Transformers © HASBRO
Drag Strip hated humidity.
He also hated the loud rock music blaring through his radio.
Schloder banged on his steering wheel as he belted the lyrics — very poorly — in a raucous cacophony that made Drag Strip vent. Becoming a human's daily driver had not been in his top ten list of dream jobs.
Though there were perks to his job.
Every head turned his way as he slowed to a stop at the red light. Humans gawked and pointed.
Admired him.
That was all he could have ever yearned for.
His engine purred as he waited for the light to turn, each rev timed perfectly to bring the humans' attention back to himself as they began to wane interest in him. Heads turned. Eyes locked on him.
Primus, he could not get enough of this.
Schloder took control of his steering wheel as the light turned green, directing Drag Strip to change lanes (after checking his mirrors and signaling for one hundred feet, the man was a stickler for rules, just like… Drag Strip frowned. He couldn't recall who Schloder's stickler self reminded him of. Curious) before they pulled into a grocery store parking lot. Schloder parked Drag Strip in a spot shaded by a tree, far from the store entrance.
Drag Strip pouted. The least Schloder could have done was park him where the most humans would see him.
"Stay here," Schloder ordered as he stepped out of Drag Strip's driver's side door, "I'll be back in twenty minutes or so. Don't break cover."
"You got it, boss," Drag Strip chuffed as he closed and locked his door behind Schloder.
Schloder waved to him, then strolled off, sunglasses perched over his nose.
Boss.
A heavy, deep rumbling engine.
The scent of diesel.
A bass, gravely voice.
A profound sense of… safety.
Drag Strip shook himself, his alt's chassis rattling loudly enough that a human pushing a cart of groceries let out a shocked cry, released the cart, then chased after it. Swearing to himself, Drag Strip stilled his thoughts, strange as they were, and stilled his outer reactions.
Don't break cover.
Fine.
Drag Strip waited, patiently for himself, if he said so himself. He'd become used to how long Schloder could take on shopping trips over the weeks he'd been the human's daily driver. If he ventured into the toys section, Schloder would be drastically late.
Boredom vented out of Drag Strip as minutes passed by him sluggishly.
He surfed through the channels on his radio as he waited, disgusted noises commenting on each song that he skipped by—
"— the remaining Stunticons shall stand trial starting next Monday for the attacks on Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and Newberg, Oregon. Sources state that Optimus Prime continues to defend the Stunticons, claiming a government military cell caused the Stunticons' attack."
Drag Strip perked up. He knew of Optimus Prime, as someone G.H.O.S.T wished to avoid at all costs. The Stunticons weren't anyone he was personally familiar with — lies lies lies — but Schloder's fascination with Cybertronians — the same species Drag Strip was, though he knew no other Cybertronians — made Drag Strip eager to ask Schloder about this trial. Schloder and his sister knew everything about Cybertronian going ons.
Speaking of Schloder, the human was heading his way, pushing a cart filled with groceries Drag Strip only hoped would fit in his alternate mode. He wasn't made as a shopping vehicle, after all.
Careful to hide his radio scanning from Schloder, Drag Strip swapped to the nearest radio station — 1960s country, the favorite of Mo—, then turned off his radio.
Schloder opened Drag Strip's passenger door, humming to a song as he stacked bags of groceries against his floorboards and passenger seat.
"Don't spill anything, or you're cleaning it," Drag Strip warned without humor.
"Wouldn't think of it." Schloder's reassurance was met with a humph from Drag Strip that almost distracted him from the human approaching them both.
"Gorgeous car you have there."
Schloder startled, the back of his head hitting the frame of Drag Strip's door before he stumbled back and met the gaze of the human. Drag Strip preened as the older, dark skinned male approached him with his dark eyes wide with abundant glee as he looked Drag Strip's frame up and down. He'd give up anything to be the center of the world's attention.
Lies lies lies—
"Thanks, I got it as a gift from my sister. Fancy government job and all that, you know?" Schloder laughed, the placement of his hand on Drag Strip's hood a warning.
The other human raised an eyebrow at Schloder's comment, a wry smirk covering his face as he shook his head with denoted amusement. "Must be one fancy government check to afford one of these. Did your sister get the same as you?"
"No, my sister's much more of a Ferrari gal," Schloder answered, a sudden sheepishness overtaking the man as he looked down at Drag Strip's yellow hood. Drag Strip shifted his mirror imperceptibly to watch behind him as Schloder and the man spoke for a little longer.
A few humans stopped to stare at Drag Strip in the parking lot, the phones they raised to snap pictures of him only stoking his ego further. A fact Schloder seemed to notice as he bade the older man a farewell, climbed into Drag Strip's driver's seat, then pulled away with a final wave to the other man.
Schloder turned on Drag Strip's radio, to the mournful hum of a song Drag Strip was oddly familiar with, but before he could theorize how when he never listened to country, Schloder swapped the channel. An old rock song blared through his speakers as Schloder leaned back against the driver's seat, belting lyrics as off tune as earlier.
