Author's Notes: Well, of all the things I could be posting, I didn't expect it to be this. This story idea has been in my backlog since 2017, but I wasn't sure I wanted to pursue the idea until now. I know Drag Strip is the least popular Stunticon, and honestly that's part of why I want to write him. I want to challenge myself by getting into the character's headspace and seeing if an emotional connection can be made with this Transformer. I hope you guys like this story, and thanks for checking it out. Please review, favorite, and follow to see more :)
Chapter 1
Drag Racing
"Run! It's the Decepticons!" A man yelled as he pointed to four oncoming cars and a semi truck.
"Decepticons?" A woman asked worriedly, "Are you sure those aren't Autobots? They are cars after all."
"Just move it lady, before you get hit!" A teenage boy shouted as he ran past her.
As the humans ran in panic the Stunticons crashed into buildings, drove in figure-eights, and smashed into each other! Motormaster led the group through the streets of the metropolis they had decided to terrorize that day. They were supposed to be on some mission for Megatron, but the young mechs got bored and decided they'd rather have a demolition derby.
"Hey, Dead End, I bet I can destroy more fire hydrants in two minutes than you!" Drag Strip taunted.
"I bet you can too, because destroying fire hydrants is idiotic," Dead End replied in a bored tone of voice.
Drag Strip ignored his gloomy brother and started driving really fast on the sidewalk and knocking over as many fire hydrants as he possibly could. Wildrider saw Drag Strip performing what looked like a fun activity with lots of wreckage and decided he wanted to knock over fire hydrants on the other side of the street. Before long the two of them were in a competition to see who could knock down more fire hydrants, and the streets flooded with water from their antics.
"Hey, you lugnuts! My tires are getting soaked!" Breakdown hollered after them before transforming into robot mode and trying to shake the water off his frame.
Drag Strip and Wildrider ignored Breakdown's complaints and continued down the road. Drag Strip liked all his brothers a little bit, but he liked Wildrider a little bit more because he would actually bother to compete with him. He always tried to get Dead End to participate, but the maroon Lamborghini always seemed preoccupied with his own nihilism. He competed with Motormaster sometimes, but that was too risky. If he won then Motormaster would beat him up, but if he lost then...he lost. Drag Strip wasn't sure which fate was worse.
To Drag Strip winning felt almost like a biological need. He needed attention. He craved adoration. He demanded validation. It didn't help that the older Decepticons often forgot his name or would even taunt him by saying he was just some random body part for Menasor. He knew he was more than that though. He was the best. It was so ingrained in his programming that he couldn't stand to hear otherwise. He was the fastest, the strongest, the most attractive, the smartest, and simply the best Decepticon that ever lived. At least, that was what he often told himself.
"Hey Drag Strip, I knocked over 23 hydrants!" Wildrider announced, "How many did you get?"
"Let me see...26! Yes! I win! In your faceplate, loser!" Drag Strip taunted Wildrider before laughing with glee.
Wildrider pouted for a second, but then saw a toppled over ice cream truck and decided to forget the whole thing and play with the melted ice cream instead. Drag Strip smirked and leaned on a telephone pole in satisfaction. He loved the afterglow of victory, no matter how small the competition. Now, who else could he humiliate in a game of skill?
As he thought about his options he looked down at a telephone pole close to where he was leaning. There was a tiny piece of human sized paper stapled to the pole. It was about shin level to Drag Strip, but even from this distance the yellow Decepticon could recognize the picture of his alt mode.
"What the?" Drag Strip wondered if it was a wanted poster or something, so he snatched up the wooden pole and ripped it out of the ground so he could get a better look at the paper stapled to it.
He magnified the words, and noticed there was two sets of words on it; one in English and one in Spanish. It read: Stolen, Custom Made Tyrrell P34 Formula One Race Car. One of a Kind. Yellow Color. No Sponsorship Stickers. Six Tires. If Found Contact 1-555-555-4433.
"Custom? One of a kind?" Drag Strip repeated what he read, and then growled softly before he said, "I don't believe this! Some stupid flesh bag has copied my perfect design! Oh, they will pay for this! They will pay!"
Drag Strip used his internal network to search for the address that correlated to the phone number. He was going to hunt down the miserable humans that copied his distinguished likeness and smash them into pulp!
