Transformers © HASBRO
A cool breeze blew across Menasor's plating as he stared up at the sky from his supine position. He could feel a tree poking him in the back of the shoulder plate, but he ignored it as he watched the sky.
Menasor's components hadn't been given the chance to refuse when he'd demanded they wake early and combine. He was becoming ever more restless between when his components combined and allowed him the freedom to do what he wanted. They'd gotten better at actually allowing him out, but he wanted to choose for himself when he wanted to combine. Not just when they were encouraged by the Aerialbots or Constructicons to let him out, or when they had to for therapy sessions.
Breakdown was his closest companion. Or friend, if Menasor could use the term with his components whilst they continued to struggle — as he did as well – with the aftermath of the destruction he'd wrought.
He'd practically tasted Dead End's fear of giving control to Menasor the day they had combined with Drag Strip after retrieving him from the humans who had started the entire mess. Dead End's fear had left ice cold stiffness in Menasor's fuel lines, for it was the same fear that had overcome the young combiner at the prospect of his components allowing him free reign.
Breakdown's support had not been enough to keep him together.
Not with Dead End's fear of him freezing his fuel lines. Not with Motormaster's doubt towards him churning a vicious anxiety within Menasor. Not with Drag Strip's anger towards his three brothers aggravating the notoriously short attention span that plagued Menasor.
He'd fled the second Motormaster had ordered his team to combine, vanishing so deep into the gestalt bond that Menasor could not even feel his components' presences. He understood that they had been unable to sense him as well, a fact that Menasor knew had upset Motormaster.
The semi hadn't spoken to him much of late through the gestalt bond. There was no grumpy back and forth between torso component and combiner, even when Menasor tried to prod Motormaster into engaging in any form of conversation. It wasn't clear to the combiner whether Motormaster was ignoring him, or he was too busy to spend time talking with Menasor.
Menasor suspected it was both.
Motormaster was spending more and more time at the Ark between work, talking with the Autobot therapist for lengthy periods of time, as well as Optimus Prime, Silverbolt and Megatron. The semi was practically exhausted after spending such time with the Autobots. Menasor knew not to bother him after, or while he was working, which left very little time for the combiner to gather his thoughts together to talk to Motormaster.
Then… Motormaster was assuredly avoiding him.
They combined more frequently thanks to Scrapper's advice, but Motormaster never let his emotions invade the bond whilst they were combined and Menasor was active. There was no rash of anger as when the Combaticons had threatened Silverbolt and Wildrider. No undue flustered emotions when Menasor would be pinned in mock combat by Superion. Motormaster was simply quiet.
Perhaps Menasor had pushed too hard on his team too soon with his overbearing — because that's what he was, overbearing… — presence after Wildrider's return. Motormaster had communicated with him for the first few weeks, but had gradually decreased his responses the more Menasor was allowed out.
Whether it was because the semi was mad at Menasor, or for some other unknown reason, Menasor couldn't figure.
Not when he couldn't outright talk to Motormaster. Menasor could never speak directly, one on one, with his torso component for he could not exist without Motormaster being in his combined form. The other four, Menasor's limbs, he could — theoretically — speak faceplate to faceplate with. Never Motormaster.
How desperately Menasor wanted to speak to all of his components, individually.
But what could he say?
Sorry for destroying that human city and ruining everything?
Sorry for always messing things up?
I didn't mean to hurt anyone?
What could he say that could convey the depth of hurt that dwelled inside his conscience?
Even Breakdown and Wildrider couldn't understand, for none of Menasor's components could ever get that far into his bond. Not because they hadn't tried — Wildrider had, many times — but because they couldn't. Not unless Menasor allowed them in, while they were looking for him and knew how to navigate the very existence of the gestalt bond.
The gestalt bond was Menasor, and its existence relied on him. Which only left his bond to be quashed by his components while he was dormant and inactive.
A quashing that, apparently, had led to him being controlled by G.H.O.S.T.
Menasor still didn't understand how exactly the humans had controlled him. The therapist, Ratchet and Devastator's components had explained the exact nature behind the processor controlling chips that had been installed inside the combiner's components, but he still didn't understand.
Was the destruction he had wrought his fault or not?
If it wasn't, why were his components struggling to reconcile with trusting him?
Menasor frowned.
Anxiety nibbled at his spark.
The best way to know was to ask one of them, right?
Menasor closed his optics as a deep, unsettled vent escaped from him.
The tree continued to dig into his shoulder, but now it bothered him.
With a growl, Menasor sat up and ripped the tree from the ground with a roar, then flung it far from himself. The tree sailed far from his position, leaving Menasor to lay back down and cover his faceplate with his servos.
Frustration welled inside him.
Menasor didn't know what to do.
Talking to his components was the most logical step.
Which was easier said than done. Communicating with them through the gestalt bond often left misunderstandings or did not permit Menasor to fully communicate his feelings to his components. He could not outright delve into the depth of the bonds of his components, as he had when he'd found Wildrider while he was controlled by G.H.O.S.T and pulled his Ferrari component into a dream within the gestalt bond. That would drain all of his energy and force him to recharge.
He could detach each of his limb components to speak to them. If they would entertain him with a conversation…
Wildrider and Breakdown would.
Menasor sat up, his optics narrowed as he examined the connection to Breakdown. With a deep, concentrated vent, Menasor closed his optics and searched the gestalt bond.
Breakdown's bond was quieter than the rest, but Menasor could feel it through his limb connections and that of his components' spark. The Lamborghini was the spark of the entire gestalt. He was who Menasor needed to speak to first.
::. Breakdown? .: Menasor hesitated as he intruded on his component's unique gestalt coding. None of the other Stunticons would be able to detect what he and Breakdown discussed.
Breakdown startled notably at Menasor's intrusion, a feeling like ruffled plating rippling through their private connection before Breakdown seemed to calm. ::. What is wrong? .::
Menasor hesitated, his digits tapping anxiously against his knee struts. Now that he'd broached the subject, he didn't know what to do.
Before he could hesitate, Menasor forced Breakdown to detach from him.
A surprised gasp escaped Breakdown as the white Stunticon flopped to the ground in front of Menasor. Menasor watched Breakdown as his component slowly gathered himself to his pedes, then turned to face Menasor.
Worry sparked across his optics and field as Breakdown stepped forward and placed a servo on Menasor's right servo. "Are you okay? You seem upset." Breakdown moved closer to Menasor as he spoke, his comforting touch never wavering from the combiner.
Menasor lowered his helm, his optics shifting to Breakdown before he gave his component a shrug. "Do you trust me? Do any of you trust me?"
Breakdown's gestalt bond flickered with surprise at Menasor's question. Menasor couldn't help himself as he checked the connection between himself and Breakdown, searching for any form of duplicity within his component. The combiner hated himself as he doubted Breakdown, for he well knew that Breakdown was his most ardent supporter.
Pessimism — of the same kind as that which unfurled from Dead End's bond — and self doubt all of his own pushed Menasor to check. The paranoia that rattled through his processor clawed at his torso, opening him to—
"I will always trust you."
Breakdown's tone was firm. Strong.
Breakdown's bond flamed with conviction of a strength matching Motormaster's own. Menasor could not have believed Breakdown's genuine response further. Every ounce of Breakdown's beliefs were poured into that one simple sentence.
He was the spark of the team, after all.
Menasor dipped his helm, then turned his right servo to scoop Breakdown up and pull him close to his chest plate. Breakdown let out a surprised gasp as he was slotted against Menasor's chest plate, but he did not protest. To Menasor's relief, Breakdown buried himself against the combiner's chest plate with a gentle rumbling purr of his engine.
"The others trust you too," Breakdown whispered against Menasor's chest plate. The Lamborghini's digits tapped at the broad metal plating, the gesture soothing as Breakdown pressed his field against Menasor. Affection bubbled from Menasor as his component looked him in the optics, Breakdown's expression sincere in all of itself.
"Motormaster and Dead End trust and care about you, though I know it's hard to tell." Breakdown gave a half sparked gesture that Menasor couldn't define, though he could translate Breakdown's frown perfectly.
He was frustrated.
Not with Menasor.
Not with Motormaster (Menasor would be able to feel any discontent aimed at one of his components from another of his team), nor with Dead End. Drag Strip hadn't been mentioned by Breakdown, and the Lamborghini's bond sparked with gentle affection for Drag Strip that left no feeling of negativity towards the yellow Stunticon.
Menasor hadn't detected any trace of emotion from Drag Strip in all the times they had combined since Drag Strip had returned to his team. Nothing besides his jealousy and insecurity when Menasor's components had forced him to combine after Drag Strip's rescue. For all of the emotion he couldn't detect from Drag Strip, Menasor had heard the way Drag Strip spoke of him. Of the doubt the Stunticon had in Menasor's ability to restrain himself when Menasor's team needed to call him out while they worked in Philadelphia.
Then who was Breakdown's frustration directed at?
Hurt choked Menasor's vocalizer as he turned his helm away from Breakdown.
Did Superion struggle with his components distrusting him as Menasor did with his own? Defensor did not. Devastator did not. They were both stable combiners, compared to Menasor.
Superion never seemed at war with himself when the two combiners duked it out in mock combat. Superion's components got along with each other, much as Menasor's components did, so there was no interpersonal conflict to affect either combiner.
At least, that he knew.
It wasn't as if Menasor and Superion spent time talking about their components to each other. He'd have to ask when he headed back to the Ark later.
"Menasor?" Breakdown's voice, filled with curious worry, stopped the combiner mid train of thought. "Are you okay?"
A shake of his helm cleared Menasor's dwelling thoughts before he looked down at Breakdown. The Lamborghini blinked up at him, helm tilted to the side as one servo tightened on Menasor's collar plating. A comforting warmth radiated from Breakdown's field as he leaned closer to Menasor, his touch all too soothing for the combiner's frazzled state.
Soothing enough that Menasor could not lie as he responded to Breakdown with a quiet, reserved, "No."
Breakdown's optics narrowed, but he did not speak. All the Countach did was to tighten his hold on Menasor's collar plating as the combiner vented. Menasor lowered his frame to a supine position so that he could stare at the clouds in the sky. Anything to avoid looking at Breakdown's imploring and gentle gaze.
"You said my components trust me—"
"Are we not brothers to you, Menasor?" Breakdown's question shot antifreeze through Menasor's chassis.
He darted his optics down to look at Breakdown, his intake shifting as he swallowed back the upswell of emotion that threatened to control him. How could he explain the desperation he held, deep down, for Menasor's components to consider him as brothers? To allow him the same affection they showed each other?
Explaining through words would not do it for Menasor.
Only the gestalt bond could express what was going through his processor and spark at that very moment.
With a vent, Menasor dragged Breakdown into the spark of his gestalt bond.
Breakdown turned rigid on Menasor's chest plate as every single one of Menasor's emotions engulfed him. Menasor felt Breakdown fight back against the combiner's gestalt bond, but Breakdown was not strong enough.
No combiner component was strong enough.
Finally, a weak gasp escaped from Breakdown as Menasor retracted his gestalt bond from the Countach. Regret scythed through Menasor as he felt Breakdown tremble on his chest plate. Hesitation marred his next gesture as Menasor raised his right arm to lay his right servo over Breakdown's small frame.
"I understand," Breakdown whispered from beneath Menasor's servo. "I understand."
Breakdown held onto Menasor without another word. The Countach's gestalt bond remained open to Menasor, flickering with an invitation for friendship. Menasor leaned into the bond as much as he dared. His right leg itched where Breakdown was supposed to be, but Menasor ignored it completely.
He was lonely.
Desperate for companionship.
Menasor began to tap at his left thigh as his processor glitched over itself with memories from all of his gestalt members' friends.
Of the joy that filtered through Dead End's apathy whenever he spent time with Skydive.
Wildrider's happiness, unbidden and allowed to be himself without restraint, whenever he raced the Autobots or his brothers, or simply enjoyed a good game with anyone on the Ark.
Breakdown's acceptance of First Aid as Defensor's component slowly helped Breakdown learn to trust beyond his team.
Then the affection that softened every edge off of Motormaster whenever Silverbolt's gentle presence approached the semi.
Only Drag Strip could share in Menasor's struggle to make friends, for he was without any friends who were not the Stunticons.
Menasor wasn't certain he could consider himself as lucky as Drag Strip, though. While the Stunticons were his components, and Menasor wished they could see him as their brother, he wasn't sure all of them would ever see him in such a close way.
Even with Superion, the only mech Menasor spent considerable time with, couldn't truly be considered his friend. Not when exploring his components' gestalt bonds showed how their friendships with the other combiner team members included sharing hobbies, spending time that wasn't just sparring together, and many other activities Menasor never did.
How did he even begin to form a genuine friendship with his team?
"Breakdown?" Hesitation jerked at his vocalizer, nearly silencing Menasor as he bit out the Lamborghini's name.
"Yes?"
"You are… friends with Defensor's component. First Aid?" Menasor continued to erratically tap at his left thigh as he peered down at Breakdown.
"Yes, he's my friend," Breakdown nodded, his expression drawing with further concern as he looked at Menasor curiously. "How come?"