Drag Strip tolerated his passenger's poor singing as they traveled towards their home in Oak Grove, Georgia, for most of the drive. Most of the drive where his processor dwelled on what he had heard from the radio.
"Schloder?"
"Yes, Drag Strip?"
"Who are the 'Stunticons'? I heard something on the radio about them going to trial, but I don't recall any Stunticons from my past." Drag Strip poured over his memory banks as he directed his curiosity to the man.
Drag Strip had served G.H.O.S.T for years, after a G.H.O.S.T agent had discovered him in a used car lot with a restraining bolt on his old alternate mode and removed it. Schloder had personally picked him to work with, a fact Drag Strip couldn't stop preening about. He knew he was a Cybertronian, but he held no loyalty or interest in his species due to his upbringing within the military unit. The most he knew of Cybertronians was that of the comics and toys Schloder brought home to the house he shared with his sister. He had memorized every faction on both sides of the war, but had never heard the Stunticons' name before.
Schloder rubbed at his chin at Drag Strip's question, a furrowed brow greeting the Pagani's rear view mirror. "They are a team of Decepticons recently discovered, I think. They destroyed almost all of Philadelphia a few weeks ago. Very dangerous, and the kind of Decepticon our unit hunts."
"Oh," Drag Strip vented.
Boring.
Schloder seemed to concur, for he cranked up the volume of the radio and hummed each lyric with what Drag Strip thought was overkill.
"Can we watch the trial this Monday?" The question escaped the Pagani before he could stop himself, his eagerness to observe other Cybertronians surprising even him.
He didn't need any other Cybertronian in his life. He was the best Cybertronian to ever exist. But something nagged him to be there at the trial.
"I don't know, I can clear it with my sister and if she says yes, we can. Does that work?" Schloder replied, his amiable response eliciting a pleased rumble from Drag Strip.
Pleased with himself, Drag Strip drove at speed until they reached the Spanish style house Schloder and Croft had moved into recently. Schloder parked him outside the garage, which he vanished into for a moment before he returned with a car cover.
"I don't want that," Drag Strip pouted, though his protests went duly ignored as Schloder draped the entire cover over him.
Great care was taken by Schloder to not scratch Drag Strip's paint as he shifted the cover to hide every inch of Drag Strip's alternate mode. "I know you don't like this, but its protocol," Schloder whispered as he buckled the cover together underneath his back axle. "This is the only way I can keep you safe."
Drag Strip whined as Schloder finished, but quieted down once Schloder walked into the house. There was little point protesting if no one could hear him.
It was almost twilight when a quiet engine pulled up and parked at the curb of the house. Drag Strip couldn't see who walked past him for the cover blinding him, but left a ping on Schloder's phone alerting him of the human's approach. Schloder returned his text promptly, then the sound of Schloder, Croft and the other human — older male, a former smoker judging by the rasping quality of his voice — came from the front door.
They seemed to be arguing, judging off Croft's raised voice and the other man's irritated, intentional cutting off of the two G.H.O.S.T agents. Eventually, the door slammed shut and Drag Strip could hear nothing else.
But he was curious.
Carefully, Drag Strip drove towards the backyard entrance fence under the cover, moving as slowly and quietly as he possibly could until he reached cover under the huge oak and weeping willow trees that bordered their property. With a quick shifting of metal, Drag Strip transformed one of his arms out of his alt mode, removed the car cover, then transformed all the way into his root mode.
Cautiously, he creeped through the gate, shutting it quickly so the neighbors would hopefully miss his bright yellow chassis, then crawled on servos and knee struts to the sound of the three humans' voices.
He found them in the living room, arguing. Drag Strip peered through the large open living room window, helm tilted even as he hid within the thick overgrowth that bordered the entirety of Croft and Schloder's property.
Croft was speaking with the man who had walked up the driveway and into the house, her expression tight with anger. Schloder stood to the side of his sister, his cheeks colored with what Drag Strip assumed was embarrassment.
"You don't know how lucky you are to be in my good graces still. Both of you screwed up with Menasor. You let the Autobots attain three members of the Stunticons and Swindle, all of whom have vital details on this unit, and our plans!"
Croft looked down, her expression filled with fiery anger even as she kept her posture relenting. "We understand, Mr. Secretary. It wasn't our choice to have those three taken, but we have taken great efforts to conceal who we have left."
"Mr. Secretary" did not look impressed. Drag Strip held back his desire to laugh at the human's irritated expression.
"I led Optimus Prime to believe your unit was disbanded after you lost Dead End and Motormaster to that paranoid brother of theirs," Mr. Secretary sighed, his index finger and thumb pinched against the bridge of his nose as he glared at Croft and Schloder — the latter of whom looked immensely sheepish, as he had earlier that day. "We should be grateful Bishop and Meridian's technology has kept the Autobots off your tail since you left Pennsylvania. As you should be very thankful that my patience for your unit has not reached its end, Karen."
Now Croft looked embarrassed, but she still inclined her head, thanked Mr. Secretary, then escorted him out of her house. When she returned, Croft slammed and locked the front door before she wheeled her gaze to where Drag Strip was peering through the window.