Marco and Rosemarie Del Fuego worked at their mechanic shop repairing a '78 Oldsmobile that had a stripped transmission. It was a tough job, and the siblings had told the owner that it would be cheaper to get another used car, but the owner was insistent that this car had to be fixed. Rosemarie could understand how the man felt. She knew how it felt to get attached to a car.
"Hey Rosie, hand me the ⅝ wrench," Marco requested.
"Oh sure, here," Rosemarie replied as she gave him the whole wrench kit, "You think we should break for lunch soon?"
"We might have to. I don't think this job is going to be finished anytime soon," Marco replied; disappointment clear in his tone, "I had hoped this job wouldn't be as big as we thought, but if anything it seems almost hopeless. All this from leaving the handbrake up."
"For five days," Rosemarie added, "Yeah, that'll do it."
Marco wiped his hands with an old oil rag while Rosemarie did the same. When they were clean enough to not get grease on anything they grabbed a couple sandwiches and started eating. Just like everyday the siblings didn't say much to one another. They used to talk all the time, but with only two of them left it just wasn't the same. Without their brother Dario something was missing.
"I put up some more posters today," Rosemarie suddenly piped up in between bites of her sandwich.
"Again? No one is going to find that car," Marco groaned longsufferingly, "It was stolen, and whoever did it was a professional."
"A professional that dresses up like a robot?" Rosemarie asked skeptically, "Anyone that flashy is bound to make a mistake, and when they do we get Dario's Tyrrell back. It's what he would've wanted."
"Dario died because someone wanted that car badly enough to kill for it," Marco pointed out, "I don't wanna mess with no one like that. It was probably a competitor, or maybe someone who wanted the expensive parts Dario put into that thing. Either way, you should just drop it. The car's long gone."
"They took his life, and they took his victory," Rosemarie growled, her voice cracking as she tried not to cry, "That race was Dario's dream. I remember how hard he trained and how hard we worked on his car. When he chose us to be part of his pit crew I could see the excitement in his eyes. He crossed the finish line first Marco, he won. Everything Dario ever wanted was right there, and then that monster in the metal suit just shows up and throws him off his own car, breaking his neck. Don't you see, Marco? It isn't just a Formula One race car. It's all that remains of Dario's dream. We have to get it back. The three of us made that car ourselves...customized it, painted it...drove it..."
Rosemarie then broke down, finally unable to contain her emotions. She cried for all she was worth, and Marco felt uncomfortable; not knowing what to do. She wasn't the only one who mourned for their brother and their shared dreams.
The three siblings had dreamed of racing since they were little, and had taken the surname Del Fuego as a catchy celebrity name. Dario had the driving talent, Marco had the technical knowledge, and Rosemarie had the speed to change a tire in less than two seconds. They were an unstoppable team, and switching from NASCAR to Formula One made them even better.
Then, when Dario had achieved the win they had all dreamed of for so long, he was killed by a random car thief right in front of the whole audience. Marco did indeed want the person responsible to go to prison, but they didn't even know who it was since they were wearing a costume. It also didn't help Marco's nerves that his little sister was obsessing over the stolen car and trying to get it back. Sure, it was a distinctive looking car, but no way was the thief going to return it after 8 months of having it, assuming the car wasn't sent to a chop shop.
Marco finished his sandwich while Rosemarie finished crying. She wasn't the type to cry over every little thing, but she also didn't hold her emotions inside. Marco was just glad they were alone so Rosemarie wouldn't embarrass herself. He went back to work on the Oldsmobile, and a few minutes later Rosemarie joined him.
They were working at a decent pace when a loud engine could be heard turning into their shop's parking lot. The shop was on the outskirts of town so any new car was noticeable, but this engine sounded both very powerful and very familiar.
Rosemarie looked at the newcomer first, and she gasped when she saw the yellow sheen of Dario's Tyrrell P34. It couldn't be true, and yet it was! The car had been returned to them!
Rosemarie ran toward the car excitedly while Marco had only just noticed what was going on. Rosemarie was almost to the car when it transformed into a giant yellow robot with an angry expression on its face! Rosemarie stopped and screamed as she tried to backtrack away from the hulking menace that was once a car. The robot grabbed Rosemarie and held her close to his face, and Marco shouted at the robot to let his sister go.
"So human, you're the one that copied me?" Drag Strip growled in rage, "Well then, you better tell me where that imposter car is if you want your death to be a quick one."