Menasor fidgeted. He tapped at his side anxiously, then moved his left arm to rub at the back of his helm. "How did you make friends with him?"
Anxiety washed over Menasor as he picked up Breakdown, deposited him to the ground, and sat up. Breakdown permitted it all as he watched Menasor through contemplative optics.
Menasor would have paced, if Breakdown wasn't his lower right leg component and wasn't currently staring at him.
So he settled on ripping a mangled tree from the ground and fiddling with it between his servos while he waited for Breakdown's response.
"I didn't start out looking to be First Aid's friend," Breakdown began, "it simply happened. My brothers and I had to spend a lot of time within the medical bay on the Ark when we first defected. When Optimus had the medics tend to us, he assigned First Aid to me. I believe he did because he knew First Aid's personality would be easier for me to relax near, compared to Ratchet.
"He was right, as he often seems to be—"
A flicker of amusement appeared from Motormaster in a suddenness that surprised Menasor. It wasn't like Motormaster to impart his feelings while combined. Not since Mensor had refused to combine when they'd freed Drag Strip. Menasor latched onto his torso component's mirth almost as if starved. He missed Motormaster.
Breakdown continued to detail his friendship with First Aid. The white Stunticon made it clear that First Aid's persistence and gentleness, as well as an inordinate level of patience, had been what had finally broken through Breakdown's paranoia and anxiety. That Breakdown did his best to spend time with First Aid and to show investment in the Protectobot's interests and hobbies. How their friendship consisted of a different kind of duty than what Breakdown knew was expected of him within the Stunticons.
Menasor dug his digits into the trunk of the tree as he turned a long look towards Breakdown. "How can I make friends with all of you? I… can't spend time engaged in your hobbies as easily as you can with First Aid…"
Hurt cut Menasor off as he turned to glare a hole into the tree — which hardly resembled a tree after he'd wrung it through his servos enough times. He should accept his position. He was a combiner. Not an individual who could fit in anywhere but on a battlefield. His team was improving on letting him out, but they outnumbered him, didn't they?
Their needs superseded his own silly desires to become more than just the Stunticons' combiner form. Heat pooled at the edges of his optics as Menasor turned away from Breakdown. Liquid — windshield wiper fluid? — slipped past his right servo as he rubbed at his optics in a poor attempt at a surreptitious attempt to remove the evidence before Breakdown noticed.
"Menasor?" Breakdown's voice reached the combiner just as Menasor connected to the gestalt coding itself and forced Breakdown to combine with him once again.
Something assailed him with worry as Menasor stood up from his seated position. He marched back to the Ark slowly, hoping he'd be able to hide any evidence of his upset state from the Autobots. They didn't need to know Menasor was struggling.
His team mattered most.
As the Ark appeared within optic range, a roar of engines announced Silverbolt's arrival.
"Glad to see you back, Menasor," Silverbolt greeted as he hovered with the help of his thrusters beside him, "are you alright?"
Menasor looked away from Silverbolt, his arms crossing over his chest plate as he trudged past Silverbolt. He didn't need Silverbolt to notice he was upset. He knew what would happen. The Concorde would stop him and comfort him, as Silverbolt did for Motormaster, Breakdown and the rest of Menasor's team.
Silverbolt cared too much.
But the Concorde's worry lowered his guards.
Menasor slowed to a stop before he reached the Ark's entrance allowing Silverbolt to maneuver in front of his faceplate. Worry had turned Silverbolt's optics a dark blue as he moved ever so slightly closer to Menasor, then placed one servo on his left helm horn.
Silverbolt's field was small compared to Menasor's, but the force of his concern and genuine affection — for Menasor? — calmed the combiner considerably. Motormaster, Breakdown and Dead End trusted the Concorde instinctually. Silverbolt wasn't his team. He would provide a different mindset to Menasor than any of his team could, wouldn't he?
"May I ask you something?"
Silverbolt tilted his helm, optics narrowed slightly at Menasor's question, but he responded with a nod and reassurance through his field. Silverbolt waited a moment before he removed his servo from Menasor's helm horn, then landed on his left collar plate.
Menasor vented as he crossed his arms over his chest plate, digits tapping out his nervousness as he looked down at Silverbolt. "I want to be friends with my components, but I believe they don't trust me. After…"
Menasor kicked at the ground, sending a tree into a crash of splintered wood as he paced back and forth near the Ark. Silverbolt stayed seated on his collar plating, watching Menasor attentively. It seemed as if nothing could break Silverbolt's focus on the Stunticon combiner, not even the considerable height the acrophobic Concorde was at.
Menasor heard himself rambling out his feelings to Silverbolt. An endless stream of thoughts poured from the combiner with the muted anxiety of Breakdown and frenetic pace of Wildrider.
He explained his worry over his components disliking him, of the trust he felt he had broken and could not fix. Of Dead End's passive apathy towards him. The churlish cold from Drag Strip's bond. How Motormaster's silence had sapped any shred of confidence from the young combiner.
With each voiced thought, Menasor felt his anxiety lessen and his pacing slow to a steady, statuesque stiffness.
Breakdown could understand how Menasor felt through their gestalt bond. Breakdown had reassured him and supported him, but the gestalt connection hadn't been enough.
Maybe his team's talking sessions with that Autobot therapist held more merit to it than Menasor had given credit for.
Silverbolt hummed contemplatively. His servo pressed soothingly against Menasor's plating before he said a quiet, "I can talk to Motormaster and Dead End about what you have explained to me. I believe you and your team have miscommunicated with each other, as I know Motormaster was worried when he couldn't sense your presence through the gestalt bond."
"I upset him," Menasor added with a nod, "but I…"
Menasor trailed off, right digits tapping against his waist absentmindedly.
He thought Motormaster was upset with him for his absence.
Not that Motormaster was upset because of worry for his combiner's absence.
Indecision, confusion and hurt warred within Menasor as strongly as when his components had hated each other, when he was first asked to battle and brought online. Silverbolt seemed to notice, for a servo came to rest on the side of his helm before the Concorde met Menasor's optics sharply.
"It's taken me four decades to begin to truly understand Motormaster, and we speak to each other almost daily. You don't, do you?"
Menasor looked down before he shook his helm in a wordless no.
Silverbolt's servo did not waver from Menasor's helm, though a new surge of electricity bounced off the Concorde's field as he said a quiet, "I will talk to them."
Menasor frowned, aware of a sudden chill — shock? — that coursed through his torso.
His left arm prickled where it connected to his shoulder joint, while uncomfortable heat bubbled under his right arm's plating.
Motormaster had heard, and felt, everything Menasor had said and thought. Dead End and Drag Strip were aware as well.
Before he could sense whatever was thundering through Motormaster's gestalt bond, Menasor removed Silverbolt from his shoulder, then put himself dormant once again.
"Menasor? Hey? You around?"
A rough, drawling yell pierced the dormant combiner's mind. Surprise stirred Menasor awake, his optics opening to the energy of the gestalt bond.
He wasn't combined?
Then…
"Menasor? Hello? Ugh. How the heck does that damn Ferrari do this. 'Oh, it's easy, Drag Strip. Just go into recharge and concentrate on Menasor through the gestalt bond. Then you can talk to him.' Stupid. He's not here."
Drag Strip?
Menasor pulled himself up, rising from his recharge as the sound of Drag Strip's stomping grew closer to his location.
One of his components was visiting him in their recharge.
Through the dreamscape of the gestalt bond, where Menasor practically lived every moment of his life when he wasn't combined. The only other time any of the Stunticons had accessed Menasor's private domain was when he'd hunted Wildrider's bond down and drug the Ferrari in with him.
What was Drag Strip looking for?
Curiosity kept Menasor at a brisk pace as he left the confines of his abode in search of Drag Strip. Wary excitement kept Menasor light on his pedes as he silently advanced through the dark fog of his gestalt bond. There was no life to the gestalt bond's core, where Menasor lived, as there was within his components' — brothers? — side of the gestalt bond.
Menasor's presence was distant but eternally present within the landscape of his team's bond, while their bond could not extinguish the foggy shadows of Menasor's home. He wondered if it was due to his reliance on his team to exist in the mortal plane they always wandered. Where his brothers could walk the earth they had been created on whenever they pleased, Menasor could not.
He was the reason the Stunticons had been created, but they were the physical binds that permitted his existence. Menasor could never hold his brothers' minds and frame ransom out of a desire to stay combined, no matter how much he wished he could wander the world as freely as they did.
Earth was not where combiners belonged, even Earth born combiners such as Menasor and Superion. Ceding to his brothers' individual sparks was how his team stayed safe on their home planet.
Even if doing so fragmented Menasor and left him feeling hollow, as it had for many years since Motormaster and his brothers had left the Decepticons.
As long as Menasor was able to combine, able to spend time with his components and with Superion, and could sense the presence of his five brothers, he would have to accept his place.
Small pedesteps stopped Menasor in his tracks, moments before he caught the glint of headlights through the fog.
Drag Strip appeared through the dark fog of the gestalt bond, his yellow chassis a flare of color compared to the grayness that made up everything within Menasor's bond. Relief shot through Menasor as he kneeled down and greeted Drag Strip with a pleased, "Hello, Drag Strip."
"Holy!" Drag Strip exclaimed as he leapt backwards at Menasor's greeting, shock turning Drag Strip's frame stiff as he slowly looked up at Menasor.
Menasor tilted his helm towards Drag Strip as he bent down onto one knee strut in front of the Pagani. Drag Strip jumped again at Menasor's closeness, but caught himself with what sounded like a nervous laugh, and a flustered servo to the nape of his neck plating.
"You're a lot bigger in person," Drag Strip noted, almost with a hint of amusement as he crossed his arms over his chest plate and raised an optic ridge noticeably towards Menasor.
Menasor didn't dare move.
Confusion licked at his processor as he continued to attempt to correlate that Drag Strip was visiting him in his dormant recharge. Only Wildrider had known about this place. Why had Drag Strip hunted him down?
"Because I wanted to talk to you."
Oh.
Yes.
Drag Strip could hear his thoughts through the gestalt bond, couldn't he.
::. Definitely, .:: Drag Strip drawled, before he stretched out his limbs, then flopped down onto the ground with a yawn. ::. You should sit. It's kind of intimidating being stared at when you're that much taller than me. .::
"Uh," Menasor's vocalizer stuttered out loud as he stared down at Drag Strip, optics shuttering owlishly for a few moments.
When Drag Strip didn't move or make a jeering comment at his slowness, Menasor realized Drag Strip was being honest. A glance into the other's gestalt bond proved the Pagani's honesty as well, for not a hint of deception or boredom could be found even as Drag Strip continued to blink up at Menasor, somewhat impatiently.
With a stammered sound that sounded more like Breakdown than Menasor, the combiner shifted his frame until he was seated a few feet from Drag Strip's supine frame. Drag Strip glanced over at Menasor as the combiner hunched his knees close to his chest plate, helm tilted to stare down at the Pagani in turn. Uncertainty kept Menasor's mouth slammed shut, not that he would have been able to say much that would have been decipherable considering how choked up his vocalizer seemed to be.
Drag Strip stared at Menasor wordlessly until, with something that sounded like a disgruntled growl, Drag Strip rubbed at his faceplate.
"I don't know how this whole… thing… works," Drag Strip snapped, his ruffled plating clacking loudly in Menasor's audials. "I'm not emotionally available like Wildrider and Breakdown, and I don't know how to talk to anyone besides my brothers. We… you are our combiner, but we don't hang out. I heard what you said to Breakdown and Silverbolt earlier today. I… I'm sorry."
Menasor stared at Drag Strip, a frown sharpening the lines of his faceplate as the combiner peered down at his component. "Sorry? For?"
"Sorry for how I made you feel. I don't hate you or distrust you," Drag Strip's sigh was quiet, his early fire waxing as he stared at his knee struts next to Menasor. "I doubted you when we needed your help in Philadelphia, because you're…"
"Easily distracted?" Menasor supplied. "Dangerous…"
Drag Strip sighed, his right servo raised to point sarcastically at Menasor. "And violent. That's as shallow of an impression I have for you. A violent, angry combiner with the attention span of a byte."
Menasor looked down at his servos self consciously. The purple stood out so starkly from the frames of his brothers. Those were the parts of himself that were wholly his own. His spark wasn't even his own, so why did it ache so at Drag Strip's words?
A deep, troubled sigh escaped from Drag Strip before he suddenly stood. Menasor watched Drag Strip curiously, his optics widening as the Pagani walked up to him, sat down, then leaned against Menasor's left leg.
That was… new.
He liked it.
Why did Menasor like the affection and physical closeness of his components — brothers — so much? It wasn't a gesture he could expect from them, and one he shouldn't attach himself to. He was a combiner and they his components. Menasor had to accept what he couldn't have.
Menasor startled out of his berating thoughts — how Motormaster of himself, truly — when he felt Drag Strip smack him, the Pagani's words much softer than the smack he'd given Menasor.
"It's normal to yearn for kindness, Menasor. Just because you're a combiner doesn't mean you don't deserve to want affection or kindness," Drag Strip berated, the glare he sent Menasor a startling one in its intensity.
