Aspects of Earthspark's ending for G1 have been used here.

The Stunticons visual design is based off both G1's versions of them, and the design done by Falliay.

Transformers © Hasbro.


"You're good to go, drive safe!"

Motormaster took the bill of lading from the receiving associate with a curt dip of his holoform's head, a returned "you as well", then exited the building. His holoform walked from the receiving area to his cab, taking extra care to unchock his tires and raise the landing gear to his trailer before his holoform climbed into the black cab.

Though his windshields were relatively darkly tinted, Motormaster kept his holoform active until he was well on his way on open highway. As he drove, the semi entered the bill of lading information into his system, which earned him a prompt response from Dead End.

"There's an outbound shipment that called in for a pick up. Its pick up location is twenty miles from your current location. Do you wish to take this shipment?"

"Why not. Send the coordinates."

As the new set of coordinates flashed through Motormaster's coding and he shifted lanes to take the next exit, he tuned his radio to the nearest station. His processor wandered with the thrum of the music, while his tires rumbled thunder down the road.

Forty years had passed since the Stunticons had been created. Nearly forty since the Stunticons had deserted the Decepticons.

To say much had changed would have been beyond an understatement.

The war had ended nineteen years ago.

Megatron had joined the side of the Autobots, and had worked beside Optimus Prime to destroy the Space Bridge to Cybertron. The loss of the Space Bridge and AllSpark in 2006 had shuttered the last vestiges of war from the entire race.

Motormaster and his brothers had, in those forty years, changed.

Age had matured them, to a degree.

Breakdown, their youngest brother, was calmer. Not so easily led by his anxiety and paranoia. His control over his innate responses to the world around him had allowed Breakdown to even seek out hobbies and interests he never would have on the Victory. Soft traces of affection stoked through Motormaster as he remembered the painting Breakdown had given him for his twentieth "birthday" (one he'd been proud to display until Drag Strip and Wildrider had revealed the painting to Optimus, who had merely chuckled at the painted depiction of Motormaster defeating the Prime in their game of chicken that day when the Autobots had captured, and masqueraded, as the Stunticons). Breakdown's vocabulary had improved as well, though his stammer still remained whenever the Lamborghini became overly anxious or upset.

Dead End had found something to actively live for, in his brothers' survival and continued safety. His pessimistic rants had waned with the years he stayed at his brothers' sides — though he had joined a reading club where his suggestions for the next material to read was always of the most dour, fatalistic nature. Dead End's intelligence (and stolen sources from Swindle's vast array of contacts) had led to the Stunticons building their business front, which Motormaster was leisurely engaged in that warm afternoon in the middle of Iowa.

Drag Strip was… Drag Strip. He still preened and postured, but the intent in his preening held no vindictiveness, or even his intense insecurities, as it once had. Drag Strip's loyalty to his gestalt was unshakable, to never be held in question as Motormaster had often pondered on the Victory. Drag Strip floated around to various jobs, mostly racing related, his thirst to win not extinguished, merely tempered to a point his competitive streak was not obnoxious any longer. Drag Strip had become an adept servo at mechanics, and ran the repair shop they owned in Ashland, Montana more often than most.

Wildrider's lucidity was far more common after the Autobot medics had helped install a patch to his coding that lessened Wildrider's bouts of psychosis. Since then, the Ferrari had taken to a sudden passion for participating in movie stunts under the auspices of a skilled stunt driver. Motormaster had raised concerns over his brother's choice of occupation (he did not wish for them to be discovered, nor for Wildrider to be hurt, shield or not) but had relented at the pure joy he'd felt off his younger brother with each stunt or crash he performed.

Motormaster was rational and able to withhold his spurts of anger. The Autobots' anger management therapy courses had given Motormaster ways to control his natural tendency for violence. Motormaster, for what he understood to have been considerable improvements in himself, did not view himself as positively as he did his brothers' improvements. Positive mindfulness was still a struggle point for him, though he'd been trying. His job as a freight hauler considerably helped Motormaster control his anger, as well as stave off the boredom and listlessness he felt at prolonged stints of inactivity, and brought in money for fuel and resources for his team.