Drag Strip's optics widened with realization as she stormed up to the window he was at. She looked furious.
"Get in the garage and don't come out."
Embarrassed, Drag Strip scurried to the garage, where he transformed back into his alternate mode and parked beside Croft's gray Ferrari. She always arrived before Schloder and himself from her work in Atlanta, and rarely allowed Drag Strip to park in the garage if he and Schloder didn't arrive first.
Venting, Drag Strip shifted his mirrors and boredly watched the Ferrari.
He wished the Ferrari was a fellow Cybertronian sometimes, if only so he could communicate with the other during long nights of limited recharge. Croft had explained to him that he was the only Cybertronian under G.H.O.S.T employ (clearly because they didn't need any others with him onboard) and he'd remain as such. Naturally, Drag Strip was the best at his job — even if said job was just to drive Schloder around and keep him safe.
The job was boring, far more boring than fighting Cybertronians or engaging in espionage as he knew some members of G.H.O.S.T did, but he was the only one with the job of protecting Croft's brother. A light turned on in the garage, alerting Drag Strip to full focus as he looked towards the small garage door, expecting to see Schloder—
Croft walked up to him, her eyes narrowed dangerously.
He was in trouble.
"If I catch you out of your alternate mode here again," Croft snapped, "I will use a restraining bolt on you."
She was serious.
Drag Strip deflated, intimidated by the murderous glare Croft was sending him. "Yes, Croft."
Croft blinked down at him, her lack of belief in him abundantly clear. With a shake of her head and a disgusted growl, she returned to the house. Something hot, electric and mocking brushed against him, but so fleetingly that Drag Strip paid it little mind.
If it didn't directly affect him, it mattered little to him.
Drag Strip weaved through traffic with careless abandon.
No Schloder, no stickler for rules.
It was a relief to be on the road on his own.
He'd finally been given a day off — more he'd left early, before Schloder or Croft woke up, because he deserved a day off, he was Drag Strip, best Cybertronian ever — and was making haste to Washington, D.C, where the Stunticons' — what a dumb name — trial was to begin. He'd done his research on the team of Decepticons in secret as he waited at the underground parking lot of Schloder's workplace, enough to want to watch the humans utterly humiliate the crazy team of cars.
(Though he could have sworn he saw their combined form had a right arm that looked freakishly similar to him from all the footage from Philadelphia. Stupid thieves. Maybe he could sue them for unauthorized use of his looks, and defamation against his glorious character — too good to work with a band of weird cars who couldn't even form full sentences when combined. How embarrassing).
Unfortunately, he was running out of time to arrive at the outdoor trial before it started – the size of the Stunticon leader made it so the humans had to retrofit a park for the trial — because humans could not figure out how to merge.
"Who gave you a license?!" Drag Strip chortled as he darted past a Prius puttering in the fast lane under the speed limit.
At least it wasn't a Cybertronian using a Prius as an alt mode. If Drag Strip was forced to use one of those cars as his alternate mode he would have personally walked right into an active Yellowstone hot spring, thank you very much.
He couldn't imagine anything more mortifying.
Though, perhaps, watching the Stunticons' trial would mortify them, and summarily amuse him.
After dodging and weaving through even more traffic, Drag Strip finally arrived at Rock Creek Park. A long line of cars was waiting to enter the park, as if the humans were as intrigued to watch the trial as Drag Strip was. (Schloder had said that no Cybertronian or other alien race had ever been tried by a human court, after all. Drag Strip could only imagine how many UFO nuts and alien nerds would be attending just because of that fact. Humans were strange).
With a roll of his optics, Drag Strip backed away from the line to the main entrance. He knew precisely where to enter, thanks to G.H.O.S.T's inside knowledge and his super sleuthing. Primus, was he smart.
He could have found the information without G.H.O.S.T's databases, though. It wouldn't have been hard, but the resources had been available. Why not use it?
He knew he had found the entrance the Stunticons, as well as some of the Autobots and Megatron — who had had a private trial, boring, after he'd turned against the Decepticons —, when a police escort blocked his path of travel. Drag Strip backed away from the escort before the humans spotted him. He nudged his way through what was most definitely not an approved entrance — goodbye, oak tree — in alternate mode, and found the parking area the rangers had prepared just for the Cybertronians. Drag Strip found a spot amongst trees where he could watch the parking area, then waited.
Though not for long, thankfully.
Three patrol cars drove past his hiding spot first, before a purple, black and silver semi rumbled past.
The leader of the team.
Of his team.
Drag Strip blinked.
Where had that thought come from?
Weird.
The semi stopped where two humans directed him to, a docility to the K100 Aerodyne's movements that seemed incompatible to the raging leader Drag Strip had read about in G.H.O.S.T's files. The ramp of his trailer lowered next, revealing first a white Lamborghini Countach — with a rear wheelbase that made an ancient part of Drag Strip's t-cog rumble with regret — that drove down the ramp and slowed to a stop next to the semi's cab. The last car to exit was a Porsche Spyder whose glossy maroon paint glittered in the sunlight. Drag Strip felt personal offense at the sheer radiance coming off Dead End (the pessimistic loser, he couldn't imagine how much of a drag he was to be around), but quelled it when he felt the Porsche's mirrors turn in his direction.
