A/N: I own nothing, all rights belong to Hasbro/Takara and all game designers and distributors for Transformers Legends
The Race
Speed, he needed to go faster. It was the thrill, the rush. There was danger, the risk of destruction, being on the brink of death and laughing in its face. He wanted more acceleration, the greater roar from his engine and the heat of his own body burning him up. The next corner came into view, the very roadway sloping upwards to the vertical embankment. He pushed his accelerator, his engine screamed for victory and the pull of inertia and the drag of his momentum threatened to rip him apart. His body wanted to explode as his internal pressure screamed at the redline.
The curve pulled him closer to the topmost edge, then launched down the receding slope on the other side. Other cars blurred past him seeming to go backwards as he hit the flat asphalt and floored it. He sped up beyond any speed he had ever known, to a velocity that defied his speedometer. He screamed as the victory line rushed at him, growing with the speed of falling to the hard ground from a skyscraper. He was close! Almost there – With an agonized shriek his wheels slipped out from under him and he slammed into darkness and straight into a concrete wall.
"Skid-Out," The track manager, Pothole called out orns later when the battered race bot had finally been released from the track medical ward. "Skidder, listen, that was your last chance. You've crashed ten times, each one worst than the last. I've never lost a racer to the sport, and I refuse to start with you." Pothole held out his hand, "I'm sorry Skidder, but you are barred from ever racing on my track or competing in any competition with my name on it."
Skid-Out numbly shook the manager's hand, his plating still dinged from his massive injuries of his last accident. "Poty?" The young mech asked distantly, his optics unfocused from being too badly injured for too long and the sudden news he did not know how to handle, "Know anyplace willing to take in a young washout?" He smiled weakly, optics attempting to brighten but failing miserably.
"Sorry, kiddo, I only know racing and racers. You were the best, the fastest with the best instincts and the hottest alt-mode. But, you're so slagging stupid."
Skid-Out flinched and nodded, hanging his helm. This wasn't the first time he had been told, nor was it the second nor seventh. He had been told the same thing his entire life.
"You're good kid." "You've got talent kid." "You're through kid, you're just too damn dumb."
Skid-Out wondered if he had a chance in going home.
Spin-Out critiqued the exhibition hall with the air of a noble. He stood tall in his deceptively light plating. His elegant hands cradled an exquisite crystal cube filled with an acrid yellow oil blend. It was caustic and dangerous and so, so expensive. Every last noble was clamoring for the rare brew. Despite not touching a drop of the brew – he couldn't afford to have the metal corroding liquid damage his plating – he made sure he promoted it shamelessly.
Spin-Out glanced surreptitiously across the crowd as he mimed taking a sip, he hid a smirk at the many small corrosion marks blemishing the true nobles' faces. They looked ridiculous, as if they had been working in the mines and forgot to wash their faces from the disgraceful labor. It was amusing to the pale aqua mech with the artful fins arching back from his optics.
"A true master," a noble slurred regally in his inebriated state, standing swaying beside Spin-Out, gesturing widely with his empty hand at the many crystal paintings, glass-melt mosaics, sculptures and rare metal ore grease sketches. The materials made the artworks into valuable possessions. The sheer skill in the artwork made them priceless. "Wh-what is your secret? How do you make such beautiful things?"
Spin-Out arched a brow ridge disdainfully, optics slitted against the acrid stench of the mech's exvents tainted with caustic fumes. Then he forced a smile, his features lightening the room and drawing all optics to him. For that moment he stood upon a pedestal and all cast their full attention upon him. "I have no secret. My function is my art."
The hall erupted with applause, all admiring the mech who could rightfully claim to be fulfilling his core function. All mechanoids strove to discover and fulfill their functions. It was their innermost coding placed at the instant they were sparked by the very hand of Primus. For most, it was a long, grueling journey that often went unrealized. For others their function was fulfilled only late in life. Yet, here before them stood a prodigy in his skill, one who had found his function in youth and was able to fulfill it.
Cycles later, as the late-shift stars wheeled away to be replaced with the distant neutron star that pulsed the increment of the orn Spin-Out finally left the hall with a swagger. The streets were empty at this early joor and he had the whole of Cybertron to himself – for a moment.
