Elite: Ragnald

Training and Mainframes

5 January, 2016, 10:00 am

I brought my arms up in defense, my fingers loosely curled into a fist, ready to throw a punch if I so needed it.

What was I doing? Training. With what? Stimulation robots. Why? You never need an excuse to train. How did we get them? I don't know, but I'm guessing that Jordan got pull a few strings seeing as he designed the goddamned house or, you know, he smuggled them into his walls.

Seems like a very Jordan thing to do.

I was currently at the beginning of level four with formerly mentioned number of robots. Sky was in the back room, adjusting the robots' settings to a slightly harder degree than the previous level.

The buzzer announced that the robots would be activating in about ten seconds. I forced my mind to go blank, to not concentrate on anything else as I let out a long breath and readied myself.

The robots straightened, a blue glow lighting in their eyes as they zeroed in on me. I probably didn't look very intimidating with the sweat trailing down my warm skin, my flushed cheeks and messy hair. Not to mention any cuts and bruises I'd retained from the previous rounds, but I could still hold my own for a little longer.

The robots moved first. They moved so they were surrounding me in a circle of sorts (a square?) and I didn't make any sudden movements, knowing it would kaunch the attack.

Then it began. It always happened all of a sudden and after awhile of training in a similar fashion, you know not to let your guard down.

The robot that made the first attack moved with lightning speed and with a deadly accuracy. It aimed for my ribs and I blocked, already expecting the following hit for my head and bringing another arm up to block it. I moved quickly, not wanting to get punched for it if I were slow, grabbing hold of the arm which had been aimed for my skull and twisting myself so my back was pressed against the cool metal of the robot. I elbowed it with as much force I could manage, hitting a crucial point that momentarily disoriented it. I turned again, using my own momentum to turn the robot as well so I had it in a choke hold with its own arm.

Something about the irony amuses me.

Bringing my knee up in a singular hit, following it by bringing my leg up again in a kick, I sent the robot off its balance and it fell to the floor with a metallic clang. For good measure, I gave its back a good stomp, not deterred by the sparks that flew up slightly.

In the meantime, another robot had snuck up behind me and, anticipating the move, I grabbed its outstretched arm and flipped it over my shoulder, making it land in front of me and on top of the previous robot. 

The adrenaline was pumping through my veins and the rush was exhilerating. My heartbeat was pounding in my ears and my limbs burned with a need for me to not stop. I felt anger in a wave of pent up frustration that I would finally be able to release after, maybe, months. I didn't even know what in particular I was so angry about, except for Easton, but I was and I had no problems taking my problems out on the robots like the mature spy that I am.

The final two robots seemed to have silently decided to gang up against me, or maybe Sky had improved their intelligence because for once, they seemed to have realised that group attacks were more effective.

They fell upon a continuous array of punches and complex maneuvers leaving me to fall back on defense. I stumbled back, putting a decent amount of distance between the robots and me and took the time to wipe the blood away from my busted lip, flicking it off my thumb.

Not once did I remove my gaze from the robots the whole time I took a quick break to catch my bearings. They stared back, probably assessing my fighting style to find my weak spots. Taking a break was never good with robots around, but when you gotta breathe, you gotta breathe.