He did not need to be discovered. That slagging semi would likely tear him wheel from wheel, then stab him with his own axle. Utterly unappealing.
The Porsche luckily was pulled away by two cops, who ordered him out of his alt mode alongside the Lamborghini and semi. All three Stunticons were cuffed by the Autobot Prowl after they transformed, before the remaining Autobots and human law enforcement led them to the temporary set up of a courtroom. Humans were sitting in the chairs set up by the court, as well as dotted the landscape with their camping gear and chairs. This was entertainment to them as well, as he had surmised.
He was brilliant.
Humans chittered near him as Drag Strip slunk along, doing his best to blend in with the wave of cars and humans that surrounded the park's roads. Speakers and screens were positioned all across the park so that the visitors could get a view of the trial even from far away. As if the humans saw this trial as a great source of entertainment that deserved to be rewatched years down the line.
It felt wrong that the Stunticons were being used as entertainment. Drag Strip scowled. The persistent muttering of thoughts that did not align with his usual mindset irritated him. Drag Strip never thought twice about any action he took. Then why was he trying so hard to convince himself he didn't agree with this?
Frustration settled along his undercarriage as Drag Strip shut off the thoughts echoing in his processor, and turned to watch the nearest screen.
Hisses and boos rebounded through the park as the trial began with an overview of the attacks on Newberg and Philadelphia by the Stunticon combiner. Drag Strip froze when he saw his alt mode displayed across the screens, a large text box of "missing" making him hunker down amongst the muscle cars and sports cars he had parked amongst. Confusion waded through Drag Strip as he peered closer at the slides and saw the very same gray Ferrari he knew was sitting in Croft's garage listed as missing as well, with the name tag of Wildrider.
None of this made sense.
Drag Strip's likeness was represented multiple times, in pictures with the Stunticons in his alternate and root mode, and as the right arm of their combined mode. G.H.O.S.T's statements to him conflicted with what the Autobots were showing about the Stunticons. G.H.O.S.T had no reason to lie to him.
The Pagani was bothered but he stored his thoughts deep into his processor as the proceedings continued. Optimus Prime spoke on behalf of the Stunticons — a loyalty that didn't make sense, considering Prime was the leader of the Autobots and the Stunticons maniac Decepticons —, the Prime's conviction towards the "goodness" of the three crazy vehicles unwavering, even as the humans preceding the trial hounded him with questions.
Prowl, Red Alert and Ratchet took to the stand after Prime, their arguments for the Stunticons innocence aided by graphs and metrics of information that Drag Strip could not tear his optics from. G.H.O.S.T's name was everywhere. Their hands in everything.
None of which he had been told or discovered in his secret sleuthing of G.H.O.S.T's files. Curiosity overtook the voice chiding him to analyze why he was kept in the dark, for he could fully accept the need for secrecy. The organization was not supposed to be known but by a select few, though he guessed that aspect of G.H.O.S.T was long in the past with each juicy detail the Autobots dropped about G.H.O.S.T.
Control viruses and implants that forced obedience from the Stunticons to do G.H.O.S.T's bidding was a fairly wild accusation, though.
It seemed the human audience was in agreement with Drag Strip's doubts, judging from the doubtful jeers and constant questioning of the human prosecutor to the Autobots. Ratchet tired of the questions the quickest, but the medic showed remarkable restraint — considering Drag Strip could practically feel Ratchet's rage through the monitor.
Drag Strip's attention sharpened further when the judge called Megatron to the stand. Drag Strip gawked at the massive silver Cybertronian as he sat down in the chair designed purposefully to not break under the various tonnage of the Stunticons and Autobots. His gaze snapped to the monitor to watch Megatron's every shift in facial expressions as the prosecutor stepped forward.
"Megatron, you were the creator of the Stunticons, correct?"
"Yes." There was a threatening edge to Megatron's tone that had Drag Strip unconsciously lower his mirrors.
Why was he afraid of Megatron?
He hadn't once interacted with the Decepticon leader. Or any other Cybertronian, for that matter.
"Why?"
Megatron narrowed his optics. "Is that necessary for this trial?"
The prosecutor glared, exasperation expelling from the human before he nodded. "Very necessary. Please, why did you make the Stunticons?"
Megatron vented. "To acquire an advantage on the ground over the Autobots. Few Decepticons had ground vehicle based alternate modes, and I sought the chance to match the Autobots where they excelled."
"I am Drag Strip. I live to obey!"
Drag Strip gasped, his frame almost falling out of his alternate mode as his own voice snared through him as if it was a typhoon. Megatron's silver bulk stared down at him, unimpressed. A—
"The reports Optimus Prime and Ratchet lended the United States upon the Stunticons defecting from the Decepticons states that all five suffer from severe mental health disorders. Were these disorders intentionally given to them while you created them?"
Megatron — and Drag Strip — stiffened at the prosecutor's question.