"Congratulations."
Spin-Out turned to his companion, signature smirk lifting one edge of his lip plating. "Why thank you, Pathline."
"It's nothing, but," the richly decal-bedecked mech paused to look pointedly at a video advertizing board nearby. "You might want to watch the news feed."
Spin-Out followed Pathline's optics to the board, optics spiraling in fear as an all too familiar hideous green racer appeared on the screen in a still shot before switching to live feed of that self-same idiot skidding along a grease trap on the raceway in the final stretch. The video seemed to slow down with sickening inevitability.
Cycling his intakes, Spin-Out watched as the green racer slammed into the wall, erupting into a plume of flame. "Skidder."
Skid-Out grimaced as he was retrofitted with a crash cage on his front fender. The rigid metal heavily crusted with plasma blades and energy lances weighed his engine down and increased his drag. His processors spun, calculating his drag coefficient and recalculating as more plating was added to his frame.
"Now you're ready, kid." The cruel voice of his handler grated next to Skid-Out. "With these upgrades you'll be the meanest racer in all of Fort Yuss. Magistrate Gauntlet will be pleased. Do well against the other competitors and your reward will be substantial." The cycle-former purred beside him. Long talons traced along Skid-Out's plating.
"Who are the other competitors, Cy-Kill?" Skid-Out asked with feigned bravado he in no way felt, grateful that he was in his alt-mode with his face hidden from view.
"Restless recruits and neglected soldiers bored stupid here at the base." Cy-Kill grinned violently. He raked his talons lightly across Skid-Out's plating, making the racer shudder from the vibrations.
"I'll keep that in mind." Skid-Out replied and transformed, shifting into his root mode, 'accidentally' catching Cy-Kill's disturbingly long talons in some of his reinforced armor plating, making the smaller mech screech. "Touch my plating again, and I'll rip yours off."
Cy-Kill shook his talons, glaring up fearlessly at the armored mech towering over him.
"What the slagging Pits are you doing?" the mechs turned, Cy-Kill sneering up at the newcomer while Skid-Out only grinned.
"I'm entering a race!"
"Not like that." Out of the shadows Spin-Out stepped into the light, his optics slitted in silent fury at his brother's mangled frame. He turned to the sneering mini-cycle standing beside them, "How long until he competes?"
"One orn." Cy-Kill grinned, his denta showing widely.
"My assistant is outside, show him in." Spin-Out demanded, kicking the little mech out before turning on Skid-Out. "You worthless waste of scrap! I scoured all of Crystal City looking for your ruined chassis. I traveled every turn off along that worthless Titanium Turnpike. Then, I found your manager. I had to find out from a complete stranger that you have lied to me since you moved out! Not one victory, and none of the other racers ever cheated nor was there one poor track maintenance issue; none of this slag you've been sending has been real! You're too stupid to win!"
Skid-Out let Spin-Out rant, a small smile crossing his features and spreading as the rant continued to linger on.
"... and on top of that – What are you smiling about?" Spin-Out demanded harshly.
"I missed you too bro." Skid-Out chuckled, then his smile faded. "I couldn't tell you. You're famous, you're powerful, wealthy and I – failed at the only thing I ever wanted to do."
"Skidder! We've missed you!" Pathline waltzed in, arms open wide as he greeted the green monstrosity that once looked like a humbler version of Spin-Out. "Although you were prettier the last time I saw you."
"Yeah," Skid-Out smiled weakly, "I've been running in underground races, earning enough credits to get home. This was my last stop. First place is ten million creds. I could have gone home and had enough for rent."
Spin-Out grabbed his brother's shoulder, twisting the recently welded external strut with cool aloofness, making Skid-Out shriek in pain. "This was rigged for you to die, or be made into a training exercise. You can die however you want to, but it will not reflect poorly on me."
"I'll get the tools." Pathline chuckled, unfazed by the calm violence Spin-Out was capable of, he was glad it was Spin-Out being violent. Skid-Out's violence was far, far worse. "You never did learn to listen to your brother."
Skid-Out snorted, "Like I ever would," He smiled at his brother, then looked down at the massive grill plate on his chest as the smile ran away. "Why'd you come after me?"