Menasor turned away from Drag Strip's gaze, servos shifting to tap at his knee struts soundlessly.
"Look," Drag Strip sighed, "like I said. I'm not good at making friends. I'm not Wildrider. I can't make friends with whoever intrigues him for the day. But I have learned that I have to be honest with those I care about, and I do care about you. You're a part of me as much as the rest of our brothers. It isn't right that I mislead you into thinking I don't like you, or don't trust you."
Menasor listened without a word. He shifted his left servo towards Drag Strip, but stopped before he could even be suspected of attempting to touch his brother.
This time, Drag Strip didn't seem to notice, not when Menasor heard Drag Strip shake his helm and sigh. "Remember how Wildrider followed the Protectobots around like a lost sparkling a few years ago?"
Menasor couldn't help the smile that tugged at his mouth at Drag Strip's reminder. It had been a strange experience for Menasor, because suddenly he'd been overcome by the urge to ask Defensor for sparring matches instead of Superion while Wildrider's current obsession was the Protectobots. Motormaster had finally intervened by forcing Menasor to challenge Defensor and Superion to a sparring match at the same time.
His defeat had left all six of the Stunticons sour, and Wildrider suddenly and dramatically uninterested in hanging out with the Protectobots.
"Exactly," Drag Strip growled, though there was a softness to his growl that spoke of anything but anger, "I can't do that. I don't have friends, not like my brothers. I don't have Silverbolt or Skydive or First Aid. Jazz is friendly to me, but I don't think he's my friend. Not when he's the Autobot second in command. All I have are our brothers, the same as you."
"Our?" Menasor whispered, a sharp edge of doubt leaving his expression uncertain as he watched Drag Strip.
Drag Strip shifted his helm to fix a firm look onto the combiner that reminded him of the same fierce boldness of Motormaster when the semi would defend his brothers. Menasor had sensed protectiveness and defensiveness in Drag Strip many times over the years, but only ever about his four components. Not Menasor.
But Menasor could not deny that all of that fierce Stunticon loyalty was fixed on him.
A soft smile finally broke through Menasor's frown as Drag Strip let out a light chuckle, the Pagani's gestalt bond reflecting honesty, and a notable degree of bemusement, aimed towards Drag Strip himself.
"We're both friendless, might as well make each other our friend, right?"
Menasor tilted his helm, optics shuttering as he studied Drag Strip for a moment, then inclined his helm in a nod. His spark yearned to express the effusive joy that was prickling underneath his plating at Drag Strip's invitation, but Menasor restrained it with a nod, and quiet, "If you would have me."
Drag Strip patted Menasor's leg, a light snort escaping from his vents, "Why wouldn't I?"
"Because I am a violent, angry combiner?" Menasor offered flatly, his expression graven.
He expected Drag Strip to remember that truth.
For Drag Strip to get up and leave.
For Drag Strip to turn away from Menasor for everything he'd caused—
Instead, Drag Strip's voice carried to him with coldness that slammed his thoughts away with vice like suddenness.
"No. That was G.H.O.S.T. Not you. When I doubted you in Philadelphia, I was judging you off the control coding we had installed into our neural net. Not you. It's our connection to you that controlled you back then. We all heard you tell off Motormaster when he wanted you to kill Vortex and the Combaticons. You disobeyed him to follow the laws of our treaty. That's who you are."
Drag Strip vented, his fans stirring before he stood up, then marched up to Menasor's chest plate. Sorrow, affection, hurt and a hint of respect flashed across Drag Strip's visor as he shook his helm, then jabbed a digit against Menasor's chest plate.
"All you want is to protect us. Even if that means disagreeing with Motormaster, or giving up your own chance to be yourself so that your components can do whatever they want. Yeah, we all heard you thinking about that. That is Stunticon to the core."
"What do you mean?" Menasor questioned.
Shouldn't Drag Strip be glad Menasor would give up his own chance to be combined, to be alive and to watch the clouds and birds and spend time with Superion, so his team could be themselves without fear of Menasor overtaking them?
"I mean you're just like us. Rash, stupid, brave, you name it," Drag Strip said with a clear roll of his optics Menasor felt through the gestalt bond. "If there's anyone we should have been more fair to is you, big guy."
Menasor frowned.
He didn't want his brothers to feel obligated to like him. Not like this. Not—
Drag Strip's pedes slammed onto his chest plate, startling Menasor as the sunbright yellow Stunticon marched up his chest plate until he was inches from Menasor's faceplate.
Menasor could not help but swallow as Drag Strip jabbed a digit at him, denta bared. "You know I hear everything you think, so stop."
"Uh…"
"We're the best combiner team out there," now Drag Strip's words carried a hint of smug levity that made Menasor blink, stupefied, "it's time we act like it for you. And I really don't want another Silverbolt lecture."
"I… see…" Menasor blinked again, mystified by Drag Strip.
He knew that Drag Strip was defensive and protective of the Stunticons, to a relentless degree. So many times it had been Drag Strip's fury at the mere idea of losing and becoming a joke to those around them that had propelled Menasor further in battle, even after severe injury or multiple defeats. But that was always for Menasor's components.
Not for Menasor himself.
This was…
"Oh, shut up," Drag Strip suddenly snapped, his words drawing Menasor's backstrut stiff with shock, seconds before Drag Strip wrapped his arms around Menasor's faceplate and hugged him.
Menasor froze.
Shock bubbled up from the core of his gestalt bond like lava.
If he was actually combined, Menasor knew he would have broken apart at the shock.
Drag Strip did not pull away.
Did not move even when Menasor finally gathered his thoughts and, with a purr from his engine, leaned into his brother's hug.
This he could get used to.
This… was nice.
Dead End hummed to himself as he read through Skydive's messages. Work had picked up considerably for the Stunticons' business since Wildrider had saved that construction worker in Philadelphia. They were so busy that Dead End hadn't been able to visit his friend or their book club in a few weeks, not since they had last been to the Ark as Menasor.
But Skydive had left him a wealth of images and messages that made Dead End smile as he leaned back against the couch in their living room annex.
Bluestreak, Slingshot and Jazz joined the last book club, the one for Silent Spring. I wish you had been there, for Slingshot and Silverbolt got into a lengthy debate with Bluestreak on what Cybertronians would do to Earth if they had the run of the place.
Jazz pitched in a little but the consensus from my brothers was that Earth would be threatened by our race and destroyed. Bluestreak seemed hesitant to agree with them. I think he believes that our race would attempt to preserve Earth if that was our responsibility. I'm not so convinced.
The next book we're reading was Jazz's suggestion: Young Men And Fire, by Norman Maclean. I already sent you the file for the book.
A few pictures of the last book club followed, many of which contained shots of Slingshot arguing quite demonstratively against Bluestreak. Jazz was watching from the side of his fellow Autobot, an obvious smile hidden behind a servo. Silverbolt was perched, his towering frame crouched down as he gestured soundlessly at Bluestreak and Slingshot. Skydive had even included a single picture of himself with the entire group from the book club, and Dead End could not miss Slingshot's digits sticking out from behind Skydive's helm in a teasing gesture.
Dead End's mouth twitched with his own smile before he felt a heavy storm of emotions blaze through the gestalt bond.
Menasor was awake.
A sigh escaped Dead End. Menasor had been responding better to them since Breakdown and Drag Strip had spoken to him, but their combiner was still struggling.
Drag Strip and Breakdown were on call, for an emergency repair sixty miles from their shop, and had been gone since that morning. Motormaster was in Canada, hauling goods to a well digging site. Only Wildrider was around, and then he was outside in the garden.
Or he had been, judging by the sudden rush of pedes and Wildrider pouncing onto the couch from behind Dead End. Clouds of dirt rained down onto Dead End as his brother settled in beside him, then jerked a servo to his datapad.
"Skydive have anything interesting to report?"
"Nothing much," Dead End noted as he held the datapad out for Wildrider to take.
Wildrider snatched the datapad from the Porsche, his dirt stained digits all over the sturdy datapad housing. It made Dead End's optic twitch. The Ferrari fiddled with the messaging system on the datapad for a bit (including speedily writing and then sending a message to whom Dead End didn't know), then passed it back.
Unenthusiastic, Dead End took back his datapad, then looked at his brother's message.
It was addressed to Hot Spot.
Dead End snapped his helm to stare, bewildered, at his brother.
Wildrider shrugged, expression neutral. "Just asking if he and his team know of any better solutions to help with Menasor. He kept me up last night feeling anxious and lonely. I tried to comfort him but he didn't seem to hear me."
Dead End's optics narrowed. He peered at the message to Hot Spot, verified it had sent, then put the datapad on sleep. He had felt something similar from Menasor the prior night but not strongly enough to keep him up.
"Did you piece through his loneliness to figure out where that was originating from?" Dead End quiered, a scowl tight across his faceplate.
He was frustrated. Not with Menasor or his brothers but their seeming and continuing struggle with the fallout from G.H.O.S.T. Menasor was traumatized and scared. His brothers were closer knit but they all were working longer hours to distract their thoughts, and recoup money they'd lost when their business had struggled with acquiring customers after the trial.
Menasor was the most dire issue to Dead End, but he and Wildrider could not combine to speak to Menasor in person without Motormaster. The big guy would have to wait until Motormaster returned.
"A little," Wildrider answered. "We know Drag Strip conversed with him and Menasor implied he didn't matter enough for him to spend time combined. I... think he's just lonely. Like you or I can feel. We don't give him enough time to hang out, or be himself..."
"I know," Dead End vented, his servo moving to pinch at his nose bridge as he worked at his jaw slowly.
Combining was the easiest way to communicate with Menasor. In lieu of that...
"We could attempt to keep our bonds open to him more," Dead End ascertained. "Let him feel and experience everything we do. Even a small inclusion may help."
Wildrider frowned, his optics darting from Dead End then to Wildrider's plating covered spark chamber. Dead End could hear the gears in Wildrider's central processing unit working. Then, suddenly, Dead End felt his gestalt bond flood with Wildrider.
He felt boredom, amusement, energy. Menasor rippled awake at the flood from the Ferrari, though the combiner's bond did little more than warm slightly. Dead End vented, then joined Wildrider in releasing the blocks over his bond.
Menasor reacted, but he was quiet about it. Heavy prods hit Dead End's core, before Wildrider flared a greeting to Menasor.
The combiner, immediately, perked up.
It felt akin to when Motormaster would scruff one of his team and carry them to their rooms after they'd refused to recharge or woke him up from his own recharge with whatever loud game or movie they were entertaining themselves with. There was exasperation. Exhaustion. Sullenness. But also excitement and giddiness.
Dead End tapped Wildrider, signed with his servo for his brother to join him, then closed his optics and allowed himself into the bond. Menasor rattled energy through both Stunticon limb components but Dead End didn't move. He waited until he felt his brother was positioned in the bond properly, then allowed himself to bare everything to their combiner.
Scrapper's advice was proving itself highly accurate, especially when he observed how much Menasor's energy was dispersed following a combination. They would need to continue the trend, but Dead End felt content sitting near Wildrider with his every thought exposed to their combiner.
Small steps.
Superion's elbow slammed into Menasor's chest plate, the force of the strike staggering him as the air in his intake expelled outwards in one harsh snarl. Before Menasor could gather himself together, Superion's right servo locked around his throat plating and, with a heave of the Aerialbot combiner's weight, Superion slammed Menasor to the ground.
Menasor hit the ground as Superion pressed all of his weight over the Stunticon combiner. A soft chuckle escaped Superion as he leaned over Menasor, his right servo pressed down roughly over Menasor's left shoulder plate while Superion's left servo was locked around Menasor's right wrist. A fleeting flash of emotion shot through Menasor as his spark raced from exertion, but he couldn't catch it in time to analyze it.
He and Superion had been sparring for an hour straight, following another therapy session for Motormaster that had made the semi bristle with unbridled wrath. It had been Motormaster who'd asked for the sparring session, and it was his anger that forced Menasor to act.
With a sharp snarl as Superion continued to bear his weight over Menasor, the Stunticon combiner raised his helm up from the ground and smashed his helm directly against Superion's.
Superion reeled backwards with a surprised snarl, his grip loosening off Menasor. Snarling, Menasor grabbed Superion by his collar plate, swept the other combiner's legs out from under his staggering frame with Menasor's right leg, then pounced.
Triumph surged through Menasor as he slammed Superion to the ground, pinning the Aerialbot combiner with his servos and a knee strut to the other's torso plating.
Superion fought against Menasor's grasp, an effort Menasor returned by laying every ounce of his weight — force field included — over the taller Superion.
"Do you yield?" Menasor growled. He leaned closer to Superion until his vents billowed steam over Superion's faceplate.
Superion bared his denta in a snarl, before a challenge sparked across his optics. "Never."
Menasor shook his helm, feigned anger — though it felt personal, bubbling up from inside his spark but not from his side of the spark — forcing his servo to clamp down on his opponent's throat plating carefully. Superion never yielded during their matches unless Menasor truly trounced the taller combiner. He would press his advantage while he had it.
A smirk tugged at the corner of Menasor's mouth as he ruffled his plating in a clear, mocking threat. "Then we shall remain as such until you yield."
