Chapter 4 : Vortex's Advice
Drag Strip's only consolation was that the choice of location was up to the Stunticons and the Stunticons alone. No hints from Swindle, no suggestions from anyone else, though he had to make his teammates approve of his choice without his looking weak in the process.
"The race doesn't have to go on until dawn to prove anything," he said, "and the longer we're out there, the more chance of Autobot or human interference there'll be. Especially after that raid. A few hours should do it."
"Any more than that and your engine might overheat?" Dead End said.
Drag Strip felt his fingers curl into fists. "You're next on my slag list."
"Why bother? We're all on a much more comprehensive list, and whoever keeps that one erases every name eventually."
"Just shut up, Dead End. Are the rest of you in agreement with me about the race?"
Breakdown nodded. "The less trouble with Autobots and – and humans, the better."
"Good." Drag Strip finally felt as though something was operating in his favor. "I want the Black Canyon Freeway. The I-17." He'd raced it before and was starting to be confident about winning again.
There was a pause as his teammates called up maps on their nav systems, but once Wildrider shrugged his consent, they agreed as well. Drag Strip had considered something with tighter turns and hairpin bends, perhaps along the side of a cliff where his greater skill and maneuverability would tip the odds in his favor. But it had occurred to him that Wildrider was just crazy enough to do something like leap at him, shoving them both off the side of the road and into a ravine. No, a straight road was better. And it had to be at night, even though Drag Strip would have preferred plenty of light reflecting off his chassis and highlighting his streamlined shape.
"What are the rules?" Breakdown said, so Dead End pointed out that Wildrider tended to forget rules in the heat of the moment and Drag Strip did whatever he could get away with when no one was looking. In the end they decided that anything was permitted and in play except thrusters and lifter units, which meant no flying. Drag Strip was fine with that, though. Tires to the ground, pedal to the metal, fight to the finish.
News of the location flew through the Decepticon ranks the night before the race, but to Drag Strip's relief, Motormaster made it clear that spectators weren't welcome. He would be at the end of the race, just past Phoenix, and Dead End would be at the start, outside Flagstaff. The only other Decepticon they could expect to see along the way was Vortex. As a more or less impartial observer, he would be monitoring the race and reporting on developments.
The last day before the race passed almost too quickly. Drag Strip polished his exterior carefully – even if no one would see him, at least it gave him something to do and it always made him feel better. He liked being the brightest and most eye-catching Stunticon, an explosion of molten gold among his teammates' drab or subdued colors. The sun made steel. Fire on the road.
There was a soft cautious tap on his door. Drag Strip put away his jar of polish, wondering who it was – his teammates were never that quiet. He went to the door just as cautiously; he wouldn't put it past a few of the other Decepticons to try to damage him, even though they wouldn't get away with it on the Stunticons' territory.
But it was only Vortex. "Just making sure you're all right," the grey helicopter said, leaning easily against the wall outside. "You've been flying under the radar these past few days."
Drag Strip glanced at the empty corridor, then looked at Vortex through narrowed optics. "What do you want?"
He hadn't really expected that the lack of an enthusiastic response would dissuade Vortex, and he was right. The Combaticon just straightened up and said, as pleasantly as before, "Don't pay any attention to whatever Swindle said to you. He's just annoyed because you brought up that… incident."
"The one where he sold you and the other Combaticons?"
"That's the one." Like Swindle, Vortex didn't sound too fazed by it.
"How do you still work with him?" He couldn't imagine what Motormaster might have done to him if he had ever abandoned his teammates. Whether they hated each other or not – and sometimes there was no "not" about it – the Stunticons stayed together.
Looking puzzled, Vortex stepped into the room. The movement appeared as though he had just taken a pace forward, too deep in thought to realize what he was doing, but Drag Strip would have still ordered him out if the Combaticon hadn't replied, "I don't understand. Why shouldn't we work with him?"
"Why shouldn't you?" Drag Strip forgot about throwing his unwanted guest out. "He sold you for scrap!"
Vortex nodded, pushing the door shut with a casual flick of a rotor. "Which we were at the time, I believe. What, you don't think we would have done the same to him if our positions were reversed?"
"You would have?"