Spin-Out sighed, "Idiot, do you really expect me to let you kill yourself and leave me with Pathline for the rest of my life?" He slung his arm over his brother's spiked shoulder with a small smile – a real smile, not the pale smirks he bestowed upon the elites. "If you scratch my paint, I will change my mind."
Skid-Out laughed, "I've wanted to come home for so long. When I go out there, I forget. I want to go faster, I can't get enough speed. Then -"
"You crash and burn and any winnings go to the medics to piece your sorry skidplates back whole again." Spin-Out finished. "I need someone to sell my works. You can't race worth a damn, but you could sell Unicron his own hollow spark casing for a profit."
Skid-Out grinned, "Sure, if I survive this."
"I'm back," Pathline sing-songed as he sauntered into the maintenance bay that served as Skidder's upgrade facility. "Miss me?"
"No," the brothers replied in simultaneous deadpan.
"Come on, my optics are burning from looking at you." Spin-Out shoved Skid-Out away and set to work.
Speed, he needed to go faster. It was the thrill, the rush. There was danger, the risk of destruction, being on the brink of death and laughing in its face. He wanted more acceleration, the greater roar from his engine and the heat of his own body burning him up. The next corner came into view, the very roadway sloping upwards to the vertical embankment. He pushed his accelerator, his engine screamed for victory and the pull of inertia and the drag of his momentum threatened to pull him apart. His body wanted to explode as pressure built from the combined forces.
The curve pulled him closer to the topmost edge, then launched down the receding slope on the other side. Other cars blurred past him seeming to go backwards. Before him a vibrant sign lit and weapons systems on-lined. Skid-Out forced himself into a spin, twisting as he pulled a one-eighty and floored his accelerator. He charged straight for the mechs he had passed, shredding them as he barreled into them. He spun, the emergency brake shrieking as he another tight one-eighty and raced away from the next pack of opponents barreling towards him.
From the stands he could hear his brother's voice screaming for him to move faster. Internally, Skid-Out grinned. He had always wanted to hear his brother call out to him, now he was. Somewhere up in the stands he knew Pathline was screaming as well. Despite the flitting emotions in the back of his processor Skid-Out was completely focused on the track.
Ahead, he spotted a familiar foe and spun once more charging his opponents, and missing. The mechs barreling around him were focused on evading him, and not on the oil slick ahead. As the many forms shrieked with surprise as they slid out of control Skid-Out turned around more carefully and eased his way past the slick.
Smug pride filled for all of a spark pulse – and died. As he sped up he found the track opening onto a demolition course. Obstacles and military weaponry littered the field. One twisting path snaked its way through the death trap then vanished over the opposite hill. Skid-Out gulped and floored it holding to speed to see him through.
"What is he doing?" Pathline asked, horror lacing his voice and dread freezing him in place.
"Dancing." Spin-Out replied with a chilling grin as he watched with veiled intensity. Below them Skidder launched himself over the first ramp in the obstacle course, barely missing a military bot lying in wait for him to land. The black and venom orange mech unfolded in a spark pulse, a massive plasma war hammer slamming into the ground just behind Skidder's rear fender.
Skid-Out muted his vocals as the scream of terror nearly ripped from him with the war hammer's impact knocking his sensors for a loop. He skidded, wheels churning ineffectively in the strange, off-world imported dirt until his transformation protocols could compensate six astroseconds later. It was the longest six astroseconds of his life. Wheels spinning, front wheels skidding back and forth as he fought for purchase all the while the massive war hammer rose from the crater it had formed and loomed over him, coming down for the death strike just as he screamed out of the trench he had dug and zoomed towards the oncoming war mech locked just as he was in alt mode.
The tank-mech roared towards Skid-Out, his treads digging into the dirt and pulling him forward. Much lighter and skimming along the gritty surface Skidder fish tailed as he spun once more as the tank loosed a missile. The shell screamed past Skidder's fender blistering the plating in its wake and slammed into the war hammer wielding soldier.
