heavyweaponsbot | 12th Transmission

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12th Transmission

I tire of this ship, its crew, and its... holidays. I have no use for these toys. What is the meaning of this?

And is there nowhere I can have a proper spar? Settle for the bees again, if nothing else...

Hmnf.

[The comm clicks off. If anyone is so inclined, the weapons master can be found down in the caves, brooding, and occasionally slamming a fist or two into the walls.

As for his squeaky whale, it has been deposited safely in front of a certain medical officer's door without so much as a word on the subject.]

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[There's a moment to recover as the organic is launched away from him. Briefly, he wonders if he's actually severely wounded the other. But there's little time to dwell on it. The hole in his chest has been dented inward, the armor bent and digging into sensitive wiring.

His optics shutter, and he sags briefly on his feet, one hand pressed against the hole.

But scans are still running. He senses the other approaching, and hobbles forward a pace to meet him, moving his free elbow into the leg strike.]

[The elbow wasn't really expected, and when it connects with his leg it hurts, armor notwithstanding. Ripa falls to one knee, growling with the sudden pain, knowing that he has to push it from mind. In the next moment he pushes off the ground using mostly his uninjured leg, attempting to tackle Ironhide.]

[Pain receptors are shut down as fast as he can, as many of them as he can. A medic could do better, and his chest still feels as if someone is driving a spike into it, but he can ignore this. He's ignored worse.

He allows the rush, bracing again against the expected weight, and once again swings a fist toward the oncoming organic's strange skull.]

[Damn, he was hoping he could have pushed the mech back a bit-- but it seems almost like it became less responsive to pain somehow. Ripa snarls, trying to push his opponent over--

--and then that huge metal fist hits him right in the face, throwing his head back. There's a spray of blood and a gurgling roar, and a few serrated teeth fly from the Arbiter's mandibles. The alien staggers... but doesn't fall just yet.

Purple blood dripping from his mouth, Ripa shakes his head to clear his senses, looking angrier than ever. There's rage circulating through his system now, and he hooks a quick jab for Ironhide's stomach.

He's hoping his quick recovery from such a glancing blow will have taken the mech by surprise...]

[The pain receptors would only remain offline for a few hours--the Autobot equivalent of painkillers. He'll be feeling this all later, and hating every inch of his plating.

He goes still at the sight of the blood. He lacks Ratchet's sensitive olfactory sensors, but he knows what that is well enough by now. Organic fluid--means they're injured. That wasn't supposed to happen... But this isn't a human. This one challenged him. Does it still fall within his directive?

It's more his indecision than the other's quick recovery that causes him to be caught off-guard. He's been fighting longer than most civilizations have been standing. He should have been prepared, but he isn't. He takes the impact with a grunt, feeling it hit the plates below his shock absorbers.

And then he grabs for that arm, pressing himself forward against the organic's weight, thinking the differences in weight and balance will work in his favor.]

[Ripa's two hearts are hammering furiously as he exerts himself, pushing back against Ironhide. The unfortunate reality is that the mech is far heavier than him, and with the Arbiter's arm in his grasp like this, he can't do much.

As a last-ditch effort he sweeps one leg out, attempting to knock Ironhide off his feet so that he can escape his opponent's grip.]

[There is a low, popping crunch as his leg impacts Ironhide's bad one. The hip was already a weak point to begin with. The sudden, hard impact, following the battle in Egypt, following centuries of hasty repair... The joint crumpled.

Feeling his leg going, he pushed forward with the remaining limb, trying to overwhelm his opponent with his weight alone as he went down.]

[Strong as Ripa is, there's not much he can do against Ironhide's sheer force, who outweighs him pretty handily. When the mech pushes against him he ultimately falls too, his injured leg giving out on him.

When he hits the ground he tries to roll and reverse the position. The Sangheili does not want to be the one to get pinned.]

[He can't do much besides fall, propping himself up on one hand. Warnings are flashing all over his HUD. The hip is nothing new, but the chest--it was already dangerous. Now it's worse.]

... Should finish this. Not... going to damage you further.

Edited 2009-11-18 06:12 (UTC)

Damage me?

[Ripa at first narrows his eyes in disdain, but he can see how the mech is sagging. Before he would not have held back, would have pressed for victory... but Ironhide was a brave and valiant fighter. The Sangheili's gotten his thrill from this battle. For now, it's enough.]

... Fine. We can end this, then.

[He may be a decent warrior, but he's also as stubborn as rocks are hard. A slight nod, and a shuttering of his optics are the thanks the other gets in return. He is grateful--he simply can't bring himself to voice it.

Slowly, he hauls himself up.]

You... fight well. I am... impressed.

[Ripa honestly doesn't seem too surprised to hear this-- arrogant bastard. Nonetheless, he knows respect is mandated in sparring sessions such as this, and the words he offers are in earnest.]

Yes... your race seems to be very well-suited to combat, as well. Powerful and strong. I would offer to tend to the wounds I inflicted on you, but... I obviously do not have knowledge of how to run repairs on your kind.

You have someone that can, yes?

We... are. Now.

[He rolls his shoulders, leaning against the wall. Yes, he has someone... someone he doesn't particularly want to see. He doesn't answer that, simply studies the floor, wondering how best to get out of here.]

Know nothing of how to fix your race either... Not too badly damaged?

[Ripa snorts lightly, trying to play off how thoughtfully he's assessing his own condition.]

Nothing that time will not heal. Those teeth of mine you knocked out should grow back fairly soon. As for the leg... I will just have to walk on it.

[He nods briefly, satisfied by this. If his opponent will be fine... nothing to worry about. His internal mandate survives after all.

He turns to limp off toward the exit, half-dragging the damaged leg.]

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12th Transmission

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