Staying under the radar of the humans that occupied the planet the Stunticons had been created on was one of many responsibilities weighing the semi down. Keeping his brothers alive and healthy was Motormaster's number one priority, and the hardest goal to keep a servo on.

Obtaining energon was harder nowadays than it ever had before the end of the war, with the remaining Decepticons jealously guarding what mines they could from the Autobots of the Arc. The Autobots exchanged energon without recompense to the Stunticons when they asked, but Motormaster's pride insisted that he find energon without strict reliance on the overly generous Autobots.

The Stunticons had accrued enough of a debt from the Autobots as it was.

Optimus Prime had given them free passage to and from the Arc as they needed, at any time of day, and guaranteed safety from any Autobot activity. The Stunticons had never joined the Autobots, but they had been accepted as if they were ones. Some of the Autobots were their friends, even, from Breakdown's friendship with First Aid, to Dead End and Skydive's love for books forming a fast friendship between them (though, at times, Motormaster found his own friendship with Silverbolt a butt of Drag Strip's many jokes, to his irritation).

The most debt the Stunticons held was for the therapy the Autobots had afforded the Stunticons.

The improvements they'd all made had been the work of the Autobot's psychologist. Sometimes Motormaster struggled with his sense of pride over his entire team needing therapy (for supposedly elite Decepticon soldiers, their glitches had been hard wired into their coding upon their creation, a vulnerability that still left barbs under the semi's hood), but he knew that without the Autobot psychologist, his team would not be at such stable points as they were now. The sessions had been biweekly for years — one individual session for each of them, then a group session at the end of the week — , until the entire team was able to attend only bimonthly.

They'd even had sessions as Menasor, for the combiner was as much a part of the Stunticons' dysfunctional status as they were themselves. Menasor had tolerated the sessions fleetingly at first, though his anger and short attention span often got in the way of him truly listening to the psychologist. Only after the Stunticons themselves began showing marked improvement had Menasor been able to be corralled to listen and discuss his own feelings. Since those successful sessions, Menasor had become more present within all five Stunticons' bonds. The combiner could not directly communicate with the other four constantly while Motormaster had conversations with the combiner more frequently, but his feelings were present to all five, no longer solely Motormaster — or Wildrider.

Learning that Wildrider had known about Menasor's presence in their bond before Motormaster did had surprised the semi. Perhaps, deep down, it even made him jealous, when Motormaster looked back on it. He was the torso. The main component to Menasor, and yet he had only become aware of Menasor after they had all combined for the first time.

Wildrider had described Menasor as a surge of energy within them all, a description Motormaster could not disagree with. There was always a disruption to their fields after the Stunticons combined, as if a sixth presence was powering their fields. Then, whenever Menasor awoke inside the bond when they were not combined, Motormaster could feel a heavy electrical charge hissing along his frame.

In some ways, the combiner's presence was comforting. Even when one of the Stunticons was alone, they always had Menasor.

Menasor himself was extremely protective of his components, a matter they'd discovered during one group therapy session when the psychologist had triggered Breakdown's paranoia. Before any of the Stunticons could ascertain what was happening, they were in combined form, Menasor's lightning charged sword mere centimeters from piercing through the Autobot's spark. The setback from that session took months for Menasor to recover from, for his fleeting trust in the psychologist had all but vanished in an instant, but had been essential for the Stunticons to understand their combiner's mind.

The psychologist's analysis after the incident was still a prominent memory.

"Menasor exhibits traits unique to himself as much as he does traits from each of you five. He did not demonstrate protective instincts when we began these sessions with your combined form. Menasor's previous behavior was solely focused on protecting himself. Perhaps he has learned this protectiveness from you, Motormaster."

Motormaster had been flustered at the insinuation — he still was, admittedly —, even more so at Wildrider's giggled "aw, he's making the big guy soft!" which had made Drag Strip snicker, though the then Tyrell had tried his utmost best to stifle the sound before Motormaster could hear it. Motormaster had rolled his optics at the idea of his own feelings on the team being absorbed into Menasor's own personality coding, for he knew Menasor's relationship to him to be terse.

