Transformers © Hasbro.
Drag Strip sauntered into the garage with casual aplomb, though not without stopping to look up at the business' sign. The name King of the Road Trucking & Auto Repairs had been his idea. An affectionate jab at Motormaster's once self proclaimed title — he hadn't heard Motormaster say that phrase in decades, but for when he answered the phone when the semi was on receptionist duty. Even then, Motormaster said the phrase with some amount of self derision, and embarrassment — that all but Motormaster had cheerfully agreed to. The art that decorated the logo was his idea as well, with his old alt mode, the Tyrrell P34, racing through the logo, bisecting the words that Dead End had written in the fanciest, albeit legible, calligraphy the Porsche could muster.
Preening, Drag Strip straightened his backstrut, then headed inside their shop. He had to pass through the section of their business that was open to customers first, the smell of oil and polish permanent. Two vehicles were stationed inside the garage, waiting on parts to arrive before Drag Strip and Breakdown could finish the repairs. A smile placed over his faceplate as he activated the roll up door that led to the Stunticons' personal annex.
"I'm back," arrogance bled from the yellow Stunticon as he greeted the quiet garage with pointed smugness.
Only Dead End was seemingly awake, though his back was turned to Drag Strip as he entered their garage. Indignation bristled over Drag Strip as he realized Dead End was ignoring him. Affronted, Drag Strip opened his mouth to greet Dead End personally, only for the other to interrupt him with a cold glare.
"You are late." Dead End's snarl — he actually snarled — stopped Drag Strip in his tracks, optics wide as the Porsche stalked up to confront him faceplate to faceplate.
"I'm fashionably early," Drag Strip teased with a breezy smile across his faceplate, until a secondary glance at Dead End's sparking visor alerted him to how serious Dead End was.
The maroon Stunticon had gained a few inches in height since his alt upgrade, inches Dead End was now utilizing to noted effect as he towered over Drag Strip with furious venom. Perturbed, Drag Strip raised his servos in a placating gesture, before he took two steps back from Dead End.
"You worrie—" Dead End cut himself off suddenly, his helm turning to stare at the entrance to the Stunticons' annex.
"Where is Motormaster," Dead End asked slowly, his visor shifting to stare directly into Drag Strip's own. It was intimidating, how much Dead End could stare straight into his brothers' sparks without ever revealing his own face or optics underneath the battle mask and visor.
Drag Strip blinked, befuddled. The last he'd heard from Motormaster was the semi's two messages to him after Drag Strip had stormed from their home. He hadn't seen the eighteen wheeler on the road in almost three weeks, with the dramatic shift in their schedules as the freight hauling side of their business picked up speed.
"He's not with me. Why?"
"He went in search of you late last night," Dead End sighed, clearly exasperated, "because you failed to make your routine check in on time. We cannot go searching for you every time you decide to give radio silence due to some preconceived slight."
Scorn, and a measure of frustration, hissed off of Dead End. Drag Strip looked away from his brother's piercing gaze, an instinctual shifting of his intake belaying Drag Strip's embarrassment he felt at being lectured by Dead End. The Porsche took his role as second in command with more seriousness than the fatalistic mech had ever shown while they were Decepticons. That seriousness had Drag Strip's plating deflate, his optics shifting to stare at the ground. Clearly, Dead End was not in the mood for Drag Strip's usual attitude.
"I can go look for Motormaster—"
"No," Dead End retorted with a dismissive wave of one servo, "we need to head to the Ark. I will message him on the way. Wake the others — Breakdown is in Motormaster's room —, I will prepare our morning energon, and route our course to Portland."
"Yeah, alright."
The walk to Motormaster's room left Drag Strip little time to ponder over whatever had crawled up Dead End's tailpipe and laid such a temper in his brother. Since the Stunticons had started their cover business a few years ago, Dead End's temper had shifted to becoming, to Drag Strip's opinion, a stuffy, somewhat overbearing worrier. Dead End ran their accounts with a tight servo, fully approved by Motormaster. He'd even put an allowance on car wax, which Drag Strip couldn't help but to entertain as to part of why Dead End was so much more bossy.
A good polish would relax Dead End. Perhaps the Autobots would spare a jar of wax?