How dare he.
The former Decepticon almost rose to his pedes, but restrained himself as he peered red daggers into the prosecutor. "An ancient Cybetronian device called Vector Sigma was used to give them personalities. I did not give them their personalities myself, nor their mental health disorders."
The prosecutor nodded, clearly satisfied. "But it was also noted in Optimus and Ratchet's notes — exhibit B3 — that you were physically abusive to the leader of the Stunticons. Would not this abuse and the reliance on dated technology preclude what happened in Philadelphia?"
Megatron opened his mouth to answer, but the prosecutor powered on. Quite intentionally, judging off the human's smug gaze as he spoke.
"Five mentally unstable robots who were created by you, given personalities by a technology we know nothing about, and were raised in an abusive environment. Is that an accurate description of the Stunticons?"
"That is accurate," Megatron snapped, venom slicing off his glossa with surprising force.
For some reason, Drag Strip felt oddly comforted by Megatron's anger. It was familiar to him. Safe. Megatron's anger wasn't directed at him, but in defense of—
"So then it would not be amiss for us to wonder if this Vector Sigma machine could have programmed the Stunticons into attacking our cities?" The prosecutor's question lingered in the air as Megatron's optics narrowed dangerously.
"Cybertronians may resemble what you humans understand to be computer driven machines, but we cannot simply be programmed—"
"Isn't that what you argue this 'G.H.O.S.T' did to the Stunticons?" The prosecutor's interruption was instant. Drag Strip knew, in that moment, Megatron had been led to this exact trap. "That they were reprogrammed by G.H.O.S.T and manipulated into attacking Newberg and Philadelphia. If your species cannot be programmed, how could G.H.O.S.T have made the Stunticons attack our cities, as you claim?"
Megatron looked horrified. His red optics flared dangerously as a low rumble escaped from his tilt rotor engines. "That is not what I—"
Drag Strip did not hear the rest of Megatron's protest. The camera had turned towards the prosecutor as the man spoke, enough that the Pagani's gaze landed on a human he recognized. The same one he'd seen talking to Croft and Schloder about the Stunticons.
"Mr. Secretary" both had called him.
He knew of G.H.O.S.T.
He was smiling as Megatron was backed into a corner by the prosecutor.
"The Secretary of State told Optimus and I that G.H.O.S.T is a military unit which—"
"That isn't part of what I asked you, Megatron," the prosecutor interjected, a sliver of anger coursing across the human's face so briefly Drag Strip thought he'd imagined it, "I request that Megatron's statement be struck from the record on insufficient evidence and false claims."
Megatron bared his denta as the judge concurred with the prosecutor, the bristling of his plating only becoming more clear as the prosecutor turned on the silver Cybertronian with seeming vengeance. Megatron could do little to keep up with the human's games as the prosecutor continued the line of questioning about the Stunticons' mental health disorders and the abuse from Megatron, until the former Decepticon could do little more than answer each question with frustration.
A laugh was hidden by one hand and a cough when the prosecutor finished each round of questioning with Megatron, leaving the former Decepticon unsettled.
Drag Strip shifted minutely, allowing himself to stare at Mr. Secretary as a new sense of suspicion overtook him. The prosecutor kept looking towards Mr. Secretary as the defense attorney on the side of the Stunticons fielded questions at Megatron. Minute gestures from the Secretary had the prosecutor step forward, interrupting at whatever chance he had.
Upon closer inspection of the prosecutor, Drag Strip recognized him. He'd seen the reed thin man speaking to Croft in G.H.O.S.T's headquarters numerous times, but he spoke with no one else who worked for G.H.O.S.T. The one time the man had passed Drag Strip in his root mode, the prosecutor had glared at him, though Drag Strip had done nothing to him.
The man didn't like Cybertronians. Neither did Mr. Secretary.
They had… planned this team up perfectly, hadn't they.
The Stunticons didn't have a chance.
Why did he care if they did or not?
The Stunticons were enemies of G.H.O.S.T.
Not Cybertronians he should care about.
Least of all—
Megatron's heavy pede falls snapped Drag Strip from his thoughts, his gaze turning back to watch the monitor as the tiltrotor stalked to where Optimus Prime and the other Autobots were already seated. The three Stunticons were seated a few chairs down from the Autobots, the tension in their frames clear even through the distant shot from the camera.
The judge turned her attention to the Stunticons. Motormaster started to rise to his pedes at the shift in the judge's focus, until the judge gestured to Breakdown. "Step up, please."
Breakdown squeaked in response, but did not move. Only a gentle push from Dead End gathered the Lamborghini to his pedes, though very slowly. Breakdown kept his helm lowered as if he thought he could disappear the longer he stared holes into the grass below him. He did not look at the judge or attorneys as he sat down, arms hunched together where the cuffs did not allow him to spread them apart as a whine hissed off the Lamborghini.
"State your name for the record."
"B-B-b-breakdown. M-m-may you turn off the cameras, p-p-please."