They argued, with the combiner sending him flashes of emotions at nearly every decision Motormaster made, often in rebuttal or disagreement. Menasor sulked and brooded whenever Motormaster ignored the combiner's output, or outright prevented Motormaster from having his processor free of Menasor's intrusion. Menasor's combativeness always seemed at odds with Motormaster, why would Menasor choose traits of Motormaster to emulate? He had enough from Motormaster's innate rage as it was, Motormaster had not believed himself a mech rife with sparkling, positive personality quirks to emulate at that time.

That disparity between himself and the combiner had kept Motormaster's thoughts occupied for years as they continued to attend therapy session after therapy session, until he began to accept he was changing in somewhat of a positive trajectory. Menasor emulated Motormaster's protectiveness because of the combiner's concern for his components' cohesiveness and safety. Menasor wanted his components safe for himself, and for the five Stunticons — Menasor had admitted to Motormaster once that he wished to make Motormaster proud by keeping all five of them safe.

That had given Motormaster much to ponder, besides the sudden influx of flustered, confounded heat that had escaped from his vents at the combiner's confession. Menasor was loyal to the Stunticons, dangerously so. Menasor liked Motormaster and wanted his torso component to trust him. Menasor was far smarter than Motormaster had ever realized. And far more dangerous now, after their decades of therapy sessions had allowed the Stunticons to work through their interpersonal issues in a healthy manner that freed Menasor's mind to one of complete control.

Not that they'd figured out their combiner or themselves in time to aid properly in the war effort. A snarl of frustration itched along Motormaster's undercarriage, burrowing at a deep insecurity he'd kept hidden from the Autobot psychologist. The war he and his brothers had been made for was done. They had finally reached the potential Megatron had first seen in them when he had made them, but only after there was no longer a war to demonstrate their control and cooperation. It made Motormaster feel a convoluted mass of emotions he still hadn't begun to decipher.

All he knew was that part of him itched for the war, as much as he was thankful his team were not risking their lives on a day to day basis. No amount of interstate travel hauling goods would ever be able to scratch at that itch, not as it lay in the very base of his coding.

A frisson of uncomfortable emotions threatened to barge through Motormaster's side of the gestalt bond as his processor ran circles around that itch. Frustrated, with himself and the bond's express openness, the semi slammed his thoughts away, locking them deep down to deal with later, as he focused on his internal GPS.

He had a job to complete.


Wildrider was shaking.

Motormaster could feel his brother's chassis shuddering through the gestalt bond as if the Ferrari was leaning against him. Rage and hurt prickled along Motormaster's hood like ghostly frissons with red hot confusion from Wildrider. Concern flushed through his fuel lines as Wildrider's emotions began tearing at the seams of the Stunticon bond with violent force.

::. Wildrider, I'm here, .:: Motormaster nudged at Wildrider's corner of the bond with a soothing stoicism, his own feelings free for the Ferrari to absorb and process as Motormaster waited for the other's permission before moving closer with the gestalt bond. Two hours had passed since he'd dropped off the secondary load of freight at a Nebraska distribution center then began the drive to their home in Montana, which was more than enough time for the semi to control his emotions enough that he could keep the gestalt bond open freely. That openness had picked up on Wildrider's fluctuating emotions quickly, emotions that continued to bash at the gestalt bond with violent force.

Frustration met Motormaster's bond suddenly, a sensation that crackled across their bond with a snap that only furthered Motormaster's concern. Wildrider wasn't one to jump to anger unless a situation truly warranted it. Wildrider's lack of response did nothing to settle his concern for his brother either. Wildrider was slow to anger as much as he was quick to talk about his feelings.

Someone, more likely than something, had upset Wildrider

::. Do you wish to talk? .::

Wildrider didn't answer.

Motormaster did not push.

Understanding the space Wildrider was needing, Motormaster retracted his bond from its proximity to the Ferrari. He kept his side of the bond open, but restrained. Where he would not intrude on Wildrider, while his offer remained open and accessible should Wildrider decide to seek out his eldest brother.

If Wildrider did not broach conversation between them through the bond, Motormaster would wait until he and the Ferrari could discuss face to face what was bothering Wildrider. The Stuntcons home, a retrofitted garage, was still multiple hours out from his current location. Time Wildrider could use to cool down from the sparking anger rippling off his bond.

