ORIGIN

Vargas had many things to keep track of, but the training of the most recent generation was still high on his list. That "generation" mostly consisted, now, purely of The Sentinel--of V-Onyx-One. With Overseer Orthoclase-Alpha most likely out of the picture, for a time, Vargas wished to get an idea of how the Onyx was progressing. It was almost easy--almost a relief--to settle back from the concerns of a Master to the relative ease (through familiarity, if nothing else) and interesting challenge of Overseeing. Get an idea of his abilities. How far his training has progressed. What techniques it knows. Strengths, weaknesses. Plan further training from there. That was his general thought process as he approached the Aperture-... and there, he paused.

In the distance, he could see it only barely: a black shape against the dark, the void-light doing more to hide it than to illuminate its form. The faint blue glow of eyes and jaws was half-hidden by the coiling, smoky darkness that shrouded it. There was something sad about that figure, something poetically tragic even to the relatively indifferent Master's mind. It stood alone, a child, without question, without complaint, accepting a life of standing in the dark with no compunctions. This was its existence. And its predecessor-? Vargas remembered it. He hadn't known it--only seen it in passing. But it had struck him strongly enough to request that its stone be recovered. A Gembound, yes--but the first he'd seen truly touched by the Creator's hand. One oily, smoky, but wholly self-controlled. There'd been a capacity for explosive power in it, but it had been a dutiful guardian of a thing. A dog, in its former life, though Vargas didn't know that--nor would he have known what a "dog" was, regardless.

He knew nothing of their loyalty, their faithful guardianship, their patient care.

But he had seen potential, and it seemed to be echoed in this one. If only the Orthoclase had been recovered, he thought, grimly. He'd have given up the onyx a dozen times over to get that stone alone. Not only for Orthoclase-Alpha--he really did not know if Elyon's survival would even have affected her child's well-being--but for the power and utility of its design. A second Orthoclase... perhaps one with a stronger mind... might have been useful, he thought.

He had this Onyx, though, and he would see now if its design was at all worthwhile. The Leviathan lurched back into motion, long strides taking him toward the creature in the dark.

"Onyx-One. 'Sentinel.'" Vargas turned, looking down the empty tunnel.

No one ever passed this way. It was a dead end, in more ways than one. Toxic eyes shifted back to the Sentinel, looking it over. It was growing swiftly: tall, lanky, signs of both its parents in its form. And it looked back at him with that blank obedience he had come to associate with it: a dutiful, unquestioning nature, an "awaiting of orders" that seemed to encompass its entire personality.

"Your Overseer, Orthoclase-Alpha, is away for the time being. I will take over, for now, your training. Tell me what it has taught you," he said, and then thought this over. Yes, that was good. "We will begin with that."

The black skull-face spoke to him, expressionless, eyes as empty as its head seemed to be. That wasn't to say it was stupid--it didn't strike Vargas that way, not by any means--but it was emotionless, a hollow, empty vessel to fill as he saw fit.

He was not sure if that was a good thing, or bad. At least it wasn't disobedient, but he missed a little fire. I should encourage that, he thought absently, tucking that away on his extensive "to do" list: "figure out how to make the kids fiery without being assholes."

The rest of his assessment was simple enough: Orthoclase had taught it some solid basics, and it was obedient and had retained this information. Now to see if it could put it into practice, then. Vargas knew that he wasn't the optimal sparring partner; his mind at once went to Ruby-Beta, but the Ruby was nowhere to be seen. He'd have to do this himself, then, and see how well it had turned out. He knew, vaguely, what Chaos-Two had taught this one, too--but it was the fighting that was of interest to him.

"We'll spar, then. Fight me as you would a real enemy," he added; "I won't cause you serious injury. Try not to do serious damage, either. But I need to test your skills, and from there we will decide how best to work with you."

Vargas turned, pacing a few steps away, and then looked to the Sentinel--so pitifully dwarfed by his presence. He sighed a little, internally--not audibly-; this would not be a useful battle, really. But hopefully it'd give him a half-decent starting point, assuming he could properly pull his punches.

"Whenever you are ready, you may begin."

It did not respond--it gave him, in fact, zero warning. Obedient- was the single wry thought he managed, before the halberd was thrust toward him. Easy enough to dodge, he thought; a swift movement to the side and he'd simply avoid the strike.

The blade whistled by, and Vargas had time to reflect that it had been too telegraphed, though he didn't attribute enough cunning to the Onyx to even guess that it had been fakery. Young, he thought, forgivably forgiving, untrained. He'd have to teach it how to use more skill, in maneuvering, and less brute force.

To say he was surprised was an understatement. His estimation of the hound's spawn ticked up a sharp notch as the relentless assault turned into trickery: a savage blow swinging around on the heels of Vargas's own dodge. He planned that- Vargas had a split-second to realize.

Had it been a seasoned opponent, he might've realized; but from a near-child, he hadn't expected it, and he was both impressed and startled. Not only that, but he had time, if barely, to note that Alpha must have done a rather good job at teaching it.

That was all, though, that the Leviathan really had time for: the blade was crashing for his elbow, and he barely had time to leap slightly to the side, enough to lessen the blow, enough to snag--with a glancing, clumsy grasp--the halberd's haft in the six thumbs of his left hand shortly after.

He jerked this, then, aiming to tear it free from the Sentinel's grip, with a grunt. He'd kept his arm from being crippled, at least, but a distant portion of his mind noted that the hit had still--if barely--connected, and it would have been a good hit.

This thing continued to surprise. Its reactions, he noted, were exceedingly quick: it held a lightning-fast combat thinking that would serve it well.

A strength, he noted, putting that on his mental list: "quick thinking."

Now it was time to go on the offensive: it had left itself open, in a way, in fighting to keep its weapon (which, on its own, was not a bad decision). Vargas gave no warning; he barely crouched before he sprang, almost spider-like, for the far smaller target. If he hit, he would grip it, pin it, crush it to the ground, and see what it did from there.

Were this a real fight, he'd have then gone for the kill--but for now, simply incapacitating it would do.