Spite rumbled from Superion's field, before Menasor saw a flash of shifting metal out of the corner of his optic.
Anger shifted along his fuel lines, narrowing his focus onto Superion completely.
Superion's servo missed Menasor's helm horn by an inch as Menasor snapped sideways, his snarl born from a diesel engine as Superion's digits flashed past his helm horn. Superion tried another swipe at Menasor only to meet Menasor's right pede slamming over his wrist. A hiss of actual pain from Superion lessened some pressure off his wrist, but Menasor did not allow his opponent the space to try the same move again. He postured over his friend, pede clamped down over Superion's wrist and tightened his grip over the Aerialbot's throat plating.
"Yield!" Menasor's snarl held genuine anger as he shot Superion a glare, the servo on Superion's throat plating tightening until metal creaked under his digits.
"Menasor, stop," Superion's choked vocalizer produced static more than words, but it was enough to snap Menasor out of the rage consuming him.
He didn't want to hurt Superion.
Shock pulsed from the Stunticon combiner as he released his hold on Superion's throat plating with a hasty apology. Superion shook his helm at the apology, his gaze softening as Menasor took a deep draw of air through his vents.
Motormaster's anger was bleeding through to him. A boiling fury urged Menasor to fight until he and Superion could not stand. But it was not rage intentionally directed towards Menasor. There was no close rumble from Motormaster, nor was the semi's conscious actually awake and alert. He'd combined in a fit of fury and fallen dormant while that fire was controlled by nothing but Menasor sparring with Superion.
Superion huffed beneath Menasor before he slipped his right arm away from Menasor's idle grip. Menasor felt his companion's servo clasp the back of his helm, blue gaze unwavering as he met Menasor's optics.
"Let us continue, I believe that will help."
Menasor lowered his helm in a nod — only for Superion to snatch Menasor's left helm horn in his servo and throw Menasor sideways off him.
Menasor scrambled to his pedes but not quickly enough to dodge Superion's pede from slamming against his chest plate.
The kick hit his force field — which retaliated with a mighty shock to Superion — but sailed through the force field from Superion's sheer weight. Menasor was sent rolling, his vision wavering with stars as he pulled himself up onto his pedes.
Superion waited until Menasor was on his pedes before the Aerialbot leapt towards him, right servo raised in a fist that crackled with the electrical charge that originated from Silverbolt. If Superion hit Menasor's shield with his fully charged electrical burst, Menasor would lose his force field.
It wouldn't be that easy.
With a grin that was all sharp denta and no amusement, Menasor activated Breakdown's engine. He spun on his pede and, with the roar of Breakdown's shattering vibrations, snapped a back kick directly into Superion's chest plate.
Breakdown's engine burst as Menasor's pede struck his opponent, eliminating Superion's connection to Silverbolt's electrical charge as much as it nearly snapped the other combiner out of his combined state.
Smugness radiated off Menasor as he approached his downed opponent. Superion shook his helm, his left servo hovering over his helm as a pained groan filtered from his vocalizer in a damaged fritz. Menasor stepped up to Superion, his right pede stomping down onto Superion's chest as he peered down his nose bridge at the Aerialbot combiner.
"Now do you yield?"
Superion chuffed, though the sound came out reedy and raspy, then shook his helm. "Not to a Decepticon."
Menasor rolled his optics, though a twitch of anger — his own, mixed with Motormaster's dormant rage — curled the corner of his mouth down. Though he knew Superion was only playing the part of his opponent, the reminder of Menasor's former faction stung.
Not that anyone had cared to ever remove his Decepticon symbol…
Focus.
Menasor shook his helm as he lowered his frame to tower over Superion, right pede still pressed against the white chest plating of his opponent. Superion thrashed as Menasor grabbed his rival's wrists and pinned them to Superion's side.
He brought his faceplate inches from Superion's as a low, menacing snarl echoed between them. "Yield."
Superion's optics darted across Menasor's faceplate, narrowing as the bright blue gaze met Menasor's red optics. He did not answer, but for a twitch of Superion's mouth as he smiled up at Menasor.
So his rival was going to be difficult.
How typical.
Menasor bared his denta in a sneer as he pressed ever so slightly down with his right pede. Superion only smirked —
Something flashed across Superion's faceplate.
His expression contorted, with bewilderment and something else Menasor couldn't identify. Superion's vents and fans activated, the sudden sound of duress preceding Superion suddenly shoving at Menasor's torso with his knees.
"Menasor, get off!" Superion's snarl was a command, and one Menasor immediately obeyed.
Any trace of playfulness, or mock rivalry vanished in an instant as the Stunticon combiner hastily let go of Superion. He stepped back a few car lengths from Superion as the taller combiner got to his pedes.
Uncertainty spiked across Menasor's plating as Superion turned his back on Menasor, his expression contorted in a grimace with his blue optics wide with too much emotion to read.
"Superion?" Menasor stepped towards his companion — now that they weren't in combat, Superion was Menasor's companion again. He still didn't know if he could call the other his friend, though — slowly, right servo raised to tap Superion's shoulder plate.
Superion ignored him, but for a shuddering, raspy, "Don't."
Menasor retreated immediately, his servos tucking together to wring anxiously as he watched Superion.
Superion's plating rattled with heavy vents. His fans screamed beneath his plating, as his components' engines snarled.
What was wrong?
"Superion?" Menasor hissed as Superion suddenly drew stiff — then decombined.
Slingshot stared up at Menasor where he'd landed, the Harrier's expression as bewildered and confused as Superion's had been. But also furious. At Menasor?
Menasor looked down and away from Slingshot, his optics drawn to the colorful stripes of Fireflight.
Fireflight's wings twitched where he lay, chest plate down, on the ground. A weak groan escaped from the Phantom as he tried to pull himself to his pedes slowly. Next to Fireflight was Skydive, the dark colored Aerialbot shivering slightly as Menasor stared down at him.
Skydive was staring past Menasor, unaware of the combiner hovering above him, though his optics were as wide as the moon as he muttered indecipherable words to himself.
But it was Silverbolt who drew Menasor's full attention. Not because of Motormaster, which he found odd for the semi always worried over his friend whenever Silverbolt seemed unwell, but because of the unmoving, static way the Concorde was sprawled over the ground.
Silverbolt was flopped out on the hard soil, unmoving. His field was absent, as if Silverbolt's being was elsewhere. With Superion in their gestalt bond? He shouldn't be still for this long after a bad decombination. Silverbolt was always back on his pedes immediately.
Menasor worriedly bent down to tap Silverbolt, until a small plea of his name drew Menasor's attention away from the Concorde. Menasor turned his helm to the side, following another quiet call of his name, until he found the originator.
Air Raid was dangling from a large pine tree, his wings caught in the crown of the tree.
"Can you get me down, please?" Air Raid sighed, his embarrassment clear as Menasor leaned close to the Aerialbot.
Carefully, Menasor plucked Air Raid out of the tree, his digits working to remove pieces of branch and various pine cones out of the joints between the F-15's wings and backstrut. When he had Air Raid fully cleaned off of tree bits, Menasor placed the Aerialbot to the ground.
"Thank you," Air Raid's words came out gruff, but genuine.
Menasor nodded and smiled, though that faltered as he watched the stunned Aerialbots slowly gather their wits about them.
This wasn't their normal behavior. Or Superion's.
"Aerialbots?" Menasor reached a servo out to the stunned Aerialbots hesitantly, stopping when the five fliers ignored him, seemingly oblivious to his presence.
Awkwardness snapped through Menasor as he tucked his servo back to himself and shuffled a few feet further back from the Aerialbots. No need to make things more awkward, if the Aerialbots weren't looking for him to intervene. Menasor did not even notice as he made himself as small as a combiner could, shoulders and knees hunched in closer to his torso as he watched the Aerialbots. No need to make himself more unwanted than he already was.
After a few moments, Skydive and Fireflight pulled themselves onto their pedes. They approached Silverbolt and Slingshot, who was struggling to help Silverbolt up, and assisted the Concorde up.
Silverbolt was the slowest to gather his wits, his servos holding him in place as the Aerialbot steadied himself on Slingshot and his brothers. Menasor watched, optics darting between the five Aerialbots as Slingshot shoved Silverbolt's servo off him.
"What the hell was that, Silverbolt?" Slingshot finally snapped. The Harrier's wings rattled as his engine roared sharply with — embarrassment?
Menasor blinked, and watched.
The Aerialbots arguing was rare from his experience, unlike how his brothers bickered and groused at each other. They must have broken out of Superion because of the embarrassment he could feel pounding off the five jets, but why?
"I…" Silverbolt hesitated to speak. A barb seemed to be stuck in his vocalizer, making the Concorde's voice rough and pained as he looked between his team and then Menasor. "I don't know what that was."
Slingshot barked a laugh, one that was rife without humor, then jerked a servo angrily at Menasor. "We all know what that was. Even Superion felt it, dumbass."
"Slingshot, leave it," Skydive interjected with a shove to the side of Slingshot's chest plate.
Slingshot bristled but ignored Skydive as he jabbed his leader in the chest plate a second time. "You cost us that sparring match, 'Bolt! Because of him."
Here, Slingshot snapped an angry digit in Menasor's direction, pointing directly at his chest plate.
Menasor startled, a quiet, confused, "Me?" escaping from him before he could stop himself.
"No! Not you," Slingshot growled, exasperation forcing Slingshot to fling his servos in the air. The Harrier turned to look at Menasor, the rest of the Aerialbots following suit — except for Silverbolt, who continued to stare at the ground — as they stared at him with a mix of emotions Menasor didn't feel like deciphering at that moment. Slingshot jabbed a digit at Menasor's chest plate again, this time with a hint of anger that almost made Menasor shrink at the Harrier's intensity. "I mean your idiot torso component. Motormaster."
Menasor blinked.
What?
Motormaster?
Silverbolt shot the Harrier a glare before he snapped a venomous, "Slingshot, now is not the time!"
"What?" Slingshot scoffed, unfazed by Silverbolt's anger — though Menasor could not do anything but linger on the Concorde's furious expression and stance. He'd never seen Silverbolt angry. Not because of one of his fellow Aerialbots. When the Stunticons were enemies with the Aerialbots, yes, but not… — as he gestured to the rest of the Aerialbots around him. "You cost us a sparring match because you aren't brave enough to talk to Motormaster, 'Bolt. What if you did this in the midst of a real battle and one of us was hurt because Superion got distracted? You need to get it over with and talk to him, before this happens again."
Embarrassment flickered across Silverbolt's optics as he looked between Menasor, then his team. A frustrated sigh escaped from the Concorde before he grabbed Slingshot by the shoulder plate, turned to Menasor with a curt apology, then drug the Harrier away. Fireflight, Skydive and Air Raid looked between each other as Silverbolt stormed off with Slingshot, then all three looked up at Menasor.
"We'll explain later," Skydive promised, though Menasor had a feeling Skydive didn't know how to follow through with his promise. The Aerialbots seemed as stunned and confounded as Menasor.
Menasor stared after the Aerialbots as they retreated in the direction of the Ark, utterly lost.
He tried to process what had passed between Silverbolt and Slingshot about his own torso component, but could find nothing. Even digging into Motormaster's gestalt bond revealed nothing but the semi's prior anger and grumpiness. Whatever had happened between the Aerialbots and Superion was something he would not find an answer for from anyone but Silverbolt.
Anger stewed where Menasor had pried open Motormaster's bond, choking the combiner as he tried to resist.
His plating rattled as his components all stirred out of their dormancy.
Anger snarled through his fuel lines—
Menasor felt Motormaster's temper finally win. With a heave of plating, Menasor lost his components and himself, until he was merely a spark of energy dwelling inside his components. Motormaster's anger burned at Menasor through the bond, the heat of it too much.
Whatever had happened during that therapy session had put Motormaster on a dangerous edge of anger.
Made even more clear when he felt indecision spark from Breakdown. Breakdown was afraid of speaking up while Motormaster fumed and stewed in rage. The Lamborghini paced around, his anxious energy battering at the gestalt bond as if from a typhoon. A second passed where Menasor could feel Breakdown weighing the pros and cons of speaking, before the white Stunticon cleared his vocalizer nervously.
"Can anyone explain what just happened?" Breakdown whispered, his confidence wavering with haste when even Menasor felt Motormaster's gaze turn on the Lamborghini with that same murderous fury he'd felt since he'd been called to combine.
"I don't know," Motormaster growled, "and I'm not in the mood to figure it out."
With a dismissing snort, Motormaster stalked off, gestalt bond a wall of thorns and — fear, though Menasor could tell his fear was unrelated to Superion's strange behavior.
Menasor felt the tug of the torso component bond pulling him after Motormaster. He could not stay separated for long from the semi, even if he tried.
With a press of comforting energy given to Breakdown, Menasor closed off his connection to his limb component brothers.
Immediately, Menasor snapped into Motormaster's bond, the instinct towards the torso too overpowering. Though, in this case, Menasor did not complain.
Menasor couldn't let Motormaster wander alone. Not when his mood hadn't been tempered by the sparring match, and the semi seemed seconds from biting someone's helm off.