Sixty miles of South Dakota prairie passed by Motormaster without a word from Wildrider when he heard Dead End's voice through their comms.

"Your energon suppressor isn't working properly."

"What do you mean?" Motormaster asked, even as he turned his attention inward, to his coding streams, to analyze the energon suppressor installed into his intake. A quick readout stated that his suppressor was working as intended, unlike Dead End's report.

"Your energon signal keeps appearing on our energon monitors," Dead End explained, his tone stern, as if he was reprimanding his older brother for his malfunctioning suppressor.

Motormaster ran a secondary analysis, which once again gave him the same readouts as prior, before he responded to Dead End. "I will keep my optic on that, my readouts aren't mentioning a malfunction within the suppressor, but I'll have you check it out when I get back to base."

"Understood, boss. Be careful."

Motormaster huffed an affirmative, though he could not resist the small smile at Dead End's use of the term "boss". Dead End's monotone words were affectionate. Across the gestalt bond, Motormaster could feel a minute wave of levity warming the edges of Dead End's oft dull gestalt bond.

Gone were the days of the Stunticons hating their leader.

Of Motormaster's cruel methods of leading and punishment.

A sigh rattled through Motormaster's frame. He felt his alt sink onto his wheels as his mirrors tilted inward towards his windows. His past treatment of his brothers haunted the semi to the day. Every choice he made was meant to prove he'd changed for his brothers. For himself.

So he waited, patiently, with only the music from his radio and the rumble of his tires to accompany him for any answer from Wildrider. The Black Hills passed by his windshield as he drove through Sturgis, with the forest falling away as he headed north to Belle Fourche. Only when he was on U.S Route 212 and the welcome sign for Wyoming had been passed some sixty miles before, did Wildrider finally contact the semi.

::. I got in a fight with Drag Strip, .:: Wildrider finally explained, a heavy sigh venting through the bond as the Ferrari turned all his focus onto Motormaster.

Motormaster slowed his alt as he gave Wildrider a listening grunt through the bond, his focus split evenly between his brother and the road before him. ::. Why? .::

Wildrider shrugged. ::. I don't know. It just happened. .::

A sigh exhaled through the semi's bond as Motormaster wished he could rub at his faceplate at Wildrider's response. His brothers had never stopped exasperating him in the forty years of their lives. ::. Explain. .::

Silence met the veiled command.

::. Wildrider… .::

::. Yes, sir. .::

What came next was a flurry of hastily jumbled together emotions, and flashes of Drag Strip's voice. Wildrider's emotions flared from intrigue as Drag Strip sauntered up to him in their garage, to rage, hurt and frustration as Drag Strip mocked the Ferrari. Motormaster could feel hints of Drag Strip's feelings through the images Wildrider was conveying, most notably that of Drag Strip's loathing.

Wildrider's fight with Drag Strip seemed to have been a mix of two potent mindsets from both Stunticons. Drag Strip resorted to taunts and jokes that had further inflamed Wildrider from his initial confusion to a determined disgust towards Drag Strip. Motormaster frowned, his disapproval locked down tightly behind the walls of his bond, before he responded to Wildrider.

::. Was there a purpose to your argument. .::

::. Besides that he insulted me… no. .:: Wildrider's response was muted behind a flush of hot embarrassment, the Ferrari's sheepishness clear to Mototmaster.

::. Did he apologize? .::

::. No, .:: Wildrider fidgeted through the bond. He was more bothered by the argument than Wildrider was fully allowing Motormaster to understand. The Stunticons argued at times with some degree of frustration, but they had not had an argument that left the members as frazzled as Wildrider seemed to be in decades.

::. Neither did I apologize. .:: Wildrider's addition did not surprise Motormaster. His brothers were exceptionally proud when wounded, a habit he knew he'd inflicted on them all when they were Decepticons. The team were improving in those regards, but they still had their moments where mindfulness, therapy and years of working on themselves faltered.

With a controlled pulse of reassurance to Wildrider, Motormaster informed the other of his intention to check in on Drag Strip before they resumed their conversation. Wildrider replied back with a withdrawn "yes, sir" before the Ferrari's bond became oddly quiet.