Metal ground together as Drag Strip pushed through the half open roll up door that closed Motormaster's room off from the hallway. His optics scanned his oldest brother's sparsely decorated room — Motormaster claimed a disinterest in wasting money on frivolous decorations — but for a few old national park posters the semi had swiped on some of their road trips, then stopped at the large berth.
Breakdown was curled into himself on Motormaster's berth, his knees tucked against his chest plate as his engine rumbled quietly in his recharge. Drag Strip called Breakdown's name as he shook his brother's shoulder plate with a firm, but gentle touch. Surprise rippled off Breakdown's field as he startled awake, yellow optics wide, before they flickered to the other side of the berth.
"He's not here yet," Drag Strip explained, before Breakdown allowed himself to overthink Motormaster's absence.
Thankfully, all Breakdown did was nod before he slid off the berth and straightened. Drag Strip gestured towards the main section of the garage with a quiet "go get your energon", which Breakdown heeded quickly. The Lamborghini's absence left Drag Strip with just Wildrider to wake…
Just the Stunticon he wanted to talk to.
After many hours of driving around North America since his fight with Wildrider, Drag Strip knew he'd been in the wrong. He'd antagonized Wildrider by insulting his relatively forgiving brother, all because Drag Strip himself was in a foul mood. Wildrider hadn't even understood what Drag Strip was doing as he poked, prodded and jabbed Wildrider with mocking insult after insult. All insults that Drag Strip knew were insecurities he himself harbored.
Wildrider hadn't done a thing to deserve any rudeness from Drag Strip, but how was he supposed to voice that to his brother? Drag Strip loathed apologizing.
Loathed it.
With a vent, Drag Strip entered Wildrider's room then walked to his snoozing brother. The Ferrari's Hot Wheels collection was strewn all over the floor and Wildrider himself, forcing Drag Strip to walk cautiously to Wildrider's side. Wildrider was laid out on his backstrut, right arm haphazardly flopped over his helm as snores rattled from his intake.
"Wake up," Drag Strip prodded at his brother's helm with one digit, mouth turned in a frown as he did. "We've got therapy today."
Wildrider stirred, his arm moving off his faceplate slowly as he blinked up at Drag Strip. The cloud of sleepiness vanished from Wildrider's expression the millisecond he registered who was staring down at him. Irritation flashed through Wildrider's optics as he quickly pushed Drag Strip's servo away from his helm then removed himself from his berth.
Drag Strip stood awkwardly by his brother as Wildrider began gathering some of his personal belongings together for the drive. Motormaster's second message flicked through his databanks — I have told you time and again, should you have issues with one of your brothers, you come to me first, not pick on Wildrider. When you return, we need to speak —, eliciting a vent before Drag Strip rubbed at his helm tiredly. Motormaster could be so tiring when he was right.
"Look, Wildrider," Drag Strip grumbled while his brother continued to pointedly get his backstrut to him, "I acted out yesterday. I shouldn't have. I'm… sorry."
Wildrider froze.
Drag Strip winced, uncertain if he'd misstepped, until Wildrider turned to face him, the thinnest of smiles on his faceplate.
With a shrug, Wildrider said a simple, "It's alright. I always want to chat if you are bothered by something, no insults needed."
"Sure," Drag Strip noted with a dismissive wave, "Dead End's getting our energon cubes ready, see you there."
A grunt of confirmation came from Wildrider as Drag Strip left his brother's room, all semblance of his haughtiness when he'd first returned gone. Apologizing to Wildrider hadn't been as hard as he thought it would. Wildrider's response was so lackadaisical, part of Drag Strip wondered if his brother didn't care about their argument the day before. It wouldn't be the first time Wildrider moved on quickly from something.
By the time Drag Strip reached the main living quarters of their annex, Breakdown was pacing about the room thoroughly, chugging energon while he muttered quietly to himself. Dead End was packing every single one of his journals — Dead End had taken the therapist's suggestion to journal his feelings very seriously — into his subspace, battle mask down so that Drag Strip could see the Porsche silently counting each of his journals with a deeply concentrated expression.
Drag Strip picked up his designated energon cube, downed the lot of it in one go and gave a cheery, "I'm ready to go, slowpokes."
Breakdown looked up at him briefly, downed the last of his energon, then joined Drag Strip's side. "I'm ready as well."