Motormaster ignored Menasor as he stomped into the Ark. Jazz and Sideswipe moved to greet Motormaster as he swept past both Autobots, only for the dark cloud of rage that was storming off Motormaster's field to silence both Autobots.
It wasn't solely Sideswipe and Jazz who suffered the wrath of Motormaster.
Tracks and Wheeljack passed by him as Motormaster stomped down the halls of the Ark, both seeming unaware of the wrathful semi headed their way. Menasor tried to warn Motormaster but could get through none of the semi's bond in time. With a resounding crash of metal, Tracks and Wheeljack were sent to the ground as Motormaster barreled into both.
A snarled "Watch it!" was all Motormaster said before he stalked off, seemingly unaware of what he'd done.
Menasor felt the rest of the Stunticons try to pry at their brother's bond, little pinpricks that jabbed at the semi with relentless worry and a fleet of jabbering voices that overlapped themselves. Breakdown and Wildrider's worry hissed from their gestalt bonds with intense turmoil, spinning violently as Drag Strip's bright bond barked at Motormaster to talk or else. Dead End simply hovered somewhere nearby, where Menasor could feel his presence, but not where it was overwhelming.
Motormaster didn't even seem to notice.
The only thing Motormaster seemed aware of was the door to the Stunticons' quarters on the Ark. Which he seemed seconds from punching before it opened with a whoosh of hydraulics. Steam billowed from Motormaster's plating seams, where Menasor felt his torso component's rage boiling inside him like a volcano.
Motormaster snarled, to no one seeming in particular, before he stomped into the Stunticons' quarters. Something crunched underneath Motormaster's pede but the semi didn't remotely care to notice as he stalked towards his room.
The entry door to the Stunticons' quarters had survived the wrath of the sullen semi, but the door to Motormaster's room wasn't so lucky.
Motormaster punched the door when it took a few seconds too long to open, sending it flying across his room with a roar that rattled the semi's plating before he slammed the side of his fist against the door frame.
Menasor flinched.
Hesitantly, Menasor reached out to Motormaster.
Anger slammed into him, throwing the combiner back to the safety of merely observing Motormaster.
The semi kicked the side of his berth with another, pained snarl. Menasor almost expected to see the temperamental semi rip his berth off its hinges when Motormaster raised a clenched servo over the berth, glared down at it, flexed his digits in and out of fists, but he stopped. Menasor thought he felt Motormaster contemplate crushing something (or someone, it wasn't clear) instead, but that thought quickly vanished with a cold reprimand from the K100 to himself as he delivered another swift kick to the edge of his berth.
It made Menasor flinch again.
Rage stoked inside Motormaster as Menasor felt the semi's thoughts race—
Motormaster collapsed onto the top of his berth, a choked sob covered by the semi burying his faceplate into his servos as he sat, hunched into himself.
Menasor could do little but watch. That... wasn't the response he was expecting.
A hesitant nudge from the gestalt bond seemed to do little for Motormaster, for the semi only seemed to hunch further into his frame with soft, worn out sobs.
What could he do? Menasor felt the unconscious urge to pace overwhelm him as he tried to reassure Motormaster. With a growl, Menasor pushed away the urge, denta bared. Focus.
An exhausted vent from Motormaster realigned Menasor's focus onto the semi, in time to feel his torso component dig his digits against the top of his helm.
Angry, whispered muttering filled the space that surrounded Motormaster, though it was indecipherable to the combiner.
He had to understand his brother.
Menasor shifted through the gestalt bond, searching for the source of Motormaster's anger.
He felt flashes of rage within each memory core he searched, but an onslaught of fear, anxiety, and hurt battered that rage like a ship's bulkhead in a storm.
Megatron's voice slipped through each memory file, followed by the stomping fury of Motormaster — the Victory Motormaster — and the eerie breeziness of the therapist's ever calm voice.
Menasor dug deeper, flaying open his torso's component's inner self until he found what he was looking for.
The core of Motormaster's spark.
Ley lines led from the semi's spark to the gestalt bond, veins of energy that encompassed the entirety of the torso component's being. It was their spark, shared between combiner and torso component, with every part of Menasor's self intricately woven around and within Motormaster's reinforced spark. It was a place Menasor did not often like to tread, no matter his claim to the semi's spark as well. The gestalt bond erased all personal secrets or feelings between the combiner and his torso component (though Menasor wondered whether it was Scrapper or Hook who shared Devastator's spark with themself) for they lived within the same entity. Trespassing into Motormaster's spark when Menasor wasn't out felt like a step too far.
Menasor had only accessed the ley lines once before.
The gestalt supersedes all.
The words echoed weakly in Menasor's memory as he reached for the nearest ley line with his gestalt bond.
Energy consumed his entire conscious as he breached the semi's memories. He felt his conscious become snared within Motormaster's bond—
"Menasor, please, stop." Motormaster's voice dripped ice through their bond, but his warning could not have been heeded even if Menasor wanted to.
Before either of them could act, Menasor and Motormaster were drug fully into the semi's memories.
A soft voice spoke, one Menasor knew personally.
The therapist.
"Do you wish to forgive Megatron, Motormaster?"
"Never!" Motormaster spat, his servos clenched as he tried to curb the snarl from his glossa. Why was this always the topic between himself and the therapist? Every session treaded down the same path. He was fine, Motormaster had discussed enough with his brothers to recognize some of his feelings around Megatron, but all the therapist was doing was irritating Motormaster with the same retreading of the Megatron topic. Yes, Motormaster cared about Megatron's approval. Yes, Motormaster despised the tiltrotor and yes, Motormaster loved the former Decepticon leader. They'd discussed this enough.
"Why?"
"He hurt my brothers, I will never forgive him for that."
The therapist frowned up at him from their chair across the room, optics narrowed as their digits tapped slowly over the face of their datapad. "But you could forgive him for hurting you?"
Motormaster's anger froze. He unclenched his servos only to lay them palm down on the armrests, where his digits dug furrows into the metal. His vents billowed steam as the semi straightened his backstrut and stared a waspish hole into the therapist's torso.
"Yes— No. No."
The therapist hummed, and noted something else down onto their datapad.
Motormaster looked down, his intake heaving as he gave a nervous swallow and stared at his servos.
The therapist blinked, then leaned back in their chair. "What did Megatron do that makes you certain you can't forgive him?"
"He hurt my brothers," Motormaster spat. He felt irritated at having to repeat himself, an emotion he couldn't hold back from flowing off his glossa. "He nearly killed them. Megatron hunted us down after he exiled us so he could finish the job he'd failed to do prior. My brothers—"
Motormaster cut himself off as he worked at his jaw, optics glaring a hole into the wall behind the therapist now.
Another contemplative sound escaped the therapist, before they tapped more notes into their datapad. "So you believe that someone hurting your brothers is unforgivable."
Motormaster glared at the therapist, his voice lowered dangerously with rage. "Obviously."
"And his actions to you, are they forgivable? I noticed you didn't mention yourself once again," the therapist needled. Their optics were unwavering as they peered over their datapad, their focus on the semi abundantly clear.
Motormaster didn't answer.
Not outwardly.
Hurt slammed against the semi's intake. Anger scythed through his chassis, burning fuel lines as he tried to find the words to answer the therapist. He had to get out of there.
The only response that finally broke through Motormaster's churning sea was a flat, "I don't know. My priority is my team. I'm their leader."
"Of course," the therapist nodded, calmly. They noted something down, then turned away from Motormaster as they leaned further back in their chair.
The therapist's ease unnerved Motormaster. This Autobot he could not read, nor could he remotely understand, not even after forty years of sitting in the therapist's office, talking to them about himself.
Then the therapist hummed, softly. "Which is why you cannot forgive yourself."
Motormaster stared at the therapist. His plating warmed as his systems began reading error codes along his coolant systems. He shifted in his own chair, deeply uncomfortable as he tried to straighten his frame.
The therapist looked at him out of the corner of their optics, watching as Motormaster's faceplate contorted with emotion.
Finally, Motormaster sneered and growled a cold, "What are you talking about?"
The therapist straightened and turned to face Motormaster. Motormaster shrunk in his seat at the intensity of the other's blue optics as they bored into him. "You believe that anyone who has ever harmed your brothers cannot be forgiven. You abused your brothers and beat them, as Megatron had trained you to understand was the proper method of punishment to disorderly subordinates. Owing to your actions, you cannot be forgiven. You think you shouldn't be, that is."
Motormaster narrowed his optics, a rumble hissing from his engine as he glared back at the therapist. His frame continued to burn as his fans shut down from the strain of attempting to cool his systems down.
So this was where his anger had originated.
The therapist continued at Motormaster's silence. "You have placed yourself in the same category as that of Megatron. That your brothers should not and cannot forgive you because you hurt them. You believe they shouldn't, as you refuse to personally forgive yourself for those actions."
Motormaster stood, his servos flexing into fists as he glared down at the still seated therapist. "Shut up."
The therapist narrowed their optics, but did not move from their seated position. Instead, they gestured to Motormaster's chair and said coolly, "You need never feel obligated to forgive Megatron, but you have shown everyone — your team most importantly — how much you've improved since those days. Each of your brothers has expressed affection and trust in you when we have spoken. They have forgiven you, but you have not. You simply need to believe in yourself as they do you. They love you. Trust that they do, so you may learn to forgive and love yourself."
Motormaster snapped.
Anguish, frustration, fear and anxiety propelled the semi's fist into the therapist's faceplate before Motormaster seemed aware of what his frame was doing.
Metal crunched under Motormaster's fist as the therapist was thrown to the ground. A groan slipped from the therapist as Motormaster towered over them, servos still clenched as he wound his right arm back, drawing up for another punch — until the semi's optics lightened from their dark purple to his regular violet and he stared at his servos.
"I— I'm sorry—"
Motormaster whirled on his pedes and fled before the therapist could say a word.
"Stupid."
Motormaster's comment, a dull, throaty whisper, pulled Menasor from the bond. He was thrown out harshly, his chassis and personal gestalt bond smoking as the combiner recovered from the ley lines energy.
"Why did you do that? Idiot."
He felt Motormaster's shame through their bond, as battered as Menasor's was by the semi's memories. It forced Menasor to his pedes as he tried to focus his remaining energy on being there for his torso component.
::. You punched them? .:: Menasor couldn't help himself as he gawked at the semi. It wasn't unlike Motormaster to react with violence, but it also was exactly what the semi trained himself against. Usually if Motormaster wound himself up with rage, he'd stalk off to challenge any of the sturdier Autobots to spar with him, or he'd take his anger out on some poor, unsuspecting punching bag. Punching another Cybertronian with the intention simply of being pissed off at them was not how Motormaster wanted to respond.
The therapist hadn't even been wrong in their assessment of Motormaster. Menasor knew the rest of the Stunticons loved their brother. It took little searching to find affection for the semi within the depths of the gestalt bond. Just as clearly as Menasor could detect the same kind of guilt and shame from the semi over the Stunticons' past.
Motormaster ground his denta together, then answered through clenched denta. "They activated my flight or fight response, but all I have is fight. No matter how hard I've worked to change, I can't change that part of my coding. It's all I know..." The anger that snapped off Motormaster's glossa spiraled in a dark mass around his bond, the center of it a misery and sorrow Menasor was nearly choked by.
Menasor shied from it briefly, but forged through when he heard Motormaster's vents hitch.
He was in distress.
Carefully, gently, Menasor tried to comfort Motormaster through the gestalt bond. The semi reluctantly allowed him, even as Motormaster rubbed at his faceplate tiredly.
"How do I explain this to Optimus? 'Sorry for punching your therapist, they said something that I reacted to with anger and broke their faceplate for it'?" An emotionless laugh escaped Motormaster as Menasor felt the semi glance towards where his door had landed against the back wall of his room. Exasperation shot through Motormaster as he gestured at the door in disbelief, then laughed, humorlessly. "The door as well? Idiot."
::. Motormaster… .:: Menasor nudged his torso component's bond gently, almost hesitantly. He didn't fancy another intense drain of his energy by any exposed ley lines, or Motormaster's tumultuous emotions.
Motormaster laid down on his berth, a growl tearing from his vocalizer as he dug his servos against his faceplate. To Menasor's surprise, the semi welcomed him into his gestalt bond, with a hint of strained relief. "I'm sorry, Menasor. I shouldn't have acted when I was that upset. You shouldn't have to deal with bleed over because I lost control with the therapist."
::. That's alright. I get it, kind of. .::
Motormaster narrowed his optics at a point on the ceiling before he responded. "Understand which part?"
Menasor hesitated. He could have sworn he felt his spark plummet to the depths of his chassis before he answered. ::. Not being able to forgive myself. .::
Silence met his answer, until Motormaster closed his optics and sighed. "Philadelphia and Newberg?"
::. Yes. .::
Drag Strip's reassurances that the destruction of those two cities was not Menasor's fault had not convinced him. Not enough for the combiner to forgive what he had done to his brothers and the innocent humans.
Stiffness from Motormaster's bond shifted through the combiner, before the semi responded, his voice tight. "Why?"