A cursory brush of Drag Strip's bond elicited an immediate fury that had Motormaster retreat with haste. The emotions stewing inside Drag Strip were uncomfortably familiar to the rage he had first woken to when Megatron had created him. A furious rage Motormaster worked constantly to prevent resurfacing.

Another sigh vented from Motormaster.

This was going to leave him with a genuine helmache.

Carefully, with his intentions being to comfort and soothe over anything else, Motormaster sent Drag Strip a private message through their comms system, inviting the other to vent to his leader as needed. Drag Strip did not respond, though Motormaster received a notification that he had received and read the message.

::. He wanted a fight, I realize now, .:: Wildrider huffed, breaking through Motormaster's thoughts. ::. He was spoiling for it, and I went to his bait. .::

::. Send him an apology, then give him space, .:: Motormaster huffed, a warning bolt of restraint curling around his command. Wildrider and Drag Strip needed space from the other over a quick turn around in conversation. Wildrider, ever desperate to have his brothers close by to speak with to fill the silence in his own processor, would struggle immensely with the command.

Wildrider replied with a quiet wave of understanding, and thanks, then became quiet through the bond. His brothers' fight wasn't fixed, but there was less emotion pounding from Wildrider's side of the bond than when Motormaster had first noticed his brother's upset.

He had hours still to drive before he arrived at the Stunticon garage. Hours to dwell on his thoughts, and the new strain on their group with Drag Strip's pointed refusal to speak to any of them.


"Here, you need this."

The cube of energon in Dead End's servo was tantalizing. Motormaster took the cube with a pleased thanks before Dead End settled down beside him on the couch.

Motormaster's joints were stiff, his engine running warm from the long back and forth trip. The cube of energon felt remarkably cool in comparison to his warm tires and warm engine, and so he held it without drinking from the cube for some minutes. Dead End sipped at his own cube of energon, his optics darting between Motormaster and the Porsche's cube with an unreadable expression.

"What?" Motormaster asked, one optic ridge raised questioningly.

"You are distant," Dead End said around a long draw of energon.

Motormaster looked past Dead End, before he felt his shoulder plates slump. "I have a lot of thoughts keeping me awake. Haven't had a good recharge in weeks."

Dead End's optics pierced through Motormaster's spark, boring through him as his second in command crossed his arms over his chest plate, the energon cube forgotten. "You shouldn't hold in your emotions. We all will listen to you, you're our brother."

"I—"

Motormaster cut himself off, the digits of his servos tapping aimlessly at his energon cube. He knew his team would support him, as he did them. He knew this. Practically every session of his individual therapy focused on Motormaster learning to accept when he needed help. He trusted his brothers implicitly. Then why was it so hard to express the thoughts haunting him, even to his second in command?

The feeling of a servo, placed over the plating of his arm, drew Motormaster to look down at Dead End. Dead End's visor flickered unreadably, though his servo did not waver from Motormaster's arm. "That is alright. We shall all perish eventually, in the end. Whether you discuss your feelings with me or not."

A laugh escaped from Motormaster at Dead End's comment, genuine amusement warming his fuel lines. Beside him, Dead End gave a brief, short chuff of amusement. Motormaster elbowed Dead End playfully, a soft "thanks, 'End" preceding the semi finally drinking from his energon cube.

Wildrider emerged from the hallway that led to the Stunticons' individual quarters some minutes later, looking like he was still half in recharge. The Ferrari's field was much calmer than earlier that day, almost pleasant in its thrumming energy as Wildrider settled down on the couch on Motormaster's opposite side. His helm horns dug in between the plating joints of Motormaster's left arm, but he did not complain.

He only moved his arms to wrap them around each of his present brothers, to the immediate purring rumble of Wildrider's engine.

"Thanks for the whole… talking to me thing, boss," Wildrider muttered, his words barely distinguishable over his purring engine.

Motormaster peered down at Wildrider, the incline of his helm in a nod preceding Motormaster ruffling Wildrider's helm affectionately. Wildrider's engine roared with a purr at the touch, his optics shuttering closed as he leaned into his leader's touch.

