Chapter 10 : No One's Victory

Drag Strip activated his optics and found himself looking at the ceiling of the medical bay.

He lay in a repair berth, hooked up to an energon feed and a systems monitor. In the berth next to him, three of the Constructicons were fussing industriously over Wildrider.

Drag Strip didn't mind that as much as he would have if they had neglected him in favor of some other Stunticon. Wildrider hated lying still and waiting, so if the Constructicons had left him alone he would have started twitching and fidgeting. Soon he would have been trying to take the berth apart – or even pulling himself to pieces. As a result, when he came in for repairs, the Constructicons dropped everything else and made sure he left the medical bay as soon as possible.

So even though all they had done to Drag Strip was stabilize his systems and disconnect his primary pain sensors, he tried to be patient. Which wasn't easy when the Constructicons finally released Wildrider hours later (refusing to even let him stay to keep Drag Strip company), and then took a break. They sipped energon and read through some pathetic human literature with a huge magnifier. Finally they got started on him.

That turned out to be a long process, since his systems had been so badly battered that they needed extensive repairs. His tires and armor had to be replaced. Scavenger itemized all the souvenirs of the race that had been spattered on or embedded into his chassis – bullets, melted rubber, pieces of asphalt, pieces of a Ferrari, blobs of congealed plastic, wood splinters and crushed fruits – until Drag Strip longed to stuff the Constructicon's shovel down his throat.

"We didn't recognize you at first," Scrapper said.

"I can't say it wasn't an improvement." Hook removed a circuit board and studied it critically.

"Sounds like you put up a great fight," was Bonecrusher's contribution.

Drag Strip couldn't hold himself back any longer. "Did I win?"

The Constructicons exchanged looks. Scrapper ordered them to check for CPU damage and Hook replied that they were working on a Stunticon, so how were they supposed to tell? Only Scavenger seemed to take the question at all seriously. "Yes, you did," he said. "Don't you remember?"

Drag Strip remembered the exhaustion and terror of that race only too well. Just surviving it had been a relief, but he didn't even feel that much on hearing he had won. The intensity and desperation of the past night seemed to have burned through him and left only numbness behind.

He thought it might have been different if he had streaked past an actual finishing line and seen his victory with his own optics, rather than all-but-crawling into a battle zone and going into stasis lock before he could hear whether he had won or not. Or if he had heard about his victory from the Stunticon leader rather than from the Constructicon junkpicker.

Slag, it might even have been different if the Constructicons had praised him a little – that might have made his achievement seem real. But instead they ignored him after he subsided back into silence and prattled among each other about the race instead. Oh, not about the part where he had won, but about the roadblock and traps (they loved the electromagnet), the Vortex-ride, Hound's hologram and the explosion at the end (Mixmaster's optics lit up for that one). Not only did that mean everyone already knew the details – so Drag Strip couldn't look forward to telling his teammates about it – but all the excitement along the way seemed to have completely eclipsed the outcome of the race.

And it was more of a fragging obstacle course than a race, Drag Strip wanted to shout, but I still won. Somehow. He didn't say any of that, because he had a feeling the Constructicons would remind him of something he already knew, deep down – that he had won because of the other Stunticons, rather than in spite of them. Even Wildrider, inadvertently, since Drag Strip knew that if the Ferrari hadn't shot out his tires, it would have been him falling into the Autobot trap instead of Wildrider.

Which made the victory impersonal, as well as unreal. Even though he knew that he had only… Primus above… needed the other Stunticons' help because of Vortex's tricks and the Autobots' appearance, it didn't make much of a difference. You could hardly be the best member of your team if your team had saved your life, then carried you away looking as if a truck loaded with scrap and fruit pulp rolled over you.

So whatever the race had been meant to prove, it hadn't. Dead End was smarter, Breakdown was better at coming up with plans, Wildrider was more intimidating on the road (or the rooftops) and Motormaster was more intimidating, period. I might still be the fastest, but is that enough? I guess not.

The repairs to his internal circuitry went on for hours. After that Hook examined him for possible neural damage while Mixmaster and Scrapper prepared new armor and tires. By the time they had welded him back together, it was well into Drag Strip's second day in the medical bay and they allowed him to recharge there, though he came out of that to find his teammates visiting.

Unfortunately for Drag Strip, that was not a particularly soothing experience. The first thing he said was, "Did I win?" and the other Stunticons glanced at each other in the same, how-hard-did-he-hit-his-head way the Constructicons had done. Drag Strip pulled air through his intakes. That didn't come out right. "I meant, are you sure I won? No one challenged it?"

"You kidding?" Wildrider said. "You got to the boss first, didn't you?"

"He got to me first."

This time the three of them stared at him as if he had sported an Autobot sigil. Drag Strip went on, though – it was like sliding down a hill, and not being able to stop once you'd started. "And I flew part of the way on Vortex." Even if winning didn't feel real, perhaps having it taken away from him would.

"Ah, that." Dead End turned his head slightly towards Wildrider but continued speaking to Drag Strip. "It's evident how you reached that altitude, but not how Wildrider managed to do so as well. Without using his thrusters, I mean. Perhaps he was offered a ride by Omega Supreme and didn't wish to seem rude by refusing."