Skidder cackled as the standing mech exploded, the massive war hammer flying from his hand and smashed into the tank, killing it instantly. 'Two down,' Skidder accelerated from the trap, leaving the encroaching racers behind in his dust. He slid across the sand and flew over the next hill. A row of stakes met him at the crest and Skidder danced between the sharpened twisted metal.
He raced down the hill, picking up speed and found himself heading straight to an intersection with racers heading towards him from different directions. He saw their speeds and floored his accelerator. In moments he raced between the oncoming racers, his rear fender clearing their path just as they smashed into each other and splintered into a thousand pieces.
Spin-Out watched, grateful his brother was almost across the race track. Was this how his brother had been living this whole time? Spin-Out frowned, spotting more obstacles that would all be lethal waiting for the hideously green low-slung racing form of his brother.
"Spin-Out, I don't think he's coming back from this one." Pathline worried, voicing Spin-Out's own worries.
"He will," Spin-Out demanded, "I won't let him ruin my name." The words were empty, the only thing Spin-Out had to cling to since Skidder had left vorns ago was his own name. Now he could have his brother back at his side – if he survived. "I never gave him permission to die."
Pathline looked incredulously slowly towards his friend, optics filled with disbelief as he reset his optics. "You never gave him permission?"
"No," Spin-Out stared at the track, fixated on his brother's fight for his life across the field. "He made me a promise."
Skid-Out nearly screamed with relief as his tires finally left the sand behind him. His frame screamed down the exit ramp and around the curved embankment to the next straightaway. His wheels shrieked, but the rush was gone. The thrill of acceleration had died with the splash of another mech's life fluids hitting his windshield.
Skidder had always only worried about the rush and the finish line in the past, now suddenly he was faced with worrying about everything around him. His tanks felt heavy but he could not slow down, a prisoner on the race track he could only go faster and try to survive.
The straightaway curved away out of sight, Skidder sped up, taking the curve and let his inertia propel him faster around the bend. The road corkscrewed upwards, taking him high above the track to an open deathtrap. The road was flat and wide, but no embankments or walls kept anyone from going off the edge and plummeting down to the dust mote sized stadium below.
Once on the road Skidder accelerated, hoping to get across the open expanse before the others could catch up – then he saw the rest of the pack heading straight for him. This was rigged for you to die … Spin-Out's words last orn caught up to him. Then he got angry.
Pathline watched the mockery of a race on a massive screen and caught his breath. There. Skid-Out might be locked in his alt mode, but Pathline could read him like a data pad. The acid green racer suddenly lowered on his shocks, the many blades and lances encrusted on his front fender activated with blazes of blue, yellow and green light.
Pathline gulped in his seat, Skidder was no longer having fun. This was what he had been afraid of. For a second Pathline suddenly found himself wishing it was Spin-Out on the track, the results would be less messy.
Skid-Out lowered himself on his shocks, hugging the ground. With a roar of his engine he threw himself at the oncoming horde and extended the many laser lances and plasma blades Cy-Kill had put on his frame. Despite being in alt mode Skidder felt a terrible grin spread across his features as he slammed his blades into his first opponent. Metal sheared, mechs screamed and Skidder laughed as the racers around him slammed into each other in reaction to the pain. On the edges of the pack racers were forced off the road, their alt-mode locked frames plunging to the distant earth.
Skid-Out spun from the attack, launching himself at the next wave of fighters and raced through the scattering vehicles. He let this new thrill run through his lines, relishing the scream of metal as it tore against his blades. A mech screamed, and other's raced to stop Skidder. Before him the pack opened and Skidder red lined his engine slashing through those around him to get to the exit and home.
The asphalt blurred beneath Skidder's wheels, his sensors locked on the distant finish line and the many obstacles between him and the end. He could feel other mechs closing behind him, but he could care less. The race had lost its luster, speed and lost its allure. Skidder just wanted to go home.
His thoughts on freedom from the track, Skidder passed the finish line and jumped as the crowd erupted into screams and yells. Only when he looked around did he finally see his brother and Pathline racing towards him, the key to release his transformation lock in hand. Once freed Skidder could only crow – he was going home …
Yet another new story, one I've been sitting on for months due to some rather nasty turns real life has been giving me. So now, all better and back to the stories!