The purr of Wildrider's engine lulled Motormaster to the edge of recharge, until Dead End poked at his side of the gestalt bond with a bored ::. You should recharge in your room. It is late. .::

"Alright," Motormaster huffed, albeit good naturedly, before he nudged Wildrider off him. "Both of you get recharge, we have to head to the Ark early tomorrow."

Both Wildrider and Dead End nodded as Motormaster stood up from the couch. Upon his absence, Wildrider snuggled up beside Dead End, who leaned into the Ferrari with a final, unreadable look aimed in Motormaster's direction.

Motormaster waved off Dead End's concern as he marched to his room, stopping only to check on Breakdown, who was deep in recharge in his own room. Satisfied knowing that Breakdown was alright, Motormaster sent one last message to Drag Strip — again, received and read, but with no reply — before he slipped into his room. A yawn escaped from deep within his intake as the semi flopped down onto his berth, then shuttered his optics.

A scrape of metal against metal snapped Motormaster from his recharge. His optics reset as he turned his helm to the side, just as a surge of panicked field hit him.

Breakdown.

The Lamborghini shoved himself against Motormaster's side, a rushed, indecipherable explanation that left the semi confused. With a hard reset of his optics, Motormaster shuffled his frame to a seated position before he laid a servo on Breakdown's shoulder.

"Breakdown?"

No answer came from Breakdown but for the small Stunticon's frame brushing closer to Motormaster. A controlled vent hissed from Motormaster as he looked down at Breakdown.

"Was it a nightmare?"

Breakdown nodded vigorously at Motormaster's question, his side of the gestalt bond flaring with emotions unbidden. He was terrified. Scared. Anxious.

"Hey," Motormaster's touch was gentle, slight, as he tucked an arm under Breakdown to pull the smaller car to his side. The semi lowered himself from his seated position until he was once more resting on his back, a position he hoped was more accessible to Breakdown at that moment. "Easy. You're safe."

Breakdown shuddered, a rattle of his engine pulsing through Motormaster's audials before Breakdown squished his frame against the semi's. Surprise flashed through Motormaster for a brief moment. Part of him was still not accustomed to how affectionate and physical his brothers could be when they needed comfort. Motormaster himself was reserved and lacked a demonstrative demeanor, even with the decades that had passed alongside his brothers, but he would never refuse to express physical affection when one of his brothers sought it from him.

Carefully, Motormaster shifted his grip on Breakdown to pull the Lamborghini onto his chest plate. His right servo moved to rest against Breakdown's helm as the semi activated his heating system to warm his massive chassis for Breakdown's comfort.

"The same ones as before?"

"No," Breakdown whispered. "Worse."

As if to emphasize his words, Breakdown burrowed against Motormaster. Metal screeched through the semi's audials until Breakdown stopped, his legs and arms hunched into the Lamborghini's frame, the fingers of one servo latched tightly to Motormaster's cowl. Breakdown's vents hitched as the small mech wiped at his optics, smearing the windshield fluid beginning to flow from his ducts.

Motormaster frowned. Breakdown hadn't had a nightmare this overwhelming in nearly a decade. More worried than he had been when Breakdown interrupted his recharge, Motormaster gently wrapped his arms around Breakdown. He held his brother in place firmly, allowing the weight of his arms to hopefully calm Breakdown.

"What did you see?" Motormaster's prompt was firm as he gently rubbed his servo between Breakdown's shoulder plates.

Hesitation sparked across Breakdown's field, while a burst of fear shot through the gestalt bond. Motormaster's frown grew more pronounced at the assault of emotion from Breakdown. This wasn't like Breakdown. Not any longer.

"You don't have to-"

"You died. You died."

Motormaster froze at Breakdown's statement. His servo slowed in its pattern of circles against his brother's back. Breakdown's vents began to heave faster, though a telltale ticking from his engine was quickly drowning all other noise out.

"Breakdown." Motormaster's voice was low, his purple optics locked onto Breakdown's own. "Vent. Slowly. In and out."

Breakdown looked away from Motormaster's gaze before he let out a shaky vent. Slowly, Breakdown's engine stilled, and his vents eased, though Motormaster could feel his brother's fear radiating off his field and bond still.

