4.Nov.06

Conquistador

By: Landray Depth Charge

My life has not always been easy.

It was not always sugar and roses.

Not that it is azúcar y rosas now, but compared to the relative poverty I lived in after first coming online, this is quite desirable.

Cordovan snarled, whirling about as one of them came at him from behind. Mech-stained hands gripped the handle of his fearsome weapon, a long crimson club that looked oddly enough like the vertebra found in a horse’s neck as he came around, swinging like Babe Ruth in the World Series at the head of his aggressor. A sickening crunch, another enemy fallen. Cordovan smirked and stared contemptuously down at the Maximal soldier’s body, helm crushed like so much pudding with the sheer force of the blow. 118.

Warmongering does have it’s perks, you see.

The killer continued on undaunted, smashing in heads left and right, speckled from helm to hoof in his enemy’s mech fluid. It only served to accentuate the Predacon general’s already frightening visage, unnerving the Maximal soldiers around him further. It was no secret: all soldiers opposing Cordovan dreaded the day they would meet him face to face on the battlefield, breath to breath, inches apart, for that day would be their last; no enemy troop had ever survived attacking him. He was untouchable, unbeatable, when in the field he was god and reigned supreme. Marching forward, Cordovan paused with a slight jump as something wet closed in a tight grip around his right hock joint. Peering down, his callous gaze of saffron met the bloodied and hollow stare of a young enemy cadet, on his literal last leg. Fatally wounded, the young mech gurgled out a single word,: “No!”

Spineshank looked at him with an emotionless eye, face twisted into a grotesque smile. Cordovan returned it with a nasty grin of his own and tore his foot from the dying Maximal’s grasp, bringing it down with terrible force on the cracked helmet adorning the unfortunate creatures head. Death was immediate. Satisfied, Spineshank gave another of his freakish grins and took off into the bloodied crowd, delving himself into the sweet, sweet chaos that his life revolved around. Cordovan tilted his head, watching as the baboon/vampire bat fuzor gleefully ripped apart the smaller enemy soldiers with his bare hands, smiling with the sick satisfaction of knowing the Maximal army was falling apart. Victory was at hand once again.

But it isn’t easy. War is but a sport for me, but it is as difficult as, say, futbol, or the American’s mutated version of it -- “football” I believe it is called. Both of said sports require not only a natural talent and inclination towards them, but also avid practice, and then you start winning. War is the same way. Practice makes perfect, does it not?

Even in war.

The opposing commander sounded his desperate call, “Retreat! Retreat! Fall back!”

Luckily, I have had a lot of practice.

Snapping to attention once more, Cordovan’s pale optics narrowed in disgust and hatred. Prowling the battlefield, the black and crimson Transmetal pursued the slowly retreating Maximal force, picking off one or two here and there as he sought out the goody-two-shoes general who had launched this suicidal attack on Cordovan’s base. Smoke clouded his vision, the nauseous smell of death and burning rubber invaded his olfactory sensors as he dashed over the uneven terrain, on the hunt.  The entire beach itself seemed to be on fire, the ocean washing silver with the blood of the dead, while the Predacon base looked on, locked behind a shimmering green energy field in all of its looming magnificence. The Maximals had suffered a tremendous loss at the hands of Cordovans inexorable army, torn apart by the voracious teeth of the as-of-yet undefeated Predacon force.

Leaping over bodies piled askew, Cordovan ransacked his way through groups of receding Maximals, crushing a skull here, breaking a neck there, tunnel-visioned mind narrowing in on his target while his body automatically laid waste to whatever Maximal scum that crossed his path. There. Spotting the unfortunate general, the bipedal equine launched himself forward and snapped into beast mode, four legs rocketing his bulk into a dead gallop. Horn-like ears pinned back against his skull, Cordovan made like a demon for the Maximal commander who had attacked him on his own soil. The Predacons in the general vicinity stopped what they were doing in order to watch and mentally take bets on how long the Maximal brigadier would stay on his feet as their skillfully brilliant (but currently enraged) leader catapulted at him doing fifty miles and hour.

Screeching, the black Transmetal hurtled at his nameless opponent, slamming his chest into the Maximal’s back and sending him sprawling twenty feet forward. Stopped dead by the armor shattering impact, Cordovan ignored his cracked cuirass in favor of transforming and advancing on his enemy with a sneer and a snarl, club in-hand and prepared to do what it did best. The opposing leader groaned and rolled onto his back as the stallion reached him, viciously pinning him with a sharp hoof planted on his chest. Face contorted in the intoxication of conquest, Cordovan wasted not a single gloating second in raising his weapon over his head and bludgeoning the generals face into a mangled mess.

A lot of practice, indeed.