Dead End called Wildrider's name — who raced into the front room with a hurried apology —, finished counting his journals, threw Wildrider his energon cube with a "drink it now", then transformed. The 918 Porsche Spyder '15 alt mode was new, an upgrade Dead End had undertaken only long after Wildrider, then Drag Strip, already had. Drag Strip vented then snapped into his own alt mode, the sensation still different since he'd chosen to scan a Pagani Huayra BC. He missed his six wheels sometimes, but had jumped with haste to a new alt mode when Wildrider had arrived back to their garage in a brand new Ferrari 488 GTB '15 after staying with the Autobots for two days. Drag Strip's competitiveness and need to stand out against Wildrider's much more refined and sleek alt mode had earned him the disapproval of Motormaster and Breakdown, neither of whom had any desire to change their alt modes.
Ratchet had been just as disapproving as he'd had to make special upgrades to the Stunticons' frames, due to their unique origins as Cybertronians made as vehicles first, rather than the reverse. That had been a mind numbing, and sometimes painful, process, as Ratchet peeled off plating and exposed internal hardware to assure the Stunticons' t-cogs would function properly in shifting their frames to fit their new alt modes. Drag Strip never wanted to spend another week in Ratchet's medical bay, listening to the old Autobot's lecturing and badgering. Motormaster did enough of that for his tastes.
"No Motors?" Wildrider asked as they headed out of the garage, his gunmetal gray Ferrari already past Drag Strip as he squeezed by him against the wall.
"No. He will meet up with us, I am sure."
Wildrider merely tilted his mirrors at Dead End's explanation, a wave of contentment passing through the bond as they raced away from their home town.
The one thousand mile long drive forced the Stunticons to leave at two in the morning every time they headed to the Ark, though the mostly empty roads from Montana through Idaho allowed all four to clock their speedometers into triple digits. Drag Strip could not resist challenging his brothers to a race as they sped along their route and, to his entertainment, they agreed — but for Dead End, as always.
Their high speeds slowed only when they neared the Mt. Hood National Forest, and the sun had risen to bring the humans out to start their day. Dead End sent a message to the Ark, declaring their imminent arrival, then turned to the gestalt bond with a commanding, yet apathetic, air.
::. Motormaster has not returned my comms yet. We will wait for a short time for him to show. If he does not, we will still go in for our session. Understood? .::
All three remaining Stunticons returned varied forms of affirmatives — Breakdown seemed upset over Dead End's statement, though the Lamborghini did not allow his disquiet to overtake the bond —, before they approached the canyon that led to the Ark. When the massive shuttle came into view, all four Stunticons transformed out of their alt modes and walked towards the Ark.
A loud shout of "The Stunticons are here!" greeted them as they reached the last bend in the canyon that led to the giant furrow in the ground the Ark had made so long ago. Wildrider bounced on his pedes before he transformed, then raced towards the Ark, his loud, crackling laughter echoing off the trees and mountain harshly.
Drag Strip sulked as he trudged behind his brothers, his arms crossed over his chest plate grumpily as the Ark grew closer with each step. He wasn't jealous of Wildrider having such ease with making Autobot friends. He wasn't. He didn't care that Breakdown and Dead End both had friends amongst the Autobots. He didn't care.
Drag Strip's sulking slowed him enough that he fell behind Breakdown, who was tagging behind Dead End dutifully. Dead End marched at the head of the remaining three Stunticons, his shoulder plates unusually tense — a fact Drag Strip could not help but stare at, his own thoughts forgotten. Tension was not normal for the Porsche. Not around the Autobots, in such a public manner. Motormaster not showing had upset Dead End more than Dead End wished to reveal, Drag Strip realized.
And it wasn't just Dead End who was morose over the semi's silence. Breakdown vented quietly in front of Drag Strip for the umpteenth time as they closed in on the Ark, his field and gestalt bond bogged down with concern for Motormaster.
"He's fine," Drag Strip insisted, a little put off by the dourness of Breakdown and Dead End both. "He's Motormaster. Likely off on another freight run."
Breakdown shook his helm and tucked his servos together, where he wrung them together nervously until a cheerful shout of "Good morning, Stunticons!" hailed the arrival of Silverbolt.
The Concorde landed before them, a wide smile bright across his faceplate — until Silverbolt looked past Drag Strip and noticed the obvious absence of Motormaster. A subtle, drooping shift in the Aerialbot's wings preceded Silverbolt's quiet query. "Is Motormaster alright? I was looking forward to seeing him today."
