Kick-Ass Solarflare
Featuring Sunstreaker … with Arcee, Strata, Oasis, Wingblade, Quarrel and Mesmerize

“That’s not how you do it, ladies!”

Solarflare paused outside the training room of Autobot City, drawn by the very un-Sunstreaker-like reprimand. Inside the large practice ring was the great golden warrior, surrounded by the six new femmes. Maybe he was being facetious, or setting them up for when he really got upset. Though, she doubted they would understand that “bitch” was a slanderous remark. “Slab-sided cyberwhore” would be more in line with their cortexes; or, “pipe-suckers”.

“Flare! Get your feathered aft up here and show these newbies how to do it.”

Caught unawares, she drew up against the wall, crest flat. “No, thanks, Sunny. I’ll pass on this one.” Was it her imagination, or did that short-shafted glider-femme smirk? Primus, if she could only get her hands on her … Punishment detail, her conscious reminded her dutifully. Sullenly, Flare had to agree; and the senior femme losing face because of a newbie didn’t sit well with her, either.

Sunstreaker banged his practice staff hard on the floor. “NOW!”

Frowning, Solarflare stared back defiantly. “I’m off-duty; I was just passing through.”

Psychosis bubbled up behind the melee warrior’s blue optics. “Do me a favor, girl, and get your ass up here, before I come over and hand it to you.” The staff clattered to the floor, rolling to the edge of the ring; then, it fell off, coming to a precise halt at her feet.

“Thanks a lot,” she sent on a tight band. “Coming, Sunshine,” she replied dutifully.

“Gotta show these chicks that I don’t play games,” he sent in return, taking a staff from the pink femme, Arcee. “Now, mirror me.”

Bending over, she picked up the discarded staff and walked over to the ring, easily slipping under the ropes, wings and all. Standing before Sunstreaker, she held up her staff in the exact same manner as he did. Then it began.

Whatever move Sunny made, she copied it. She might not have been exact, as Sideswipe was, but to the untrained optic, or a mech/femme unfamiliar with Ark warriors, it was perfection. They went through a few sets before Sunstreaker lashed out, catching her between right strut and neck guard. Flare bit back a keen of pain and went on the offensive. Back and forth, side to side, they canvassed the ring, each scoring more than a dozen hits on the other. Out of the corner of her optic, Flare could see a subtle shift in the femmes’ stances: Arcee, Wingblade and Quarrel were leaning for, obviously taken in; Strata and Mesmerize were trying in vain to stop from staring; Oasis, though aloof, could not conceal the surprise in her optics.

Throughout the ordeal, Sunstreaker was shouting, teaching, as each blow was landed or avoided. He ended his tutorial by effectively sweeping Flare’s feet from under her and planting his heavy foot in the middle of her chest.

“And that, ladies, is what I expect from you. No prancing, no fluttering – just plain, unadulterated prowess. No Decepticon afthead is going to go easy on you, as I’m sure you know. Now, one by one, you’ll try and duplicate what the flaming bird here has mastered. ARCEE! Up, you frilly pink servobot.”

“Can I get up now?” Flare sent from the floor.

Grinning his death’s head grin, Sunstreaker lifted the pole, and held out his hand to her. “Kick ass, girly.”

Rolling her optics, Flare secretly had to agree.