Title: Backstage: Just Act Natural

Warnings: Drunken Stunticons, implied violence, mental torture; looking "behind the scenes" of G1's funny Decepticon villains.

Rating: G

Continuity: G1

Characters: Thrust, Dirge, Ramjet, Stunticons, Thundercracker, Skywarp, Starscream

Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

Motivation (Prompt): New Beginning

[* * * * *]

Drag Strip was in the lead, of course. That was a given. More interesting was the fact that he was walking backwards, humming along with his teammate's singing as he sipped from a cube of high grade.

"Ding dong, the witch is dead! Wicked, wicked witch…ding dong!" Wildrider sang, half overcharged and half just crazy-happy as he reeled down the corridor. Breakdown and Dead End followed more slowly; Breakdown's nervous demeanor was a little more cheerful than normal, and even Dead End sported a tiny smile. It was a good day to be a Stunticon

Three jets down, three to go.

Motormaster had toasted the Air Commander's demise with an enthusiasm usually reserved for running Autobots off the road and, after laughing uproariously for an hour straight, had passed out in the Stunticons' common room. The other Stunticons were taking the opportunity to go out looking for other parties to crash. Why not? Motormaster would be hungover in the morning, and they might as well make the best of it while they could.

The lack of joy in the halls was a little surprising. Skywarp's mischievous streak had targeted everyone at one point or another. Thundercracker hadn't been as hated, but he hadn't exactly been liked. Starscream had been the highest-ranking afthead this side of the galaxy, and he'd been universally hated. Megatron had cursed up a storm over losing half his Elite Seekers in the spacebridge accident, but only until he'd had time to process the full implications.

Soundwave's impassive announcement over the base's comm. system had been underscored by deafening laughter in the background as the tyrant's mirth got the better of him. Starscream was dead! Prince of the skies and whatever other slag the arrogant glitch had claimed to be, and he'd been taken out by a mechanical malfunction? HA!

"Ding dong!" Wildrider cheered, and Drag Strip raised his cube in salute to the strange - but completely fitting - Earth song.

Unfortunately for the remaining high grade in the cube, right then the Coneheads rounded the corner and nearly knocked Drag Strip off his feet. Two wings and a shoulder smacked the Stuncticon in the back and head. Translucent pink energon sloshed into his face as he stumbled into the wall, but he rebounded with ability honed by heavy drinking and battle. "Whoaaaaa, hey! Watch it, flyboys!"

They eyed him with distaste and split to walk around him without sparing a word. Helm sparking - he'd tied bunches of human fireworks to the spikes - and arms spread as if to hug them, Wildrider blocked the way as effectively as a wall as he swung into another verse of the song. The three jets came to an immediate halt. Who knew if Stunticon stigma spread via touch, after all?

"Move," Dirge ordered, voice low and threatening. He raised his arm to point a machine gun at the most visibly insane of the Stunticons and found himself, to his shock, holding a mostly-full cube of high grade.

Wildrider whirled to grab another for himself from Dead End and spun back around. He apparently felt the need to perform for an unwilling audience, as he proceeded to swig from it and do a bizarre dance for the Coneheads. Both at the same time; what talent. "Wicked witch is dead, is dead!" he sang out, multicolored fireworks spritzing outward in time with the music as his energy levels spiked with sheer happiness. "Ding dooooong!"

Breakdown edged behind his crazy teammate subtly, peering almost shyly over his shoulder at the openly gaping jets, but Dead End sighed heavily. He adroitly sidestepped around his teammate's odd shuffling dance in the middle of the corridor. There was experience he obviously wished he didn't have in that movement. One could only imagine how much practice the Stunticons had in dealing with Wildrider's antics.

He snatched the cube back from Wildrider and calmly extended it in offer to the closest jet. "It won't end our suffering, but it certainly helps us endure in this case."

It seemed to take some effort, but Ramjet managed to close his mouth. He eyed the proffered cube and shook his head quickly. Dead End sighed again. Fragging jets and their overweening pride wouldn't let them drink with the 'ground-pounders,' no matter the event. So much for hoping things would relax a bit with Starscream and his dumb-aft wingmates dead. He should have known better than to expect any form of improvement. Ever.

By habit alone, the cube Wildrider had shoved into his hands had made it halfway to Dirge's lips. The Conehead hadn't even noticed, he'd been so caught in staring at Wildrider.

Thrust caught his arm and tore the cube away. "Don't you dare. You wanna end up like them?" Dead End's visor narrowed, annoyance scraping his apathy like leaves skittering across a gravestone. Behind him, Wildrider's ecstatic song had dropped back into humming, but Breakdown's engine thrummed unhappy notes through the metal floor of the hallway. It was always like this; the other Decepticons just…talked about them like the Stunticons weren't even there. It was infuriating and frustrating and, worst of all, they couldn't even protest. Combiner team or not, the Stunticons were the youngest and least experienced Decepticons on Earth.

Thrust gingerly held the cube with just the tips of his fingers and ever-so-carefully placed it on the floor near the wall, then took a precautionary step back. "The Constructicons still won't say one way or another if we could catch something from them. They're so unsanitary they're swimming in Earth bacteria, anyway. I mean, come on. They use the stupid humans' car washes instead of the washracks." Breakdown's engine revved, and sparks snapped and glittered around Wildrider's head. The craziest Stunticon shook his head, determined not to be brought down; intentional ignorance required forcefully breaking into song again, apparently. Dead End openly glared when Thrust merely sneered at Wildrider's newest round of – deliberate - antics.