"He should be here soon," Dead End droned, the casual ease he gave off one that almost hid the glare he sent to Drag Strip as Drag Strip prodded Dead End with a teasing ::. Lying doesn't look good on you .::. "We did not desire to be late. He knows what today is."
Silverbolt's frown did not fade at Dead End's assurance, though he did incline his helm and walked beside the three of them companionably. The Autobot flier was nice, as much as Drag Strip pretended to find enjoyment out of teasing Motormaster for picking Superion's torso component as his sole, genuine friend out of the Autobots, he had to begrudgingly admit that Silverbolt was not half bad. It was Silverbolt who always would greet them first upon arrival, and always with a welcoming field that seemed to immediately relax Motormaster and Breakdown alike, no matter their moods.
Even Menasor tolerated Silverbolt, if the thrum of dormant energy that raced through the bond was anything to go off. Though, perhaps, that was more because of the opportunity to fight Superion the Autobots sometimes permitted them. One could never know with Menasor.
Silverbolt and Dead End were deep in conversation as more Autobots emerged from the Ark to greet the Stunticons. Bored of Dead End's conversation — he and Silverbolt were debating a book they'd recently read, which Skydive had apparently roped his leader into reading as part of the book club Dead End and Skydive had started —, Drag Strip glanced around the Ark, noting every Autobot—
Movement on top of the Ark's exhaust ports drew Drag Strip's gaze to six green and purple Cybertronians working on the Ark. Four were in root mode, three of those standing amongst the exhaust ports and one on the ground, unloading a dump truck's bed contents onto the final one's crane hook.
Constructicons.
Another pulse of heavy, dormant energy rumbled through the gestalt bond at the sight of the oldest gestalt. Menasor was very pleased to see Devastator's components, from what Drag Strip could guess.
"The Constructicons?" Drag Strip pointed as he stared at Silverbolt. "What are they doing here?"
"The Ark has been having issues with its cloaking field. Megatron called the Constructicons in to help repair the shielding."
"Haven't seen them in awhile," Breakdown piped up, the warmth from his side of the bond surprising Drag Strip. Breakdown seemed pleased to see the other gestalt, if not happy, even.
Drag Strip cast a curious glance to Dead End, who had not even reacted at seeing the Constructicons, imploring him for an answer. Dead End only tilted his helm slightly, then gestured to the Constructicon unloading Long Haul, before he resumed discussing the book's final arc with Silverbolt.
Scavenger.
Vaguely, Drag Strip could recall Breakdown informing his brothers of his enjoyment of Scavenger's presence whenever they were assigned on missions together. Something about the quiet Constructicon's demeanor, and "softer" attitude, if he recalled properly. Breakdown looked to Dead End as eagerness washed over their gestalt bond, a wave of Dead End's servo given as permission making that eagerness warm until Breakdown hurried past their small group towards the Constructicons.
Wary protectiveness bristled across Drag Strip's backstrut as the Constructicons on the ground looked towards Breakdown as the small Stunticon reached their location. Scavenger turned to Breakdown, the supplies in his arms falling into Long Haul's bed as he recognized the blue and white Stunticon. Long Haul let out a loud vent that Drag Strip could hear even from his position. Silverbolt led Drag Strip and Dead End to the Constructicons, a friendly greeting and wave to the four Constructicons on top of the exhaust ports being returned with some aloofness from Scrapper.
Dead End permitted Breakdown a few minutes to speak to Scavenger before, with a slight indication from Silverbolt, the Stunticon second in command touched Breakdown's shoulder plates and pulled him away from the Constructicon. Breakdown waved goodbye to Scavenger before he hurried to Drag Strip's side, where he stayed as Silverbolt led them inside the Ark. Multiple Autobots greeted them as they passed through the hustle and bustle of the Ark, each greeting returned by Dead End politely. Wildrider caught up to them as they were nearly to the office where they always had their therapy sessions, a cold smile evident enough that Silverbolt commented on it.
"What did you do, Wildrider?" The Concorde's question was light in tone, his helm tilted quizzically as he looked down at the Ferrari.
Wildrider smirked, the flash of self satisfied cruelty that pulsed through their gestalt bond shocking even Drag Strip. "Nothing to worry about. Sunstreaker's a sore loser, that's all."