::. Because of how my team retreated from me after, .:: the admission lodged against Menasor's glossa. A surge of emotions he couldn't stop assailed Motormaster — until he felt the semi's bond capture him in an approximation of a hug.
"I'm sorry, Menasor…" Regret became thorns through the gestalt bond as they wrapped around the combiner. "I've been distracted and I thought you'd want space to be yourself as we combined more. I wasn't even aware how that would come across until you spoke to Breakdown, Drag Strip and Silverbolt."
Menasor shook his helm, a swallow of his intake preceding the burst of anxious energy he couldn't contain from revealing his sorrow. ::. I don't want to be left alone. I want to talk to you. I like you, a lot, and I hate being alone. .::
Motormaster chuffed, his denta bared in a genuine smile as the K100 hummed considerably. "You and the rest of my brothers." A frown slipped across the smile, shifting Motormaster's expression to one of stark regret. "The most inane part of today is that I know the therapist was right. My brothers have forgiven me. Accepted me. They can't lie through the gestalt bond. I know they forgive me, but I can't accept forgiving myself even for that."
Motormaster vented, then covered his faceplate with the palms of both servos. A soft hitch of his engine preceded a wash of sadness that weighed Menasor's shoulder plates down.
::. Maybe you should talk to our brothers? Clear up how they truly feel about you? We both know the answer— .::
"We both have to," Motormaster whispered.
It wasn't your fault.
Drag Strip's words gnawed within him. The truth was there, unrivaled. Menasor had been controlled, through his team and by G.H.O.S.T. What had happened in Newberg and Philadelphia was not out of his own volition.
Motormaster wasn't the same Stunticon from the Victory. None of them were.
::. That is easier said than done, .:: Menasor groused.
"We'll work on it together. After I apologize to the therapist… and Optimus…" Motormaster's bond sparked with exhaustion as he spoke, but for a brief spark of pride, aimed towards Menasor.
"You did well against Superion. I wouldn't have thought to use Breakdown's engine vibrations as you did. That was smart thinking, Menasor. Proud of you. Maybe we should try that against Defensor, might deactivate his force field..."
Shock spiked through Menasor at Motormaster's compliment. Heat warmed the combiner's bond as he ducked his helm to attempt to avoid the flustered appreciation engulfing his chassis.
Motormaster gave a quiet huff and smiled before he shut his optics and attempted to catch recharge.
Menasor wrapped his field of energy around the semi and held him through the gestalt bond. Motormaster leaned into Menasor's warmth, Menasor's optics shuttering closed as the combiner activated his engines and lulled the semi to recharge.
Breakdown fidgeted. His digits tapped erratically at his knee strut as he waited.
Drag Strip would be out in an hour.
An hour more of his anxiety spiking as he pondered over what Drag Strip was discussing with the Autobot therapist. They'd arrived early that morning, just the two of them. So early that Megatron, who was on patrol when both Stunticons pulled up to the Ark, had to wake the therapist from their recharge. Breakdown had not flinched when Megatron landed near them out of his tiltrotor alternate mode, much to his surprise. But he'd still felt his spark surge when Megatron touched Drag Strip's shoulder plate as Breakdown's brother asked Megatron for the therapist.
The last time he'd seen Megatron was a few days ago when the former Decepticon greeted Breakdown, who was at the Ark with Motormaster to visit the Protectobots for advice on Menasor's mental health. Their combiner's psychological struggles were becoming the forefront of the Stunticons' thoughts, to a point that Motormaster was seeking out the Constructicons and Protectobots over comms and in person to discuss methods to work out Menasor's issues. Megatron had stayed beside Motormaster as he spoke to both teams in a way that Breakdown could feel the tiltrotor's desperation to comfort Motormaster.
Though he was, Megatron had restrained himself. As he had when he'd led Drag Strip to the therapist's office and then left to wake the therapist.
For as much as Breakdown doubted, or feared, Megatron, he could not deny that his former leader was trying for Motormaster and the rest of the Stunticons.
But for it all, Breakdown couldn't help returning to the anxiety that was eating at his spark. Not when his processor returned to Drag Strip's overwhelmed frustration that morning.
::. Breakdown? I need you to come with me to the Ark, please. .:: Drag Strip's urgency snapped Breakdown awake, his processor washing away the fog his recharge had brought to him at the surge of anxiety from Drag Strip.
Worried, Breakdown scrambled off his berth, gathered a few energon treats that they'd made from the zinc-carrots they'd harvested, and scrambled out of his room. Drag Strip was pacing in their hallway, his pedes deliberately quiet, while his field was anything but.
::. Drag Strip? What is wrong? .:: Breakdown asked the moment the Pagani grabbed his arm and yanked him out of their annex.
Drag Strip didn't answer until they were far from their home, their three older brothers seemingly unaware of their two departing brothers. When he did, Breakdown noticed an unusual strain to his brother's bond voice.
::. I want to see the therapist. Have too much on my mind. I couldn't sleep for them. .::
Drag Strip hadn't told Breakdown exactly what was bothering him, not in the thousand mile drive, nor as they waited for the therapist to come to their office. Whatever had pulled them to Oregon was leaving Breakdown without answers and solely his catastrophizing thoughts. Was Drag Strip suffering a malaise akin to Menasor, where his spark and processor were waging war with his worst feelings and preconceptions over his place amongst the Stunticons? Had Drag Strip had a nightmare that was spark-rending enough to rush him to the therapist?
Why had Drag Strip only wanted Breakdown?
Why hadn't he told Motormaster?
Had something happened between Drag Strip and the rest of his brothers Breakdown didn't know about?
Was he —
"Breakdown?" A soft voice interrupted Breakdown's thoughts, drawing him out with a startled squeak as a servo gently brushed his shoulder plate.
First Aid's optics peered down at him, Hot Spot's blue chassis just behind the ambulance, the concern in his friend's gaze followed by a soft breach from First Aid's field which chased away Breakdown's thoughts without pause. Hot Spot kneeled down in front of Breakdown as First Aid moved to sit down next to Breakdown, his servo unwavering where it rested on his shoulder plate.
Breakdown felt his shoulder plates sag as he leaned into First Aid's touch, soaking up the warmth of the ambulance's field desperately. Hot Spot hesitated for a moment before he reached out and placed his servo on Breakdown's knee strut. A thrum of energy, what Breakdown knew to be the Protectobots' gestalt bond and Defensor, shot through Breakdown's plating at the fire engine's touch.
He could not hear First Aid or Hot Spot's gestalt link, but his spark knew what the two Protectobots were communicating to him.
Calm scythed through Breakdown as he looked into Hot Spot's optics. The torso component's strength was all encompassing. No matter who it was. Silverbolt, Motormaster, Onslaught, Hot Spot. The core of the gestalt resided within the leader. That was the strength of the combiner, and what kept a gestalt together.
Though they were of unrelated gestalts, as a torso component, Hot Spot still held that same power that Motormaster did. That same reassurance which had Breakdown stand up at the same time as the two Protectobots, before he followed them wordlessly to the Protectobots' quarters. There, Streetwise and Groove were discussing something between them in hushed tones, while Blades was asleep on the Protectobots' couch (a very human based couch, Breakdown noted), his rotors twitching with each rumble of his turboshaft engine.
"Sit anywhere," Hot Spot offered as he walked past Breakdown to pass by Streetwise and Groove, who the fire engine patted on the shoulder plate, before he sat down on a large chair, stretched out his legs and crossed his arms over his chest plate.
Breakdown looked to First Aid, who smiled down at him and waited until Breakdown approached the couch where Blades was sleeping. He slid down onto the floor in front of the couch, using the couch as a backrest. First Aid sat down next to Breakdown, his right arm laid across Breakdown's shoulders and back plating. He did not speak until Breakdown had fully settled in, and then when First Aid did speak, it was in a hushed whisper.
"Something is wrong, isn't it."
Breakdown swallowed. First Aid knew something was wrong. All of the Protectobots knew since Motormaster had sought them out for advice on Menasor. But this... was something wrong?
Drag Strip was upset.
Something was wrong.
"Yes," Breakdown whispered, "but I don't know what. Drag Strip didn't tell me. He just woke me up early and demanded I drive with him. I'm not sure why. I..."
I am scared.
What if Drag Strip is done with us?
What if he's going to leave us?
How will our family survive if he does leave?
"Breakdown, easy."
First Aid's arm tugged Breakdown close, pulling him against his chest plate. Breakdown turned his faceplate into First Aid's chest, his servos locking around First Aid's arms instinctively.
"Do you trust Drag Strip?"
Breakdown nodded against First Aid's chest.
Drag Strip might not have told his brothers his plans or how he felt before G.H.O.S.T captured them, but Breakdown was sure (as sure as Breakdown could be) that Drag Strip wouldn't abandon them without reason. Perhaps he was being too much of a paranoid, anxious worrier. Maybe all that was wrong was Drag Strip having a rough night. He'd told the four of his brothers about visiting Menasor in his sleep, about the discussion he'd held with their combiner and how upset and unsure Menasor was the entire time. How that conversation had weighed on Drag Strip after he woke up.
Menasor had been more reserved since that, until the day Motormaster had punched the therapist and forced Menasor to fight Superion to get his anger out.
That had been... awkward.
Optimus had reprimanded Motormaster gently for his actions, after the Stunticons had finally gotten what was bothering the semi out of him following him storming off from the very confusing interaction with Superion and the Aerialbots. Motormaster had taken the reprimand quietly, his guilt clear across the bond. The therapist hadn't seemed bothered by the attack, which confounded Breakdown.
If he'd been punched by Motormaster in a fit of furious rage, Breakdown would have been terrified and scared. Hurt. Betrayed. Would have lost trust in Motormaster.
The therapist simply waved it off and offered to start again when Motormaster felt better.
Autobots were so... weird.
"Then do you trust he'd talk to you after he speaks to the therapist?" First Aid hummed against Breakdown, the rumble of his voice soothing as it vibrated through the ambulance's plating.
Drag Strip wouldn't have before.
Now?
"I think he will," Breakdown finally admitted, though he felt his energy slip ever further in his nervousness as he shook his helm, and tapped his digits erratically against First Aid's plating. "He will, but what if he says something I can't handle? We... I don't want him to leave."
First Aid blinked, his expression falling minutely. "Leave? What makes you think he would leave you?"
Breakdown fidgeted. Tapped his pede against the floor, released his hold on First Aid, then wrapped his arms around himself. "The Constructicons offered Drag Strip a job to work alongside them before everything happened with G.H.O.S.T. I saw him spending more time with them after the end of the trial and... I fear he may decide to leave us someday."
"And that he won't come back?" This guess came with more reserved quiet than before from First Aid, and all Breakdown could return was a pathetically sad nod.
Drag Strip was independent, or so he acted. Breakdown knew Drag Strip loved the team and wanted to have his family around, but they were getting older. Breakdown had had the therapist directly tell him that he had to accept if his brothers left, even temporarily, after G.H.O.S.T had made that a clear possibility. Of any of them, Drag Strip would be the one to leave. Breakdown knew he had thought long and hard about the Constructicons' offer since they'd worked alongside the team of Decepticons in Philadelphia.
"I don't know what to do without my whole family," Breakdown bit back the sob that hitched against his intake, demanding to break through his attempts at strong mental reserves.
Drag Strip deserved to leave if he wanted to. Why couldn't Breakdown accept that?
First Aid didn't say another word but for the gentle comfort he gave Breakdown in his servo placed on Breakdown's shoulder plate. The rest of the Protectobots were quiet (Breakdown could swear Blades had woken up and heard everything he and First Aid said) until a ping through Breakdown's comms from Drag Strip had him scrambling up. With a thanks to the Protectobots for their time and kindness, Breakdown scurried out of the Protectobots' quarters and ran to the therapist's office.
Drag Strip was waiting for him, his field and gestalt bond noticeably calmer than that morning as the yellow Stunticon smiled at Breakdown. "I'm all good, let's head home, if you're good to go?"
"Y-yes, of course," Breakdown stammered as he followed Drag Strip out of the Ark, his glossa tied even as he begged himself to ask Drag Strip about his session with the therapist.
He had to know. He... Breakdown cut his thoughts off, closing off the bond so that he did not transmit his anxiety to his older brother. They drove in silence until they were almost in Idaho, when Drag Strip revved his engine, but slowed to match Breakdown's slower pace. Breakdown lowered his mirrors as his brother swerved into his lane to brush, very briefly, against his side. Drag Strip was playing around. If he was planning to leave wouldn't he say so?
Breakdown hesitated when he felt Drag Strip prod him through the gestalt bond, then finally relented with a sigh. "What were you discussing?"
"Whether I want to work with the Constructicons or not."
Breakdown felt his spark sink, rapidly. No. He knew he'd been right. His worst fears were facing him as they drove to their home. His engine whined and rattled in its housing as he stared at Drag Strip. His brother didn't seem to notice, as he continued to speak.
"Scrapper invited me to work with them again a few days ago over comms, and I didn't say no," Drag Strip explained calmly, "but I didn't say yes. I couldn't figure out why I felt guilty over saying yes to them, and why I also felt guilty over saying no. That's why I wanted to see the therapist. They helped me work through what was making me hesitate."
