed as her own. Her spark, never the steadiest to begin with, skipped several pulses.

"He’s got her this time. Bet on it. I’m betting on it. Who’s gonna call me on it? Fifty shanix!"

Another technicality - they weren't supposed to bet on the outcome of these little sparring matches. But Sola Dex had never been much of a stickler for the rules. As she joked with the broad-framed Autobot next to her, Hot Rod squirmed through the gathering of femmes with muttered, entirely perfunctory apologies to claim a place on her other side, already counting out the meager few shanix in her subspace.

Hot Rod adored Elita-One. Of course she did. But Optimus Prime was... he was...

Her hand curled around all the currency she had, and she nudged Sola's elbow. "Twelve shanix on Prime winning the whole match."

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“Oh-ho-ho! We have a believer!” cheered Sola, raising both hands as if in praise to some god of ass kickery exclusive to book-inclined Primes. She grinned and dropped her hands, elbowing the younger bot back and checking down her name on the data pad. “Twelve shanix aint a lot of faith, but it is faith.” She flashed her visor at Roddy, grinning, then started shouting again. “Who else has faaaith?! Ironhide doesn’t even have faith and he follows this guy into Cybernaught fire. Who here wants an underdog? C’mon. You know you love it. Yes! There we go. Look at these believers!”

“Shut up and put me down, Sola.”

“Twenty-five on the Prime.”

“Nothin’ happening. My money’s on Elita wiping him out in five.”

And on the betting went.

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Optimus, for his part, proceeded on unaware that there were wagers being made as to his prowess in the next few minutes. And make no mistake, there was no ambiguity as to what would be happening in the next few minutes, when the natural trajectory of their conversation turned, as it always did, to where they were. The both of them. Optimus Prime and Elita-One. The Prime continued to cast his eyes around the room, optics on the walls as stood under the lights of the room, EM field cast unguarded from his framework, vaguely an invitation for another, for her. It had been a while since they’d seen one another after all.

“A showing is one way of putting it,” he said, somewhat thoughtfully. “I would have generously called it a mess, less generously called it a narrowly evaded disaster.” He looked to Elita again, optics flickering with amusement. “Ironhide tells me that is how most successful military operations feel. This long into the war and I am still unaccustomed to it. In honestly, I may never grow accustomed.” His engine noise hummed amused. “Do not tell Ironhide. He insists that it will come to me. As the leader of the blade-class what is your estimation of me?”

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Elita paused to give the question due consideration, extending her field to his as she did so. The fact that the new Prime even bothered to ask the question spoke well of his disposition - certainly Zeta Prime would have never sought her opinion. But Zeta Prime had been old, with plenty of time to grow secure in his arrogance. One way or the other Optimus Prime would not develop that flaw. For now his field was open, respectful and fond in its own way, almost clean for the field of a war leader. Was that the fault of the Matrix, or would he lose that cleanness as he aged?

"You are... inexperienced," she said. "You do make mistakes, in a role where mistakes get soldiers killed. But soldiers will get killed even if you plan everything perfectly, and your opponent is relentless and difficult to predict. The Autobots could do far worse than follow you."

"As for your prowess in battle... well." She smiled, calm to all appearances, but the glint in her optics was like a razor snake about to strike. "I find that difficult to comment on, without seeing it for myself." She took a step forward and extended her hand in a beckoning gesture.

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“I do not feel so young anymore,” said Optimus, his tone having quieted somewhat.

His expression, perhaps, held some shadow of Zeta Prime’s death. Or, if nothing else, the core-death of Cybertron now spreading as a cybonic cancer through their world – the veins of their planet deadening mile by mile beneath them. The weight of the Matrix in his chest was both a thoughtless, natural part of him… and alien as another star system – whole universes of unknown compressed into the narrow space behind his chest armor. He moved now with that weight, stepping forward and assuming a defensive stance, one hand palm up toward Elita One, the other almost at rest near his flank.

Looking at it, the stance wasn’t quite right – not precisely the form from training katas, not quite the mathematics of Metallakido, not quite right. There was slightly too much of the wide-set Kaon-style too it – slightly too much Pit. Hard to train from him A: because it worked and B: because that how it was first taught to him. Optimus sometimes wondered if Elita saw the ghosts of Megatronus in his fighting style even now. He would never be fully rid of it – he knew that now and, point of fact, the brutality of it for the frontlines was essential. But this was not the frontlines and Elita One was not an opponent simply overpowered.

There was an audience in the hallway.

He did not pay them mind. “You will have to tell me,” he said, “where I err.”