Dirge glanced at him but seemed to be listening to Thrust's continued lecture: "Who knows what they're contaminated with? They've probably filled their databanks with stuff from the Internet. Really, it's just not safe…"

"Aw, don't be like that, wings! Wildrider's a nutter, but he's jusss…just happy 'cause the Screammander's outta commission." Too overcharged to be offended or even really follow the jet's disdainful words, Drag Strip smiled wide and clapped a companionable hand on Thrust's shoulder. The Seeker stopped talking about something - filthy planets and going native? - and froze into a wide-opticked statue.

All of the other Decepticons had some kind of Earth loathing, which always came off as extreme to Drag Strip. He liked the humans. Use 'em and let 'em die, he said.

Seemed a shame to be concerned about that kind of thing on a day like today, anyway. Leave that to the Constructicons. They were good at sterilizing stuff. It seemed like Mixmaster was always ordering them to the repair bay for mandatory dousing with chemical disinfectants. The chemist had never liked the Stunticons. And Breakdown's paranoia had been justified time and time again by Long Haul and Scavenger stalking the team, just waiting for one to split off from the safety of the gestalt group and fall prey to a thorough scrubbing. That always riled Dead End, who then had to go and put on another wax coating. Primus help any of them if they went to the mainland to get the humans to polish them instead, because Long Haul had taken to staking out the entry tower in order to catch them on return. He'd drag whomever he could catch back to the repair bay to be sterilized - and scrubbed - again.

None of the Constructicons seemed happy with their job, come to think of it. Or at least Drag Strip had never seen them anything but disgusted when it came to repairing his team. Always with the "How revolting-sterilize this immediately." and "When did you install leather upholstery? It's dead animal. Inside you. That's sick and wrong!" and the occasional "Oh dear Pri - kill it! Kill it with fire!"

And the other Decepticons called the Stunticons weird?

He noticed the cube high grade on the floor and let go of Thrust's shoulder in order to stoop down and pick it up. A loud thud rattled the wall, audible even above the vibration from Breakdown's engine. However, Drag Strip's balance had gone the way of the dodo the moment he bent over; he fell over into the wall at that exact moment and didn't wonder about the noise. Breakdown was always nervous, anyway, and Wildrider had probably kicked the wall while dancing.

Or, hey, it looked like Thrust had hit it. Drag Strip blinked mildly at the fist planted in the wall above his head, considering it. After a second, he used it to right himself again. Helpful, that.

Thrust appeared to be having some kind of paralyzed fit, twitching in place and glaring at his arm - or Drag Strip's hand on his arm, he couldn't tell - while Ramjet held a hand to his face. The black-faced Conehead was either laughing behind that hand, or possibly praying. He did look like he was gazing up at the ceiling with some form of religious fervor. Dirge looked oddly - afraid? Huh, strange. Drag Strip had only ever seen Dirge lose his nerve when battle situations got out of control, and he didn't see any Autobots trying to climb on the jet's tailfins.

Just in case he'd missed an Autobot ambush, Drag Strip looked back down the hall. Nope, only fellow Stunticons down that way.

Dead End was staring with the special look of disinterest he reserved for those times they were all going to die of flat-out stupidity. Eh, that was nothing new. Although stupidity usually required - oh, there he was. Wildrider was giggling behind the Porsche, helm no longer giving off fireworks but optics bright with manic glee. Heeeeeey, maybe Breakdown's engine was beginning to affect the Coneheads! At least, that might explain their behavior.

Drag Strip shrugged and sipped his high grade. Not a bad party, all in all. It could use some more excitement, but he didn't feel like picking a fight right now. Maybe later.

"Must be nice to be in charge," he said conversationally, most of his attention dwelling on Starscream's awesome, awesome death.

Thrust jolted in place, optics snapping up from the Stunticon hand he'd been about to remove with extreme prejudice. "…what?"

"Y'know. Starscream? Gone?" Wildrider whooped, resuming his dance with an extra helping of exuberance at the reminder. "You may have noticed that he's, like, not here?" Drag Strip smirked and reached out to clink his cube against Ramjet's conical helm. The Seeker had let his hand slide down his face so he could stare at the yellow Stunticon with an expression that defied immediate identification. Dirge just looked taken aback, alarm subsiding into startlement at...at what, exactly? "C'mon, you can't tell me yer not glad he's bit it! Who got," Drag Strip's intakes hitched in a hiccup as his systems fought to deal with all the extra energy he'd been pouring into himself, "gots the promoting? Promotion. Whatever. Who's Air Commander now?" He wanted to congratulate the jet in person. Let bygones be bygones, all that car-versus-flyer rivalry slag out the metaphorical window with Starscream dead.

All three Coneheads were staring at him now, faces flat and neutral. When Drag Strip glanced back quizzically, he saw Dead End looking from them to the cube in his hand, obviously wondering if the high grade was playing tricks on him and how soon before said tricks killed him. Breakdown had started edging down the corridor back the way they're come. Motormaster might have been their own personal worst enemy on the team, but at least his rages and beatings were predictable. The jets were beginning to really freak the already high-strung Porche out.

Drag Strip just blinked, still smiling and friendly. One hand still comfortably gripped Thrust's arm. "It's gonna be so much quieter 'round here! Easier t' do," he looked briefly confused, "…stuff. Yeah. Stuff. Megs can stop watching 'is back, and you guys don't hafta put up with that slagger screeching his dumb aft off alla the time. Gonna be great, am I right?" He pulled himself closer to Thrust and nudged him with an elbow. "Amirite, eh? Yeah?" His systems were registering protest with how much high grade he'd been swilling, but he'd never felt better. Ding dong, the witch is dead! "So who's the newest envoy - wha-? Naw, wait - envy of ya birdbots?"

They just stared.