"I see," Breakdown whispered.
Drag Strip was going to leave. He was going to leave.
"Have you decided to leave us then?" Breakdown asked, aware of the fear choking his vocalizer.
He was going to leave.
"Not yet." The finality in Drag Strip's response shocked Breakdown.
Breakdown turned his mirror towards Drag Strip, studying him. The Pagani was driving steadily, any trace of erratic shifting or pushing his engine beyonds its capabilities absent compared to early that morning. Drag Strip wasn't lying. He was self assured and calm. Whenever Drag Strip lied, he got twitchy and loud, masking his fear with a rash of anger that made the Stunticons back off.
But...
"Why haven't you?" Breakdown whispered, barely loud enough to be heard over their engines.
Drag Strip sighed. His tires squeaked as he gently bumped Breakdown, then pulled away from him. "Because you're my family."
Breakdown looked towards Drag Strip, the sullenness and uncertainty in his spark projected through the gestalt bond unwillingly. "I see." The words come out harsher than Breakdown intended, which was returned by a low rumble from Drag Strip's engine.
"If I work with the Constructicons, that doesn't mean I'm leaving my family," Drag Strip growled. "That's what I discussed with the therapist. That I feel as if I will betray everything we've gone through if I work elsewhere temporarily."
Betrayal?
Was not that how Breakdown felt knowing Drag Strip could leave them?
His spark was hurting. A sensitive, scared desire to close off from the Pagani burned inside him at the thought.
But he knew he couldn't be angry. He didn't want to be angry. First Aid had told him to trust Drag Strip, but G.H.O.S.T had shown Breakdown how poorly he knew to deal with losing any member of his team. What if Drag Strip—
"I wanted you to come with me because..." Drag Strip went quiet, before he huffed, then nudged against Breakdown's side again. "You're just nice to drive with. You aren't hovering over me with the worry of a nosy older brother, or yapping my audials off. I know you're scared, Breakdown, but I wouldn't be gone forever. I'd visit and message all of you. You're family."
"But..." Breakdown whispered, his vocalizer hissing static as he fought the building sob clawing at his vocalizer.
"Breakdown..." Drag Strip pulled around Breakdown, his alt mode brushing across Breakdown as a wave of comfort attempted to dispel itself to the Countach.
"How long will you stay with them? We need you at home. I need you. Menasor needs you and—"
Drag Strip rammed Breakdown, forcing him to the shoulder of the empty road before he transformed out of his alt mode, kneeled down then jabbed Breakdown on the hood. His red visor sparked with emotions that stoked inside the gestalt bond, churning and spinning before Drag Strip's expression fell and turned crestfallen. "I'm still part of the family if I leave for a time. I want to see what it is like working for the Constructicons but I would never stay with them."
Breakdown turned his mirrors inward and shrunk down onto his wheels. Drag Strip wasn't lying but Drag Strip was open to leaving. How would he explain to Wildrider that Drag Strip was thinking of leaving? How would Motormaster react? Would they—"
"Hey, hey, Breakdown, stop."
Before Breakdown could think, Drag Strip pushed against Breakdown's gestalt bond, a command from deep inside their bond forcing Breakdown out of his alt mode. He turned away from Drag Strip, optics focused on the ground. "Is this because I didn't rescue you quicker from G.H.O.S.T?"
"No!" Drag Strip snapped, though not with anger.
He was radiating shock.
Hurt.
Breakdown turned his side towards Drag Strip, his left servo jerking up to wipe at his optics—
Drag Strip hugged him. The Pagani's helm fell to press against Breakdown's shoulder, as his clawed digits sunk into Breakdown's back. It was that closeness that made Breakdown realize Drag Strip was shaking. A hitched sound pulled from Drag Strip's vocalizer before a strained whisper broke from his brother.
"I want to learn more about myself, but that means I have to leave. I don't want to leave. That's why I can't sleep, because I know the only option is the one where I leave if I take that path with the Constructicons." Drag Strip's voice wavered and, before Breakdown could process exactly the gravity of his brother's words, he felt Drag Strip pull him closer to his chest plate and heard a broken sob break from Drag Strip.
"Focus."
Menasor fidgeted. His knee struts itched where they were tucked close to his chassis.
Emotions stirred inside him where he could not pinpoint them, or quell them. He hated when he felt this way, because Menasor knew that it wasn't himself who was upset. One of his components was leaving him restless and stir crazy with their bleed over.
A large servo rested over his left thigh, a powerful field of comfort radiating through the shared touch. The pulse of a gestalt bond — ancient and intelligent, gentle and full of a need to protect — rippled from the black servo that pressed another comforting squeeze against Menasor's thigh.
Menasor turned to look towards Defensor, his brow furrowed at Defensor's warm expression. Defensor had been working with him consistently since Motormaster had punched the therapist. Hot Spot had been more than glad when Motormaster had suggested they have Defensor speak to Menasor and work alongside him, to teach him temperance and calm where Superion could not. Defensor, after all, had millenia of experience that Superion and Menasor did not.
Defensor's entire team had served in a rescue guild long before the war on Cybertron, and into the war until all of their guild was wiped out over the years. Menasor knew his torso component hoped that Defensor would be able to reliably use his experience with loss and hurt to train Menasor how to distinguish himself from his team's feelings. Hot Spot and First Aid had both suggested to Menasor when these sessions had begun that doing so would allow Menasor to feel more independent of his team, while also able to better determine if it was Menasor causing Menasor upset, or one of his brothers who was making him upset.
"The distinction is important," Groove had explained last time, when Menasor had prodded the decombined Protectobots about the why he had to do this every day. Groove had gone on to explain, in very precise and fine detail, how important it was for Menasor to know what was him within the bond and what wasn't. The explanation was one Menasor had tried to listen to as long as he could, but his mind had wandered.
He couldn't help it.
Not when he had to sit still and listen to Groove all in one, not able to pace or walk or move because Defensor had told him to sit down and wait in place. The other combiner had suggested sitting and waiting would help him practice "meditating" but Menasor was not good at sitting. Groove had finally noticed and let him stand, as well as leave when Menasor had asked, loudly but politely, if he could go "punch a tree". Groove hadn't approved of that, so Menasor instead punched the side of a mountain.
Which hurt.
Stupid mountain.
Stupid rock.
Stupid processor.
"Menasor." Defensor's servo ruffled Menasor's helm, pulling him from his wandering thoughts with a nervous, embarrassed chuckle.
"Menasor sorry."
Defensor shook his helm, then scratched his digits against Menasor's helm horns. Menasor sank into the touch, a purr rupturing from Motormaster's engine unbidden. "There is no need to apologize. You are learning. It takes time."
Surprise flitted through Menasor at Defensor's words. He did not know the old combiner too well, but all Defensor had ever shown him was patient and kindness. It was strange, compared to his friendly rivalry with Superion, the way Devastator ignored Menasor even if he tried to get his attention, or the weird tension between Bruticus and Menasor that had persisted since Menasor had sucker punched the Combaticon combiner so long ago.
Defensor was simply nice.
Patient. Perhaps unfairly patient, considering how easily Menasor knew he could get distracted (it wasn't his fault shiny things always made him focus on them over whatever Defensor was explaining, they were just so fascinating) at the slightest thing. Defensor never was upset or even raised his voice to him. Defensor only ever reassured him, both physically and verbally.
It was nice, to be frank. Menasor knew his components liked how gentle and calm Defensor was. Even Drag Strip was relaxed around the Protectobots more often than not. Motormaster clearly trusted them with how often Menasor's torso component made the effort to split time with his team and with the Protectobots to have them help the semi with his connection to Menasor.
Menasor wanted to do right by Defensor's continued patience.
With a rattle of his plating as he sat up, Menasor turned to Defensor. He was ready to try again.
Defensor nodded, then released Menasor's helm horn (much to his sorrow, for he liked the soothing feeling of the other's digits on his horns) before Defensor poked at Menasor's chest plate.
"Focus on your components. What do you feel?" Defensor looked directly into Menasor's red optics, his blue optics warm and his smile so disarmingly gentle.
Menasor closed his optics, flexed his digits, then zeroed in on the gestalt bond. Just as Defensor and the Protectobots had taught him.
Motormaster was asleep, affording complete control to Menasor. He was not what was setting Menasor off.
Dead End was awake, but only slightly. He was thinking about a book Skydive had given him. Most definitely not what was keeping Menasor distracted.
Wildrider was entirely asleep, like Motormaster, his energy and love for life strong even for his state of dormancy. Not Wildrider.
Drag Strip was closed off and awake. Menasor couldn't read or feel anything from Drag Strip aside from their physical connection through his shoulder joints.
Breakdown was angry. The Lamborghini was nearly dormant but what part of Menasor was Breakdown was burning with anger. Anger... and fear.
Menasor onlined his optics to Defensor's curious, but concerned expression. With some trepidation, Menasor pointed to his right leg, then said, "Breakdown is angry."
"Do you know why?"
"Menasor doesn't," Menasor admitted as he picked at the dirt beneath where he was seated. He rubbed the soil in between his right servo's digits, then dropped the crumbled dirt to the ground.
"But you are not angry?"
Menasor shook his helm. He wasn't. He was anything but angry. He was a little tired of sitting, but he wasn't angry. Only Breakdown was. Only Breakdown.
Defensor nodded, his expression gravely serious as he gestured slightly to Menasor's right leg. "If a component is affecting you through their own emotions, you can work through those how?"
Oh.
Oh, no.
Not a quiz.
Menasor stared at his knee struts, his processor spinning as he tried to locate the answer to Defensor's question. Defensor had told him the answer three days ago. He had. But what was it? Menasor's digits tapped against his thigh plating as he tried to find the right answer—
::. Meditate and then close off the connection to that bond, .:: Motormaster's suggestion was quiet, groggy with recharge and dormancy, but it was clear. Menasor winced before he pulsed a "sorry" to Motormaster for waking him, then turned to Defensor.
"Motormaster suggests Menasor needs to meditate and close off the bond," Menasor answered, quietly.
"Good," Defensor hummed, "do you remember how to do that?"
Yes.
Menasor nodded. Defensor smiled, then closed his eyes and drew in a calming breath. Menasor followed suit, his servos relaxing out of their busy fidgeting as he closed his optics. His vents opened and released steam from his brothers engines, clearing the heat from his chassis as he let himself hear the world around him.
Birds cawed in the distance, while wind brushed through the branches of the trees that surrounded the two combiners. Distantly, Menasor could pick up on the sound of engines from where the Ark was, though he couldn't identify who was driving away from the Ark. He could hear Defensor's electrical system churning beside him, the combiner's forcefield generator off but online all at once.
Menasor focused closer, his servos relaxing fully as he turned his thoughts to his team.
He could feel their engines. Feel the pulse of their sparks and the energy from their gestalt bonds that kept Menasor functioning.
Breakdown's anger continued to chew at Menasor's processor. Pain flickered from the Lamborghini, but Menasor tuned it out with a deep, controlled breath. Breakdown wasn't him. Breakdown could not be allowed to distract or overpower Menasor.
Carefully, Menasor focused on his link to Breakdown, his every ounce of processor turned to the angry bond that was fighting with him to decombine. Slowly, Menasor piled blocks around Breakdown's bond, silencing him behind the gestalt blocks Defensor had been training him how to better utilize. Only a buzz from the Countach remained where the link to his right leg existed.
Menasor pulled away from Breakdown, watching how he felt as his processor spooled out information from the gestalt bond. Motormaster and Wildrider were fully dormant now. Drag Strip had gone dormant, while Dead End was still barely active. Breakdown was muffled, but still there.
Menasor himself was in a good mood. With his optics still closed, Menasor turned his attention to his chassis, searching for any unsettled source of energy or frustration within himself. None could be found, but for his appreciation to Defensor for his presence.
Sunlight burned at his optics as Menasor finally reopened them, his helm shifting to look to Defensor. The other combiner was still meditating, his expression calmly neutral as he sat beside Menasor, arms rested lazily over his crossed legs. Menasor frowned, then shuffled closer to Defensor, until he could bury his helm against the Protectobot's shoulder and purred.
A low, soft chuckle escaped from Defensor as he raised a servo and began scratching at Menasor's right helm horn. "How do you feel?"
"Better," Menasor explained, "Breakdown muffled. Menasor not Breakdown."
"No, you aren't," Defensor's tone shifted, a serious edge to his words that was belayed by the continued scratching along Menasor's sensitive helm horn. "We will keep practicing muffling your components and defining you as Menasor. It took many years for my components to understand when they first realized they could combine."
Menasor looked at Defensor out of the corner of his optic, then pushed closer to him, his servos moving to wring together as the other combiner leaned into Menasor in return. "Menasor thanks Defensor."
A smile met Menasor's thanks. Before he knew what was happening, Defensor was hugging Menasor with his free arm wrapped around the young combiner's torso. Affection overwhelmed Menasor from Defensor's field, making his faceplate warm considerably. Defensor had only ever been a sparring partner or the combiner of Breakdown's best friend to Menasor. They hadn't talked much, until now.