"Of course." Vortex laid a hand on his shoulder. "That's the Decepticon way, Drag Strip. You have to look out for yourself."
Drag Strip didn't know what to say. I do, but when you're part of a team… Then he remembered that Vortex was part of one, too.
"That's why you've been so out of things." Vortex gave his shoulder a sympathetic squeeze and then let go. "You've been brooding about what the other Stunticons think about you."
If they think about me at all.
"Well, forget those losers," Vortex continued. "What do they matter? The main thing is to run away with this race. And I just put three cubes on you, so it's even more important now. You do whatever it takes to win, and if that puts your teammates' circuits in a crosswire, too bad for them."
"Right," Drag Strip muttered.
Vortex nodded. "We're not some melting-spark Autobots," he said, his voice so low it was expressionless and yet oddly compelling at the same time. "We're Decepticon warriors, and we know that only the best survive."
Drag Strip managed a nod. Even if Vortex's speech was meant to cheer him up, it made him feel more alone than the past week had done. Still, it's always lonely when you're the best, he told himself after Vortex had gone. The top of the podium isn't large enough for five.
According to his internal chronometer, he had to fly soon to make it to Arizona in time, but he decided that the rest of the Stunticons could wait a little longer. He found a buffing pad and began to polish his left arm.
A heavy thump made the door shudder. It shook Drag Strip a little as well, and he knew who it was even before he opened the door.
"What are you still doing here?" Motormaster said sharply.
"I'll get there when I'm ready. The race isn't going to start without me."
A huge hand shot out and closed around the back of Drag Strip's neck, digging painfully into metal. Motormaster didn't even bother replying. He strode down the corridor, hauling the smaller Stunticon along with him.
Drag Strip struggled and thrashed and tore at the vise-like grip, but he simply wasn't as strong as Motormaster. All he did was hurt himself a little more as the thick fingers tightened, and all he could think of was what Soundwave's midgets would say if they saw him. "Let go of me!" he snarled. "Why don't you go play chicken with Op--"
In the next instant his feet were six inches off the floor and he was staring into Motormaster's optics. "Finish that," Motormaster said in a low, vicious hiss. "Go on, you slagging coward, finish what you were saying and see what happens."
Drag Strip felt as if all his internal circuitry had suddenly disappeared, leaving him hollow and utterly unable to move. He said nothing, only hung paralyzed in Motormaster's grip for an unending moment before the fingers on his neck loosened and dropped him. With a shaky effort, he got up, and when Motormaster strode towards the hangar he followed in silence.
The flight to Arizona was equally silent, except for the wind rushing past Drag Strip and the murmur of the ocean beneath. Then Motormaster took off in another direction by the time they were passing over the land, traveling the shortest distance to the finish line. Drag Strip continued alone to the starting point just south of Flagstaff.
The solitary flight helped a little. Drag Strip's self-repair system dealt with the dents in his neck and he tried to recapture his old mindset and determination. There was a race ahead of him, and if he had to run over Megatron himself to win, he'd do so. And enjoy it. He wasn't just some Stunticon grunt and he wasn't just Menasor's arm – he was Drag Strip, faster on the road than anything ever created, and tonight they were all going to see just how good he was.
He cut power to his thrusters and touched down. Dead End was standing at the side of the highway, arms folded and fingers tapping against dark-red metal. Wildrider was already on the road, headlights off, engine rumbling. No sign of Breakdown, but when Drag Strip did a quick scan of the surroundings Vortex popped up on his radar, far enough down the I-17 that he wasn't even visible against the night.
Drag Strip transformed and rolled into position beside Wildrider. The tension was fluid-thick, and no one spoke. He was starting to think that he would take off anyway when Dead End unfolded his arms and said, "Well, now that you're here, I suppose we might as well begin. The race starts here and ends when you get to Motormaster – if you reach the I-10, you'll have gone too far."
"Don't worry," Drag Strip radioed to Wildrider. "You won't get that far at all."
Wildrider laughed. "You're funny when you try to be scary."
"Ready?" Dead End said, sounding terminally bored. He raised a fist and pointed his index finger up. "Bang."
The kick of it hit Drag Strip harder and sweeter than a gulp of the best energon. His engine roared and he zoomed forward in a spray of dust. The race was on.