"Imposter?" Rosemarie parroted dumbly, "I...uh...what are you?!"
"I'm Drag Strip, the greatest Decepticon warrior of all time!" Drag Strip bragged shamelessly, "And you stole my design! I saw your poster, and you made your car look just like me! Now, where is it!?"
"We copied no one!" Rosemarie replied in offense, "That flyer showed a photo of our custom Tyrrell P34 racer. My brother Marco designed that car himself, and we built it together as a family. I think the real question is why did you steal our design?"
"I stole nothing! I was born with my magnificent alt mode!" Drag Strip argued, "No one else can have my curves, my engine block, and my drift resistance. I am the best of the best, and your car is a fake!"
"How dare you accuse us of-!" Rosemarie began to yell.
"Wait, Rosemarie!" Marco shouted up to her; cutting her off, "Please don't anger the giant that literally holds your life in his hands. Sir, we do not know where the car is, but if destroying it will save my sister's life then we will help you look for it."
"No, we won't!" Rosemarie contested, "That car belongs to us, wherever it is! I don't care what you are, you cannot have Dario's car!"
"Ugh! Rosie, see reason!" Marco shouted helplessly, "That monster will kill us if we do not obey!"
"No one calls us design thieves and demands us to destroy our own property!" Rosemarie snapped, "We are the best customizers around, and our car is way better than you, robo-Niño."
"Or it was until 8 months ago," Marco chimed in, "That's when it was stolen. Please, let Rosemarie go. We do not have the car anymore, and she cannot hurt you. Please, all we have left is each other."
"Did you say 8 months ago?" Drag Strip only honed in on that one aspect of what Marco had said, "That's how old I am."
"Excuse me?" Rosemarie asked for clarification.
"Megatron built me and my brothers 8 months ago, to defeat the Autobots," Drag Strip told them; trying to process the information himself, "If you lost a custom yellow race car 8 months ago, and I was built 8 months ago...that means...we're the same car. It was me."
"What was you?" Rosemarie asked uncomprehendingly.
"Your car," Drag Strip explained, "My body was made...from your car."
Rosemarie gasped in shock, but then glared up at Drag Strip. Marco didn't know what to think, but didn't say anything to contradict him.
"You mean someone murdered my brother and stole his life's work to make a giant robot!?" Rosemarie snarled angrily, "Who is your master? I'll kill him!"
"Hah! I'd like to see you try!" Drag Strip scoffed at the woman in his fist, "Megatron is the most powerful Decepticon in the universe. He could kill you with his little finger. In fact, so could I. So tell me little fleshy, what are you going to do to Megatron?"
"Rosie, stop talking!" Marco shouted desperately.
"Ignore my brother, he's always been a worrier," Rosemarie said dismissively, "He means well, but he doesn't know how to live. You know, he's the only one of us that never drove the race car."
"By race car you mean me, right?" Drag Strip asked wryly.
"Um, si...I suppose so," Rosemaire replied sheepishly, "Well, since you came all this way, perhaps I could make you something to eat. What do you eat, if anything?"
"Energon," Drag Strip reluctantly replied.
"I do not know what that is. Do you drink gasoline?" Rosemarie asked.
"It makes me backfire, but I'll drink it," Drag strip shrugged.
Drag Strip then put Rosemarie down, and she and her brother both breathed a sigh of relief. She looked up at the robot that had once been Dario's dream car, and he looked even taller and more imposing that he did before.
"By the way, my name is Rosemarie Del Fuego, and this is my brother Marco," Rosemarie introduced herself, "What did you say your name was again?"
"Drag Strip," The titular Decepticon replied proudly, "And I suppose I can let you live in exchange for some fuel, but only because you two helped to build my stunning physique. One wrong move however, and I'll step on you like the insects you are."
"Well this is going to be pleasant," Marco muttered sarcastically through gritted teeth, "Rosemarie, how do we get rid of this guy?"
"Let's just give him gas, and then we'll worry about how long he lingers," Rosemarie said before giggling at her own remark.
Marco just rolled his eyes and watched as his sister got to work rounding up gas cans for their monstrous massive visitor. Of all the things to happen to Dario's car, this definitely was not on Marco's list of possibilities. He only hoped that he and his little sister could live long enough to regret this.