Then he attacked.

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Elita had a fraction of a second to think You've gotten bolder, librarian before he was on her, and her processor was occupied entirely with combat.

Elita fought defensively for a moment, subtle redirections of his fists keeping her armor from denting under his blows, but she couldn't keep that up forever. He was far from the raw fighter who'd come to the Order on the eve of disaster; war and her own training (and, she admitted to herself, Ironhide's) had refined him. Sooner or later one of his punches would land cleanly, and then she'd be on the defensive for real. The Prime's fighting style was a composite, not quite the elegance of Metallakido, nor the brutal effectiveness of Kaon pit fighting. It made him harder to predict. He had more raw strength than her, a greater reach. Advantages. Or not.

Both hands gripped his arm mid-strike and Elita turned, balanced on one pede like a dancer, and pulled forward with all her weight. She felt the moment when he went off balance, lost just that bit of contact with the ground; she smirked, thrust her hip into Optimus's, and completed the throw. Optimus hit the ground on his back and skidded, until his legs hit the far wall with a satisfying thud.

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Ironhide leaned in until his shoulder pauldron nudged against Sola's, digging one elbow lightly into her side. "By th' sound of th' mass that just hit th' floor, that's fifty shanix t' meh," he told her smugly. "Told yeh. He's gotten better, but no way is he that good, an' th' One has speed an' stability on him. Mech's nothin' but spindly legs an' not enough lower mass."

He tipped his head back in a mock thoughtful pose. "Buuuuut... if yeh wanna try t' win it back from meh, Ah'll put that fifty back on Optimus takin' Elita down one round outta three."

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“Aaaand he’s up again,” said Sola, like an announcer, opening what was obviously a live feed from her field-projector. She threw her hand out, the generator in her palm lighting up as it tossed holo-matter up in a big screen against the wall. (They didn’t want to get caught openly betting you see. Why she had a proxy feeding their optical band to her.) Optimus was up already and attacking Elita again. “Instant replay! Rewind that slag!” A separate window flared up – Optimus getting thrown like a rag doll, hitting the floor, skidding, feet hitting the wall where he kicked back off them into a roll and reversed back on the attack. The groans of the indignant Prime believers turned immediately to another flurry of betting.

“Damn that Prime and his skinny leg components! But this fight aint over till it’s glitchfrakking over, girls. C’mon! Who’s got money on a come-back and you,” said Sola elbowing Ironhide back, “can hold your turboboosters. I laid money he’d floor her period. Aint a round till they square up. House rules! Oi, Roddy! You got anything but pocket change or you just living off your hopes and dreams, kid?” The feed flickered back to a single live feed. Optimus attacking in earnest now, throwing a salvo of what were clearly nerve-circuit strikes, stopping only to block a blow and counter with a sweeping reverse kick. “OOOH!” The onlookers all flinched. “Who wants to bet now?!”

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((OOC: Hope no one minds, gonna give Roddi a reaction real quick for rule-compliance purposes before I get to Elita.))

Hot Rod cringed, vents hissing in sympathy at the loud thud of the Prime hitting the wall. She'd experienced similar in the training rooms, and it always knocked her equilibrium right off.

But the Prime didn't let it stop him. He kicked off the wall, using the momentum to fuel his counterattack - and he wasn't trying to batter Elita down like a big dumb tank either - Elita-One could counter soldiers like that all day and never blunt a claw. Those were circuit strikes he was using or Hot Rod was a distillery. The Prime was fighting smart, which meant he still had a fighting chance.

"I'm a novice of Solus," she told Sola with a crooked grin. "The source of my spark's power is hopes and dreams." Then, lifting her voice though she knew he couldn't hear her, "Go, Optimus!"

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Say this for the librarian - he recovers quickly. Elita found herself charged again, only this time Optimus had learned from his earlier mistakes and was trying to disable her, not batter her down. Nerve-circuit strikes! she almost gasped aloud as an insufficiently-blocked strike hit her elbow and her entire arm went numb. You're getting more comfortable with those dirty tricks.

Turning her numb arm to Optimus - if he hit it, she wouldn't feel it right away - Elita reset herself for the counter. A feint left him open for a swift roundhouse punch aiming for his jaw - but the Prime actually dropped under it, one arm upraised to block as his leg lashed out and swept her feet out from under her. Dirty tricks, she snarled approvingly in her head as she automatically tucked and rolled and came up just inside his guard. A swift punch to his middle, and her bad arm was starting to tingle as the nerve circuits recovered so she used it to deliver an uppercut to that ever so punchable jaw.