The Lamborghini's stammer unnerved Drag Strip. Some part of him yearned to dive in front of the cameras, to shield Breakdown—
"No. They are for our protection and a requirement of this trial," the judge answered, her words gentle even as she reprimanded Breakdown. Perhaps she was not aligned with whatever the prosecutor and Mr. Secretary had going on.
"Okay," Breakdown's voice could barely be made out, even from the microphone perched in front of him, "s-s-sorry."
That yearn returned, twice over. It took every ounce of control — and bewilderment towards his own instincts — Drag Strip had to maintain cover and not move.
The prosecutor stepped forward, his pinched face cold with hate that nearly mirrored the same anger that Drag Strip had so often seen in Croft. "You supposedly escaped this 'G.H.O.S.T' on your own, correct? Why? What did you hope to gain from leaving?"
Breakdown hesitated. His helm shifted to look towards Motormaster and Dead End, seeking reassurance. Drag Strip felt… something. A buzz of thoughts and emotions sung along his fuel lines. Comfort. Companionship. Rage. Love.
That emotion caught Drag Strip off guard, as much as it seemed to do the same with Breakdown. The white Stunticon blinked, then rubbed at his servos nervously. Drag Strip felt emotions — those which weren't his own — wisp through him on a breeze as Breakdown finally spoke, though too quietly for the microphone to properly pick up.
The prosecutor sighed, his brow pinched, and growled a curt, "Speak up so we may all hear you, please."
Breakdown's faceplate visibly warmed considerably as every camera turned towards him. Drag Strip bristled. Thoughts of crushing humans under his pedes and between his servos infiltrated his processor. He didn't even blink when he imagined Croft in his servos, crushed to a human pulp.
Weird.
"I escaped so I could help my brothers escape G.H.O.S.T. They weren't able to resist the recoding, but I was aware enough of myself to know I had to flee." Breakdown stopped to catch a moment of respite, his servos moving double time as he wrung them together without relent. His cuffs chafed at the white metal, creating sparks that Breakdown seemed entirely unaware of.
Drag Strip almost transformed out of his alt mode involuntarily at the sight. Breakdown needed comfort, needed focus shifted away from himself—
"Can you prove that you were caught by G.H.O.S.T, Breakdown? We know that the Autobots have provided a wealth of evidence saying you five were controlled, but none of it has a trademark, serial number or artifact we can use to track down this group," the prosecutor said, the tone of his voice mocking in a way that made Drag Strip add him to the list of humans he would most terribly enjoy squashing.
Again.
Weird.
Why did he care about Breakdown this much? The nervous wreck was practically falling apart by all the scrutiny. Drag Strip didn't need someone like that taking up space in his processor.
Breakdown stammered, his glossa and vocalizer failing him as he began plucking at his arm plating.
The prosecutor pounced.
"Your medical logs state that you suffer from paranoid delusions and anxiety. Could you have imagined G.H.O.S.T taking control of you and your team? We looked for this organization but discovered no information on G.H.O.S.T. From the testimonies of the Autobots before you, one could surmise they care deeply for you and your team and would readily believe in whatever you may suggest."
Motormaster's snarl hit Drag Strip as if he was sitting next to the cranky semi. Movement from the monitors showed Motormaster getting to his pedes and—
Optimus Prime, Megatron and Dead End yanked Motormaster back to his chair before the semi could get anywhere. Drag Strip stared, shocked. The semi shrunk into himself, his servos clenched in fists as his cuffs were subtly tightened by Prowl.
Breakdown gulped. Stronger emotion hit Drag Strip as the white Stunticon let out a nervous squeak. "I— I am not deluded. Croft—"
"Who?"
"Agent Croft. She runs G.H.O.S.T," Breakdown's voice did not waver as he fixed his gaze on the prosecutor. "She was the one who ordered us to attack Philadelphia. She—"
"May I see these orders, please?" The prosecutor's gaze looked genuine, but Drag Strip could tell it was anything but. The skinny man's eyes were blazing with anger — weird how quickly Drag Strip could recognize that when no human ever got mad at him in G.H.O.S.T's headquarters, besides Croft — as Breakdown frowned, nonplussed.
"She never gave them through written words," Breakdown began to explain, his words becoming rushed and stammered to where Drag Strip could not understand what the Lamborghini was saying.
"You don't have the evidence we need to hunt down this rogue group, then?" The prosecutor finally interjected, after far too much time had passed of Breakdown stammering, using words where they didn't belong — what did "Croft wanted us to mollify humans so she could exchange toys with the ruling sediment of the human race" mean? — until Breakdown's position was seen as little more than a joke.
Drag Strip wanted to tear the prosecutor limb from limb. With his denta.
"Not physically," Breakdown answered. Mortification creeped into Drag Strip's spark as Breakdown tried to answer his defense attorney's questions, but it wasn't from him. Drag Strip was peeved, but not embarrassed to the point that he wanted to deactivate in front of all the humans staring at— Breakdown?
Odd.
He could feel Breakdown's emotions?
Drag Strip tilted his helm, optics narrowed onto Breakdown—
Breakdown's helm snapped up. Yellow optics landed on Drag Strip through the monitor. "Drag Strip?"