An exasperated "Wildrider" hissed from Dead End, though Drag Strip couldn't help but to cover the laugh that shot from his mouth. The arrogant aft deserved it.
Silverbolt and Breakdown did not seem to agree, as two disapproving looks landed on Wildrider and Drag Strip alike. Wildrider breezily brushed the disapproval off with a smile and laugh, while Drag Strip lowered his helm surreptitiously and snapped his mouth shut. He did not need the negative attention of two of his brothers and an Autobot, simply because he enjoyed a joke made at Sunstreaker's expense. It was the least Sunstreaker deserved for mocking Breakdown when they'd first been created and revealed to the Autobots. Sunstreaker was to blame, in a way, for the events that had led to the Stunticons being exiled from the Decepticons, after all. Even Menasor hated Sunstreaker still, a fact Drag Strip could agree with on their combiner.
Silverbolt eventually left them while the four Stunticons waited for Motormaster, stating that he would inform them if he saw the semi approaching the Ark. Breakdown continued to fidget and play with his servos, his expression hard to read while they sat outside the office and waited.
Drag Strip yawned as he and his brothers exited the therapist's office hours later. The four of them had waited for thirty minutes past their appointed start time for Motormaster to show, only for his continued absence to finally force Dead End's servo in making them begin without the semi. That delay had only been a small factor into their abnormally long session, though. The therapist had prompted Breakdown to explain what was bothering the Stunticon so obviously (clearly Breakdown's sullen anxiety was pungent off his field, not just the gestalt bond), and the ensuing downfall had been an explanation of multiple nightmares and visions of death that haunted Breakdown in his recharge.
Talking out his nightmares hadn't seemed to help Breakdown recognize them as merely fears either, not with Motormaster conspicuously absent from their sides, and the devolving of their youngest brother's stammered explanations had led to a long recess. Breakdown was excused from the final part of their session, where the therapist turned to Drag Strip, Dead End and Wildrider to clue into their feelings and thoughts. Wildrider hadn't been very forthcoming with his feelings as he kept the gestalt bond busy attempting to reassure Breakdown. Dead End forced Drag Strip into explaining his insecurities and what had caused him to antagonize Wildrider the day before. Drag Strip had acquiesced with some feigned reluctance, but part of him enjoyed talking about himself, even with something as sensitive as his insecurities and vulnerabilities.
Then Dead End's voluminous mass of journals had taken up two hours of their own, until the therapist ordered a halt and released the tired and emotionally drained Stunticons.
Silverbolt greeted the three Stunticons as they exited the office, his wings a tutter as he invited them to the refueling station on the Ark. Breakdown was already in the refueling station, sitting while deep in conversation with First Aid, Inferno, Red Alert and Scavenger, though he noticed his brothers immediately upon entry and waved cheerfully at them.
Dead End wandered off to acquire his own energon cube, leaving Wildrider and Drag Strip with Silverbolt.
"You are both welcome to join the Aerialbots at our table, should you desire," Silverbolt offered before he headed to the fueling station after Dead End to acquire his own cube.
Drag Strip shot Wildrider a look before the Ferrari shrugged, then headed after the Aerialbot. Drag Strip followed his brother, optics roving the refueling station studiously as he stopped behind Silverbolt in line for energon.
"The Constructicons are watching us," Wildrider hissed, a jerk of his helm to their left drawing Drag Strip to straighten, then glance in the direction of the five Constructicons.
Scrapper and Long Haul were not shy about staring at both Stunticons, while Bonecrusher and Mixmaster were, quite suspiciously, whispering to each other while pointing at Breakdown and Scavenger. Hook was the only one who didn't seem to care as he sipped at his energon cube and read a datapad with an utterly bored look on his faceplate.
Drag Strip curled his lip as he took his off energon cube then, with a quiet explanation to Wildrider, marched up to the Constructicons table. "This spot available?" Drag Strip asked as he sat down next to Hook, to the snobbish Decepticon's clear consternation as Hook let out a quiet, displeased grumble.
Scrapper vented tiredly at Drag Strip's intrusion but allowed it with a wave of his servo.
"So," Drag Strip began, "how—"
"We hear you are interested in mechanics."