Sarcasm had no effect on Wildrider, other than to make his optics gleam a little more brightly. "That woulda been something," he said. "But don't worry, Dragster. You won and no one's challenged it. Slag, they'd be challenging Motormaster – he's the one who said you'd won."

"Actually, Onslaught told him that the outcome of the race should have been determined by an objecting judge--" Breakdown said.

"Objective."

"--but he said that when no one else was around."

Wildrider grinned from audial to audial. "You mean no one except you, sneaky. And what did the boss have to say?"

"He said he was fragging well objective, 'cause he can't stand either you or Drag Strip. But he still thinks you're a fragging sight better than any coward who tries to interfere with a Stunticon race. That was it from Onslaught."

Weird, Drag Strip thought, that just might be the first compliment I've ever heard from Motormaster and it feels almost as flat as winning the race. "I thought he'd be torqued," he muttered.

"Who, Motormaster?" Dead End said. "Yes, that was quite a placid response on his part. Perhaps he's dying."

"Oh, for Primus's sake," Breakdown said. "You know him – if he'd lost it and thrown a punch at Onslaught, the whole thing would be over by now. But if he's calm…"

"He's planning something?" Drag Strip found himself perking up a little at that. If there was some well-deserved payback for the Combaticons, he wanted to be at the forefront of it. But to his disappointment, Dead End explained that as far as most of the Decepticons were concerned, Swindle and Vortex had turned the race from a mildly interesting Drag Strip vs. Wildrider to a spectacular Drag Strip vs. the entire world and the laws of physics as well.

"So if we take them down now, we won't be doing it with High Command turning a deactivated optic," Breakdown said. Drag Strip decided that he and Megatron didn't have much in common after all. "But we'll think of something."

"When they don't see it coming," Wildrider agreed. "And if the boss is with us too, you know it's gonna be fun."

"If it makes you feel any better, Drag Strip, we did really well with our wagers," Breakdown said. How is that supposed to make me feel better? Drag Strip thought. "So we bought a new television for the common room."

"And a bunch of videos," Wildrider said. "I think we got your favorite – you know, the one with the red car."

"Christine isn't my favorite film. I hate the ending."

Breakdown and Wildrider glanced at each other. Dead End just seemed glazed over, as though the conversation was so pointless (or depressing, or both) that his cognitive processors had shut down in self-defence.

"I don't get it," Wildrider said finally. "I thought you'd be happy, Dragster. You won."

And that's pretty much it, Drag Strip thought. You run the hardest race of your life and you get to spend days on end in the medical bay wondering whether it was worth it, while everyone else has a great time. Then they say "you won" and are surprised when a two-word tribute doesn't have you jumping with joy.

"This reminds me of a human saying I heard once," Breakdown said.

"I don't want to hear any squishy sayings," Drag Strip said, jarred out of his brooding. As if life wasn't bad enough, he had to listen to human pronouncements on the matter?

"I do," Dead End said. Just to be contrary, the glitch. "What's the saying?"

"The race is not to the swift, nor the battle--"

"What kind of a stupid saying is that?" It was so close to his worst fear that Drag Strip lost his temper. "How on fragging Cybertron could speed have nothing to do with winning? Why do you even remember such aftheaded things, Breakdown?"

"Uh-oh," Dead End said. "Breakdown, I think you're on his slag list too."

"Who isn't?" Wildrider said and cracked up laughing. Then they left, although Dead End paused on their way out to say that humans weren't all bad, since one of them had sent a delightful picture of him to the Arizona Republic.

Drag Strip fumed some more, since he knew very well which picture it was. No matter how many races he ran, there would be no pictures of him streaking past the chequered flag and the finish line, no close-ups of his golden glory, no photographs of trophies or crowds cheering for him. No, the humiliating fruit stall incident was splashed across the news instead. Stunticon vs. Organic Produce.

"Are you all right?" Scavenger said.

"Do I look all right?" Drag Strip snapped, though when he saw the other Constructicons glance up from their work, he forced himself to speak a little more politely. Some time ago, his team had learned – the hard way – not to antagonize the Constructicons. "I just don't like the idea of humans laughing at me, that's all."

"Why shouldn't they?" Hook said. "Everyone else does."

Scavenger picked something shiny up from the floor and turned it over in one hand before he replied. "I don't think most of the humans were laughing."

"How would you know?" Drag Strip said.

Scavenger shrugged, and the movement made the shiny thing flash a reflection of yellow, sun-bright. "I read the newspaper that had your picture in it. Swindle sold us a copy."

"Yeah, they weren't laughing," Long Haul agreed. "They just went on about the risk to their lives and thousands of dollars property damage--"

"Pfft."

"--and how they wanted the Autobots to deal with you."

Drag Strip couldn't stifle a humorless laugh at that. "What are they, crazy? Wildrider couldn't stop me, so I'd like to see the Autobots try."

"But there was this one human who wrote that…" Scavenger trailed off and looked a little uncertain. "Do you want to read it?"