Silence met Breakdown's call.
Humans turned and looked around the park, as if looking for him. Drag Strip shrunk, and wished that he had chosen a different color for this adventure. No one would look twice at him if he had picked a boring color and repainted himself temporarily.
"Please return to your seat, Breakdown."
The judge's dismissal had Breakdown scrambling to escape, his frame disappearing behind multiple Autobots until nothing could be seen of him but for a flash of his spoiler.
Dead End was called up next, much to the maroon Porsche's clear disinterest. He answered each question with blunt, uncaring misery. Drag Strip sensed that the judge and other presiding members of the trial were unimpressed. Unhelped by Dead End's confirmation that he too lacked any physical evidence against G.H.O.S.T. Though he didn't, Dead End's flat explanation and description of the G.H.O.S.T base did get a reaction from Mr. Secretary — which the man quickly stifled, but Drag Strip had seen it.
Dead End's dismissal from the stand was met by a defeated vent that seemed to make Motormaster shrink further as the Porsche sat down next to him. The semi remained subdued as he was ordered to the stand, the fight he'd shown earlier entirely absent.
"State your name for the record, please."
"Motormaster." Exhaustion made the semi's gravelly voice dull.
The prosecutor stepped forward, his advance earning him a look from Motormaster that was defeated and miserable. It was wrong. That wasn't how his brother should have carried himself.
Brother?
Drag Strip missed the first question from the prosecutor as his processor stuttered. He wasn't part of the Stunticons — his alt mode was part of Menasor, he was in multiple pictures with the whole team, what was he missing — and never had been. Motormaster wasn't his brother. He shouldn't want to kill humans for hurting Breakdown, or to curl up beside Dead End to reassure him from one of his depressive moods.
He didn't know them.
"You are the main component of your combined form, correct? Menasor, I believe is what they call you when you are combined?"
The prosecutor's cutting tone drew Drag Strip back in, his gaze narrowing upon Motormaster's faceplate as Motormaster let out a vent that seemed to deflate his entire frame.
"We are not Menasor and Menasor is not us. He is an entirely different entity from the Stunticons. But, yes," Motormaster didn't even growl as he stared the prosecutor down, though Drag Strip noticed how scrunched Motormaster's nose bridge was as he did.
Was there a new scar over the semi's nose bridge as well?
New?
What?
"I am the main component for him."
"Does that mean you have the most influence over this… separate entity?"
"Not exactly," Motormaster vented. "He has his own personality and opinions. We don't have the ability to control him, but I… yes. I can influence him to a degree."
The prosecutor beamed, looking like a mutated fish that Drag Strip wished would simply shut up. "Then it is your influence that turned your combiner against innocent civilians? The death toll is incalculable in both cities. Did you tell Menasor to do that?"
"No!" Finally, Motormaster's rage revealed itself, his plating arching as he slammed his cuffed hands against his knee struts. Drag Strip could swear he saw the prosecutor flinch at the earsplitting clang that rang from Motormaster's gesture. It almost made Drag Strip like Motormaster. Almost (he was his brother—). "Agent Croft forced us to attack both cities. She placed a recoding virus inside me that allowed her to control my thoughts and actions. She wanted those people killed, my team did not. We hold no quarrel against humans, and prefer a life of solitude away from humans."
"That is all well and good, but no one has shown us who this 'Agent Croft' is, or that she actually exists," the prosecutor dismissed. "The evidence we have is that your team attacked and destroyed Newberg and Philadelphia. That is what we know at this time. We would be remiss to not seek the full answer, rather than manufactured lies, from all of you."
Motormaster snarled, a sound so loud and dangerous it made Drag Strip flinch and shrink all the way to the ground. The prosecutor did the same, shrinking down as Motormaster stood up, stepped forward, then leaned down until his faceplate was inches from the prosecutor.
"I remember you," Motormaster hissed, his hatred becoming Drag Strip's hatred as he leaned ever more menacingly closer to the prosecutor. "You were there. You are lying—"
The semi was torn away from the prosecutor before Drag Strip, or seemingly anyone else, could register what had happened, Prowl and Optimus' grasps on Motormaster unrelenting as they returned him, not to the stand, but to his previous seat by Dead End and Breakdown. The judge called for order and calm until silence reigned over the park.
Drag Strip chanced a look towards Motormaster, who the camera was still focusing on, his optics narrowing as he studied the semi. Brief snatches of anger glittered in violet optics as the judge decreed a recess before they would resume next on Wednesday.
Drag Strip wheeled out of the parking area before the wave of humans returned to their cars, not desiring to be found — least of all after Breakdown had… noticed him? Had the Lamborghini actually felt Drag Strip's presence? Drag Strip had felt Breakdown's emotions… did Breakdown feel Drag Strip's in return?
A buzz of static interrupted his thoughts, the flash of Croft's phone number over his HUD making Drag Strip roll his optics as he roared away from Rock Creek Park. What did she want?
"I'm taking my day off," he snapped the moment he accepted her call, "leave me alone."
"What are you doing at the trial? I told you that you weren't allowed to go, Drag Strip."