Scrapper's interruption left Drag Strip's mouth hanging, his own thoughts forgotten as all five Constructicons stared down at him. An intentional smile and relaxation of his plating allowed Drag Strip a moment to compose himself before he studied the Constructicons. He and his brothers had not worked with the Constructicons extensively before they'd been exiled from the Decepticons, but Drag Strip still knew enough about the Constructicons to be leery.
"I do," Drag Strip said, "it was my idea to start our autoshop. No one else could be as good of a mechanic as myself—"
A dark snort escaped from Hook at Drag Strip's side, though Drag Strip tried not to pay any mind to the crane. His own feeling of consternation burned off his field before Drag Strip could stop himself. A matter that all five Constructicons noticed with near predatory focus. Embarrassed, Drag Strip pulled his field in close to himself and shuffled to the end of the bench he was sitting on, as far from Hook as he could get.
Scrapper and Hook glanced at each other before Scrapper raised his servos in a relenting gesture. "Do not mind Hook, he's grumpy when he has not had all of his allotted energon. I ask because we could use a mechanic like yourself."
Drag Strip blinked.
"What?" The word came out in an unintended shout, one that his engine extended, much to the seeming amusement of the Constructicons.
"I am serious," Scrapper said, "your size and stature would compliment ours well. The Autobots have vouched for a shift in your demeanor that has made you tolerable to work with."
Heat traveled across Drag Strip's frame at Scrapper's unexpected… compliment? A small part of him wondered what else the Autobots had told the Constructicons about him and his brothers. Drag Strip preened pridefully as he realized Scrapper was waiting for his response, and that every optic of the Constructicon unit was on him.
The idea of being wanted enough to have an elite team of Decepticons ask for him and him alone, not Drag Strip and the Stunticons, just Drag Strip, was something he could not help but be enticed by. The Autobot therapist had often discussed the Stunticons branching out from each other as they aged and continued to improve.
The idea sounded interesting when the therapist discussed it, but the implication unnerved Drag Strip.
These were his brothers the therapist wanted him to leave. The brothers he'd been created to work with for the rest of his life.
Yes, he found Motormaster and Dead End overbearing at times, but Drag Strip loved his brothers. He'd apologized to Wildrider and still felt badly for hurting the chipper Ferrari. Drag Strip would kill anyone or thing that threatened Breakdown.
The Constructicons' offer burned at his need for recognition, but the Stunticon shoved that urge deep down before he shook his helm at Scrapper's offer.
"My loyalty is to my brothers," Drag Strip replied, his gaze shifting to where his brothers were all sitting with their Autobot companions. "The offer is appreciated, but I can't leave them."
Scrapper nodded, respecting Drag Strip's answer as he turned back to his own energon cube and sipped at it slowly. "The offer still stands, think about it."
"Why offer though?" Drag Strip couldn't help but ask. He knew what Decepticons thought of the Stunticons, and doubted that much had changed in their absence from the Decepticon cause as the war ended.
"All Decepticons are in the same boat," Scrapper explained, "we are all hiding or running from those who would wish to see harm done to us. Only the Autobots were given amnesty. We must help each other where we can."
"And why ask me?" Drag Strip huffed, optics narrowed as he crossed his arms over his chest plate.
"As you said, you devised the idea of making an auto mechanics shop first," Scrapper explained plainly. "We waited to ask Breakdown until you were able to give us your answer first."
Something flickered through Drag Strip that he stomped into oblivion before he could register what he felt at knowing the Constructicons had thought of asking Breakdown.
"Whoa there," Long Haul suddenly said, "we aren't stealing Breakdown. Relax."
Drag Strip flattened his plating, optics darting to where Breakdown was sitting. Breakdown looked content as he watched First Aid and Inferno gesticulate wildly, the laughter from the surrounding Autobots and Scavenger carried through Breakdown's gestalt bond as he giggled at different intervals of the two Autobots' story.
"Why?"
"Decepticons have been vanishing without a trace, or are found in the wilderness, deactivated. We are only safe in large numbers, that is why we came to you. We could use your skills, and your team's numbers." Scrapper's tone was hushed, enough that Drag Strip had to learn closer to hear him properly.
Scrapper seemed sincere.
For now.
"I'll think about it. And I'm not a Decepticon—"
Hook snorted at his side, interrupting Drag Strip as the crane finally lifted himself from where he'd been staring at the table in boredom to level a cold, visored look at Drag Strip. "Do the Autobots say that?"