Ordinarily Drag Strip would have refused at once – after that stupid saying of Breakdown's, he really didn't need any more human inanity. Something about Scavenger's tone stopped him, though; he had a feeling the Constructicon was genuinely trying to make him feel better. Still, he didn't think a human could have written anything worth looking at.

"If you can read," Hook said.

Drag Strip was off the medical berth in the next moment. "Where is it?" he said, and Scavenger pointed at the worktable with the huge magnifier on it. "Letters to the Editor, in the middle of the section. And use those tweezers to turn the pages." Drag Strip finally found the page and scanned it, sifting impatiently through some repulsive fawning over the Autobots until he reached the correct letter.

"I can't help thinking that this war has produced senseless waste on both sides," the letter began. Oh, stop whining, Drag Strip thought. "One of the Decepticons I saw last night was a superb driver – he could have shone on the PIR."

He looked up from the paper. "What's the PIR?"

"Phoenix International Race-raceway."

"Thanks." Drag Strip went back to reading.

"I'd have loved to watch someone with that kind of speed and tenacity in a race," the letter continued. "But this being a Decepticon, I suppose it was inevitable that he misuse his skill to destroy as much as he could instead. It seems the Autobots are right about the malicious intents of…"

No need to read any more. Drag Strip put the tweezers down, trying not to grin. I'm that good. Even our enemies can't help admitting it. They've never complimented Wildrider or any of the others, but they complimented me. He did feel a little disappointed that he wouldn't get to show his speed on the PIR, but he had won the race of his life and he was content with that. For the time being.

And what else did they say about me? Oh yes… that I'm not just fast, I'm tenacious as well. Like Starscream, now that he came to think about it. They both had a never-give-up determination when they fixed on a goal, and wasn't Starscream the fastest of the Seekers as well? Yes, Drag Strip decided, he and the Air Commander definitely had a lot in common.

With somewhat more patience, he waited for the Constructicons to finish the last micro-weld and calibration, assured them that there was no neural damage and was finally released from the medical bay. He stopped in the corridor outside and radioed Soundwave to ask if Vortex was in the base. The answer came back in the affirmative, and for the first time Drag Strip actually walked through the ship. He wanted the time to think, and he didn't want to alert them with the sound of an approaching car.

Only Vortex and Brawl were in the Combaticons' break room when Drag Strip stepped in, which was fine with him. Swindle would get what was coming to him later, from the Stunticons as a whole, and somehow Drag Strip didn't hate him. Swindle did whatever he did for profit, whereas Vortex did what he did because he enjoyed it. Well, enjoy this, Drag Strip thought, and strode towards the helicopter.

Brawl moved forward as if to block his way and Drag Strip said, "Don't. Not unless you want me to call the rest of my team." He stopped before Vortex, looking straight into the other mech's optics, and although he knew the Combaticon would never have showed fear on his own territory, it did occur to him that Vortex hadn't predicted this confrontation either.

"We're always going to beat you," he said. "We did it as a gestalt once, and now we did it as a team. We'll do it again in the future, any time you care to take us on. And if you ever try to mindfrag with me again, I'll kill you."

With that, he turned and walked out, transforming as soon as he was in the corridor. His freshly repaired systems twinged, but he didn't care as he started his engine and gunned it, then took off at top speed for the Stunticons' quarters. The door to their common room was open and he headed towards it.

"What about this one, then?" Breakdown was saying. "It's called Duel--"

Drag Strip skidded around the open door, leaning in to the turn and taking it on three tires. He tore into the room so fast that Breakdown yelped and leaped back, clutching a videotape. Drag Strip streaked across the floor, shot up the wall opposite and flipped off it, twisting in mid-air and transforming again so that his feet hit the ground. Ow, that hurt a little. But it was just the kind of smooth, stunning maneuver to be expected from a racer so skilled that even humans wrote in praise of him.

"Well, let's watch it," he said to Breakdown, "and I get the good side of the couch. Because I won!"

THE END

Thanks for the reviews, everyone!

Starfire201 : I don't think I'd be too good at writing the Autobots (except for the Aerialbots, who are fun). Most of them are just not as dysfunctional and push-the-envelope as the 'cons. So they got a relatively short chapter. But I assume that when they found out they were manipulated by Swindle, his calls would not be returned no matter what he was selling, and losing that many customers has got to hurt.

Taipan Kiryu : I have a theory that if a character wants something desperately, struggles to get it and is treated very unfairly, the readers are going to sympathize with him no matter what his faults are (and even if what he wants is unethical or illegal, up to a point). Or, as in this case, even if they like his competitor better.

You're right about the short switch to the Autobots' point of view – that was a way to deccelerate and unwind after the tension of the race. I thought about splitting up the race chapter because it's so long, but I realized that it had to be an uninterrupted roller-coaster ride, just like the last stretch of the race itself. I'm glad to hear you enjoyed the action and I appreciate your detailed feedback. :)

tomorrow4eva : That's true. Motormaster has just got to keep them going when they fight among each other, or get scared, or get depressed, or get distracted. Hm, maybe he's got the hardest job after all.

Steve : There you go, last chapter finally up. Hope it does a good job of concluding the story!