"I saw you die," Breakdown murmured, the digits of his servo that had clung onto Motormaster's cowl tapping erratically against the silver metal. "I felt you die. It was horrible."

"I'm not going anywhere," Motormaster reassured. "That was a nightmare. I'm right here."

Breakdown did not seem convinced, for, with a shake of his helm, the Lamborghini let out a soft vent. "You weren't there. It felt the same as when we almost lost Drag Strip. I can't lose you. I —"

Motormaster silenced Breakdown with a sudden, engulfing hug. The semi's field wrapped around the Lamborghini at the same time, swallowing Breakdown in a soothing rumble that echoed along the lines of the gestalt bond. Motormaster did not speak, allowing his emotions to encompass the gestalt bond instead.

Eventually, Breakdown's storm of emotions waned, though he did not move from where the Lamborghini was laid out on top of his leader's chest plate. Motormaster kept his arms wrapped around Breakdown, his diesel engine rumbling soft white noise until the youngest Stunticon slipped into recharge.

"I'm right here," Motormaster reassured his recharging brother softly.

A sudden, violent surge of energy crashed against the bond with titanic force. Menasor was awake.

Anger, rage and protectiveness warred inside the bond as Menasor paced in the depths of their gestalt.

::. LET ME OUT. .:: The volume of Menasor's demand caused Motormaster to wince, his free servo twitching to cover his audials before the semi stopped himself.

::. No. .::

Menasor growled. ::. I WILL KEEP HIM SAFE. LET ME OUT. .::

A stirring of metal on Motormaster's chest alerted him to Breakdown, who was beginning to stir out of recharge. A quick thread of soothing energy directed at the Lamborghini inside the bond halted Breakdown from waking, before Motormaster turned his attention back to Menasor.

The combiner was seething, his impatience building without restraint. They had not combined in more than a month. Extended periods where they did not combine always left Menasor's presence pounding at the bond impatiently to be let out. Even more so when the combiner felt one of his components was threatened.

"He'll be alright," Motormaster reassured Menasor out loud, for himself and the combiner alike. "The priority for Breakdown is rest. We can combine tomorrow. Rest, Menasor."

Menasor vented loudly through the bond, but relented. Frustration, if not a small amount of upset, clouded Motormaster's bond as the combiner nestled himself back into his state of recharge. Motormaster vented, his free hand pressed to his faceplate as he shuttered his optics.

The issue of Menasor would have to be dealt with tomorrow, when the Stunticons headed to the Ark for their group session. Perhaps Silverbolt would entertain Menasor with harmless combat against Superion. That would quiet Menasor long enough for Motormaster to work through the thoughts plaguing his processor.

After sending a quick message to Silverbolt asking the Concorde to implore Optimus Prime for permission to have their combiners engage in combat, Motormaster returned his focus to Breakdown. One servo remained on Breakdown's to comfort the white and blue Stunticon, while the semi's free servo shifted to the top of Breakdown's helm. A yawn hissed from Motormaster's intake, making the semi frown as he tried to stay awake.

Recharge called to Motormaster as he leaned his helm back against the berth headrest. His optics shuttered and opened, fighting to stay awake, but shuttered finally.

His servo shifted to hold onto Breakdown's back with deliberate softness, the weight of the Lamborghini comforting to Motormaster in itself. A whispered "goodnight" escaped from the semi before he felt himself finally rest—

"Drag Strip has not reported in. He's twelve hours late." Dead End's cutting voice chased away the webs of recharge the semi had almost fallen into.

Motormaster vented, optics shuttering before he moved Breakdown off his chest plate. Breakdown let out a quiet protest but did not wake fully, even when Motormaster stood up from his berth with a creak of pistons.

"I will locate him. Send me his last coordinates."

Minutes later, Motormaster's alt was rumbling down the highway towards Drag Strip's last known coordinates. He had ordered Dead End to join Breakdown in Motormaster's room as he left, for both Stunticons' sake. Dead End, much like their leader, rarely allowed himself time to relax. Breakdown needed a physical source of comfort that Motormaster could no longer provide. They would both be alright.