Drag Strip blinked, his expression faltering as he shook his helm, his response immediate and without a moment of thought. "No. They—"
"All five of you are still Decepticons, in the optics of the Autobots and the humans," Hook snarled, "You should be smart enough to divine that for yourselves."
Embarrassment heated Drag Strip's frame to an unbearable degree. Shoving his anger forward to mask the embarrassment, Drag Strip stood, snapped a frustrated, "Take it up with Motormaster," then sat down beside Breakdown.
Breakdown's servo brushed Drag Strip's shoulder plate, a quiet question pulsed through the bond while Inferno, First Aid and Red Alert roared with laughter at something Scavenger had said.
Drag Strip vented as Breakdown wrapped his presence around the Pagani's bond, soothing him with the dead quiet of Breakdown's calm state of mind.
::. We will head home once we are finished refueling. Dead End is almost ready, as is Wildrider. .::
"Thanks," Drag Strip whispered as he relaxed into Breakdown's gestalt bond.
Breakdown hummed, his servo shifting from Drag Strip's shoulder with a final squeeze. Time passed with haste until the four Stunticons were ready to leave. Wildrider, who had dared Slingshot to a race, was splattered with mud and thoroughly exhausted. Dead End and Drag Strip were avoiding that mess as if Wildrider had acquired Cosmic Rust. Only Breakdown risked driving near the Ferrari — typical good natured Breakdown.
The distance between both groups of Stunticons had Dead End, who was leading them single file and at the speed limit on the long drive home, to question Drag Strip on his conversation with the Constructicons. Drag Strip explained everything Scrapper had said to him without pause. Dead End hummed thoughtfully as he processed everything Drag Strip had said.
"Their warning is appreciated. We must heed to their knowledge…" The rest Dead End said was muttered to himself, his attention for Drag Strip nonexistent almost instantly.
Drag Strip vented, rolled his optics mentally, then slowed to keep closer to Wildrider and Breakdown.
Both were chatting over comms, their—
A burst of unfathomable pain slammed through Drag Strip's chassis. He felt his brakes slam on instinctually, the rubber of his tires leaving black skid marks as he came to a rapid stop. Heavy revs came from Drag Strip's motor as he felt his frame shake under the weight of Motormaster's pain.
Motormaster!
Breakdown was the first to blast away from their position, his bond screaming with worry as the Lamborghini tore away from the highway and across the wooded land. A shout from Wildrider preceded the Ferrari racing after Breakdown. Drag Strip shook himself, slamming the walls of the gestalt bond off so he could think without Motormaster's agony tearing his mind asunder.
The four Stunticons raced through the Umatilla National Forest, their instincts carrying them towards their injured — Primus, Drag Strip hoped Motormaster was simply injured — brother's location. Trees slashed across their force fields as all four cars smashed effortlessly through copse of trees, over riverbeds and through valleys, desperation pushing them to their limits.
Drag Strip passed his brothers, rage fueling through him as he smashed through an air force base's front entrance, oblivious to the guards and humans that leapt out of his way as he dodged stationed aircraft and vehicles. He activated his comms to call to Motormaster, the expected lack of response from his brother making the Pagani thrum with rage.
Whoever had dared lay a servo on their brother would pay.
"You are two miles from his location."
Drag Strip revved his engine with an affirmative to Dead End, the rubber of his tires burning hot against the carbon-titanium of his frame. Speed that carried him to a smoking frame.
"Motormaster!" Drag Strip slid to a stop beside his brother, his plating not even fully settled out of his alt mode as he stared down at the semi.
Blaster marks were scored deep into Motormaster's chassis. His left arm was nearly severed from his shoulder plate, with only a few strands of mesh holding it together. Energon was leaking from every bit of damage, but the most concerning was the glow coming from Motormaster's chest.
His spark.
Exposed.
"Dead End, hurry!" Drag Strip heard his vocalizer break as he scrambled to staunch the energon gushing from the semi's lines.
Scrapper's words flashed through Drag Strip's processor hollowly.
"Decepticons have been vanishing without a trace, or are found in the wilderness, deactivated."
He'd thought Scrapper's rumors were extreme.
Motormaster's damage was no rumor.
Primus, he couldn't lose him.