Strength

The training room was fortunately open, occupied only by Drag Strip, Motormaster, and Brawl, who were about to activate the simulator for hand-to-hand combat. “May I join you?” he said to them.

“We’re gonna be poundin’ em on the ground, not floofin’ about in the sky!” Brawl said.

“That will be more than satisfactory,” Cyclonus said savagely. “Computer! Set my target difficulty level to maximum, and begin!”

He spent the next hour in a cleansing orgy of violence, tearing targets to pieces with his bare hands and crushing them brutally with kicks and blows. The simulator’s maximum capability only generated enemies with an intelligence roughly at Sharkticon level, but in his present mood, quantity was preferable to quality. As the numbers increased in response to the slaughter, the others fell into a loose square formation with him, and the ecstatic satisfaction of fighting shoulder to shoulder with fellow Decepticons swelled through him, lifting him out of black fury. These were his comrades, these were warriors who deserved the name, who found their joy not in sly tricks and scheming, but the fierce hot savagery of battle! He was able to fight with more pleasure and less mindless rage, targeting opponents who threatened to overwhelm his fellows when they began to reach the limits of their own strength and skill, enabling all of them to continue fighting in the face of the swelling horde, until the simulator at last announced mechanically, “Maximum difficulty and target number reached. No further progression can be generated,” and Drag Strip whooped in glee and yelled, “We broke the sim!”