Oh. She was mad.
A cackle split from him as Drag Strip reached open highway and tore away, his speedometer flashing past his alternate mode's designed limit. "I don't care. It's my day off. I can do what I want."
"I warned you about getting anywhere near the Stunticons. They could have hurt you—"
"From what I heard, it is G.H.O.S.T who could hurt me. I saw the images they had of the Stunticons. I was in every single one of those pictures — or my likeness was—"
"Drag Strip, return home immediately!" Croft shouted over his comms. She was going to blow a head gasket at this rate. Clearly, she needed to keep up on her meditative state of mind Schloder had recommended to her once when she had ridden in Drag Strip alongside her brother to a movie.
"I'm returning home, don't get your hair in a knot," Drag Strip replied in a mellow tone, when all he wanted to do was gag and roll his optics. She was worse than Schloder. "Relax. They never saw me."
"Yes, they did!"
A deep, booming horn drowned Croft's voice out, drawing Drag Strip's focus back to the road and the black semi racing towards him — straight into oncoming traffic. Well. Oncoming Drag Strip. Drat that open highway.
Drag Strip spun his wheel, jerking his tires to the left as he tried to escape the utterly insane semi.
G.H.O.S.T's files hadn't painted the insane picture for the semi well enough, he had to admit. When he escaped this situation, he was going to edit G.H.O.S.T's files on Motormaster.
Caution: will drive into oncoming traffic just because. Utterly bonkers.
Drag Strip thought he reacted quickly. He was, after all, the fastest and most athletic Cybertronian. But the semi seemed to know his tactics far faster than Drag Strip knew his own.
Shock rippled through Drag Strip as eighteen wheels of anger and a whole trailer's worth of this was a mistake slammed on brakes, turned sideways and slammed into him.
Drag Strip expected pain.
Expected to crumple and bend under the screeching, smoke belching tires of the semi's trailer.
Instead, the semi hit him and sent him flying sideways, hard enough to force him into his root mode and directly into waiting servos.
Servos that wrapped around him in a hug and cried his name against his throat plating.
Definitely weird.
Even weirder when his optics onlined to a beige colored faceplate, purple visor and maroon plating.
Dead End?
The pessimist?
His processor skipped as Drag Strip blinked up at the maroon Stunticon. Somehow he liked being hugged, though Drag Strip was certain he had never been hugged by anyone before in his life.
Let alone by a pessimist who worshiped the act of dying, but was almost shedding windshield wiper fluid all over him.
Drag Strip gathered his servos underneath him to push Dead End away, until he heard heavy thuds race up to him and slam into him from behind.
White arms locked around his chest as a voice squeaked his name multiple times through stammered hiccups. Blue servos fiddled with the mirrors on his arms nervously before he was released by the white Stunticon.
Dead End released him as well, a soft furrow to his brow that Drag Strip somehow knew was foreign on the Porsche's faceplate. He was… happy?
"Drag Strip, I—"
The third voice, deeper than Dead End and Breakdown's voices combined and tinged with the scent of diesel, made Drag Strip freeze. His optics widened with near comic hilarity as the yellow Pagani turned around fully.
Motormaster was standing some feet from Drag Strip, the set of his jaw and optic ridges one of such profound sorrow and regret, Drag Strip had to double take. G.H.O.S.T's files were clear on Motormaster: a sadist, anger driven and incapable of any thought but for war and destruction.
How was he capable of regret if Motormaster was as violent as the notes on him said?
"What do you want?" Drag Strip growled.
"I'm so sorry," Motormaster whispered before Drag Strip felt himself hefted entirely off his pedes and held against the semi's chest in a warm hug.
The hug did not end there. With a growling purr, Motormaster tightened his grip on Drag Strip's frame. The black semi buried his faceplate against Drag Strip's shoulder plate, his left servo shifting up to cup the back of Drag Strip's helm.
A confounded squeak fell from Drag Strip's vocalizer before he could stop the mortifying sound. He tried to bunch up his arms underneath him so he could shove Motormaster away, but a purring rumble from his own engine stopped him.
He was enjoying this?
Drag Strip shuttered his optics against Motormaster's warm plating, his helm lowering as Motormaster continued to hold him in the near plating crushing hug.
Confusion muddled Drag Strip's thoughts as Motormaster placed him back to the highway, though with that same look of deep regret darkening his violet optics, and Drag Strip's spark yearned to be hugged again.
"I don't understand," he finally managed to get out.
Dead End almost laughed behind him before he placed a servo on Drag Strip's shoulder and squeezed. "We did not comprehend ourselves when Breakdown first broke us away from Croft's control either. All will be explained when we return to the Ark."
"What?" Drag Strip bristled, his helm snapping between Motormaster and Dead End as he backed away from them slightly. "I'm not going with you to the Ark. I am not—"
"Sorry, Drag Strip."
Breakdown's apologetic tone was all the warning Drag Strip had before he felt his chassis seize with electricity and he slammed to the ground, optics flickering closed but not without leaving him the image of the three Stunticons worrying over him.