Menasor wished he'd been brave enough to speak to Defensor earlier. He was so different from Superion. Ancient and wise in a way Superion could never match at his young age. Defensor could be trusted, with Menasor and Menasor's components alike.
Happiness flowed through Menasor as he closed his optics and simply relaxed into Defensor's touch. He could stay this way as long as Defensor would allow him.
Menasor was slumbering when he felt Defensor nudge him in the side, a quiet, "It is time to head back to the Ark," pulling the young combiner completely from his dreamless recharge.
With a growl and slow stretch of each of his limbs, Menasor stood up. Defensor was already standing, his servos brushing dirt off Blades' rotors. Defensor was distracted. With a playful smile, Menasor tapped Defensor on the shoulder then, when Defensor turned to him with a "yes?", Menasor hugged Defensor back.
For some reason Defensor turned rigid. Shock rippled off his field and over Menasor, but only for a moment. Within seconds, Defensor hugged Menasor back and purred. Menasor let go when he felt Motormaster wake up and ask him to decombine. The Protectobots followed suit of the Stunticons as their decombined, leaving each component to stretch out their limbs and yawn.
Motormaster shook himself, a servo moving to unconsciously rub at his chest plate as Hot Spot and his team approached him. Instinct pulled Motormaster's posture into a firm parade rest as Hot Spot stopped in front of the Stunticons.
"Menasor is learning quickly. He's a brilliant combiner. Once we have him understanding this process fully, I don't believe you will have trouble with him, nor will he feel that he's not part of your family," Hot Spot said, his assessment generating a source of pride (and relief) within Motormaster.
Working with the Protectobots had consumed his every spare second, but it felt good working with the other team. Much as he knew Menasor had been musing over them, the Protectobots were different from the Aerialbots. Different from the other Autobots, even. Kinder and almost forgiving of every time the Stunticons messed up or did not follow their instructions properly.
Their patience was needed.
Menasor had improved quite notably with the Protectobots' encouragement and work, as well as since he and Motormaster had their spark to spark conversation the day Motormaster had punched the therapist. The semi had gone to great lengths to help his combiner, even if it meant going to the Protectobots, who he hardly knew at that point, and practically begging them for help. Motormaster kept constant communication lines open to Menasor, to allow his brother to know he always had Motormaster's support. His attempt at letting Menasor be himself without any influence from Motormaster had clearly been the wrong choice.
So Motormaster had corrected his course.
Sharply.
He'd approached Dead End first to truly sit down with his brother and talk after that day.
They'd gone back and forth as Motormaster laid out his insecurities and self-hatred to his second in command. Dead End had listened, as he always did without falter, and without comment while the semi spoke. Only when he finished did Dead End pry apart everything Motormaster had told him to scour him with question after question, searching deep into Motormaster's core.
To say he felt mildly better was still somewhat of a generous analysis. Motormaster felt slightly more secure in knowing Dead End, of his brothers, loved him and did not hate him, but he hadn't spoken to the rest of his brothers in such a vulnerable matter. He still had to, but Dead End's down to earth response had helped assuage that flood of doubt and self hate that the therapist had brought painfully to the forefront for the semi. He hadn't had time to sit down with the others with every other priority in place, but the therapist had at least shown pride in that Motormaster had approached Dead End so far.
Not that facing the therapist was easy since Motormaster had punched them.
"We will continue tomorrow, Stunticons," Hot Spot dismissed, drawing Motormaster to peer across the way to where the fire engine was checking in with his team.
Drag Strip seemed out of it even as Hot Spot patted him on the shoulder plate, and Breakdown was staring at the ground, drilling a hole through the dirt with his optics. Only Wildrider and Dead End seemed themselves. Which made Motormaster sigh and pinch at the bridge of his nose even as Hot Spot headed away from the Stunticons. Motormaster started to walk towards his team, his expression falling to one of stern frustration as he watched Breakdown. His youngest brother anger had waylaid their entire day of practice alongside the Protectobots.
Motormaster did not know what was bothering Breakdown, but this had been going on for weeks. Practically since when Motormaster had struck that damned therapist.
Being gentle with Breakdown would not pry the words out of his mouth. Motormaster had already tried that when he'd first picked up on Breakdown's constant anger, and it had led to the Lamborghini closing himself off. So Motormaster had dropped the topic at the time.
"I wish to speak to you in private when you have the chance, Motormaster," Hot Spot's servo on his shoulder plate stopped Motormaster mid thought before he could approach his brothers. He turned to face the fire engine, optics narrowed as he searched Hot Spot's expression for any tell. Nothing was readable, but Motormaster nodded to Hot Spot, shook off the other's servo, then walked up to his brothers.
Wildrider raised a servo to wave to Motormaster, until he seemed to notice the anger in the semi's expression. Quietly, Wildrider lowered his servo, then moved away from Breakdown.
"What was that about?" Motormaster couldn't hold back the snarl from his vocalizer as he looked between his team. His gaze turned sharply to Breakdown, whose expression fell immediately when he felt Motormaster staring him down.
Breakdown looked down and shuffled on his pedes. Motormaster felt bad for scaring Breakdown, but the Lamborghini's anger had been a constant. Even Dead End hadn't pulled the reason from their youngest brother, and First Aid had only shrugged when Motormaster asked him in private about Breakdown.
"Sorry, Motormaster," Breakdown muttered. Motormaster saw Breakdown's optics flash to Drag Strip before they darted away and anger was returned in full force with misery from Breakdown.
"Explain," Motormaster growled, aware of the heat prickling off his backstrut from where he knew Hot Spot was standing and watching them. He hated when any Autobot witnessed his brothers and himself at odds with each other. Even when it was Silverbolt who caught a Stunticon argument, instinct always pulled Motormaster into a tension that was Decepticon bred and he'd frostily dismiss his friend. Hot Spot watching was worse, for he was not Motormaster's best friend. He wasn't a kind Concorde who Motormaster had trusted for almost forty years. He hardly knew Hot Spot (though Motormaster couldn't deny he already enjoyed the Protectobot's stubbornly patient presence), and thus Hot Spot was viewed with wariness towards his perspective of this Stunticon... disagreement.
Breakdown's optics darted to Drag Strip again, but he did not speak. His vocalizer made an obvious churning sound as he tried to find the words to satisfy Motormaster's order.
It wasn't Breakdown who answered, though.
"He's mad at me," Drag Strip vented, his exasperated tone tilting Motormaster's helm in the yellow Stunticon's direction,"because I want to work with the Constructicons for awhile."
Motormaster stiffened.
This was news to him.
He darted a glance towards Breakdown, who confirmed what Drag Strip said with an embarrassed nod of his helm, before Motormaster turned back to Drag Strip. Something wormed through his fuel lines, and a quick analysis revealed it to be surprise, intermixed with worry. Worry... but acceptance. Motormaster could never control his team, no matter his preference for them to stay where he knew each of his brothers was safe. Nor did he desire to control them.
Motormaster gave a small huff from his vents as he crossed his arms, then flicked one servo down towards Drag Strip. "When did the Constructicons offer you work?"
Drag Strip looked up at Motormaster, a flash of pain sparking through his visor before he answered. "They offered the day G.H.O.S.T captured you and before we found you injured. I never followed up with them but they offered again after we were working all the time in Philadelphia. I told Scrapper a few days ago I wanted to work with him. I..."
An awkward flash of regret had Drag Strip turning away from Motormaster as he rubbed anxiously at the nape of his neck plating. "I didn't have the time to tell you when everything with G.H.O.S.T was happening and... I was kind of afraid of telling you. Breakdown knew and he's been upset with me since."
"I don't want you to leave," Breakdown muttered behind Motormaster, just barely loud enough for the semi to catch the Countach's statement.
But it was loud enough.
Motormaster turned to Breakdown, kneeled down so he was closer to his brother's height, then placed his right servo on Breakdown's shoulder plate. That made Breakdown finally look him in the optic, and it was an expression that ached with fear. Motormaster moved his right servo underneath Breakdown's chin as the Countach tried to look away from him, stopping Breakdown from moving away gently.
"Breakdown," there wasn't a reprimand this time in Motormaster's tone, simply a strain of concern for his youngest brother. Motormaster knew how hard it was for Breakdown to accept his family being far away from him. Breakdown was the one who had kept them together on the Victory. Breakdown was the one who had kept them together after their exile. Breakdown wanted his family all in one place.
"I believe it may be good for you to take a job as far from your brothers as possible, Motormaster. You have made your entire purpose about keeping them safe and doing everything to make them happy. You need to take time and a job for yourself, with only your interests in mind. Not your brothers, or your business. You have stagnated yourself with your self-inflicted punishment from how you used to treat your team."
Motormaster sighed as the therapist's declaration from their last session a week ago filtered back from his memory banks. Though he had wanted to argue, Motormaster knew the therapist was right. Since being created and then his spark given life by Vector Sigma, everything in Motormaster's life had been about his team. About his anger towards himself for how he'd treated his team. Becoming a freight hauler made sense because of Motormaster's trailer. It wasn't a job he loved by any means. It was a job that brought in money, nothing more.
Breakdown and he were both similar in the way they clung to family. To the past and to their fears.
"If Drag Strip wishes to work with the Constructicons, then you must accept it, Breakdown. We all must," Motormaster vented. "We know the Constructicons. He will be safe with them. Is not that what matters the most?"
It pained Motormaster to say each word. To admit that, in a way, he knew his brothers needed to step away from each other and experience life without their brothers hounding their every step. Of all of them, Motormaster most had to bow his helm and accept whatever choices his brothers made for themselves.
Breakdown fidgeted under Motormaster's servo, then finally pulled away, his arms locked around his chassis as anxiety stormed off him. "I know I should, but it's hard. I—" Breakdown cut himself off, his optics turning to peer up at Motormaster, imploring him with an achingly broken expression.
Motormaster frowned and pulled Breakdown in for a brief hug before he released Breakdown as Dead End approached Breakdown, his servo locked around Breakdown's arm. A simple look from Dead End had Motormaster slowly gather himself back to his pedes with a nod to his second in command, before Dead End ordered the Stunticons to follow him, then headed towards the Ark.
Which left Hot Spot.
Hot Spot stepped up to Motormaster when the Stunticons were out of audial range, the servo he rested over Motormaster's shoulder pulsing with the torso component's calming field. "Is he going to be alright?"
"I hope so," Motormaster sighed, his left servo shifting to run down his faceplate as he ground his denta together. Breakdown had to accept Drag Strip's choice sooner than later. When he and Drag Strip could talk to each other in person and through their fields and gestalt bonds. Not when Drag Strip would only be able to speak to them with their gestalt bond or comms.
"Would a new line of work help Breakdown?" Hot Spot suggested, his brow furrowed as he peered at Motormaster.
"No idea," Motormaster replied, though he hesitated and shook his helm, before amending his response. "Perhaps. He's smart but he gets stuck in his head easily. Not sure what job he'd want to do enough that would distract him from losing Drag Strip for awhile."
Hot Spot gave a contemplative hum, the pulse of his field warming with a soothing heat to Motormaster before the fire engine rubbed at his chin. "I know he and First Aid are close. Perhaps I can ask First Aid to see if Breakdown will help him while you guys are at the Ark with organizing our medical supplies and whatever other small task First Aid might want assistance with. Breakdown is detail oriented, is he not?"
Surprise made Motormaster look twice at Hot Spot, but he nodded. "Yes, he is."
He hadn't realized how much Hot Spot paid attention to the Stunticons since they'd begun working together. How observant Hot Spot apparently was. How considerate the bleeding spark fire engine was.
"Then I will prompt First Aid to ask Breakdown."
Motormaster gave a curt "thanks" before he stepped forward, expecting their conversation over, and was met by the fire engine's large frame stepping in front of him. Hot Spot was shorter than Motormaster, but he was as physically strong, if not stronger and sturdier, than Motormaster. The semi knew not to mess with Hot Spot when the Protectobot got his mind set on something.
A something that was apparently now Motormaster.
"Yes?"
Hot Spot peered up at the semi, his gaze shifting along Motormaster's frame and to his faceplate before he raised a servo and rapped his knuckles against Motormaster's chest plate. "And you? Would you like a job as well while you are here?"
Bewilderment made Motormaster double take, his optics blinking as he stared down at Hot Spot with his mouth ajar. "What."
A job?
With the Protectobots?
With Hot Spot?
"I'm not a fire engine," Motormaster growled, his denta bared in a faint snarl of confusion as he pointed to his chest plate. "I'm a semi. I haul goods, I'm not—"
"You're more than your alternate mode." Hot Spot's firm tone snapped Motormaster's mouth shut, his helm lowering slightly as he stepped back a fraction from Hot Spot. The fire engine patted his chest plate again, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth briefly. "Your forcefield and physical strength, as well as your bullheaded stubbornness, would be well suited to rescue work. You might enjoy it, if you'd like to ever join my team on missions."
Motormaster didn't know what to say. He blinked and shuffled on his pedes, optics narrowing as he stared down at Hot Spot. Hot Spot merely looked up at him with that prototypical Protectobot friendliness, as well as Hot Spot's insufferable stubbornness. But... part of Motormaster itched to do something more. To be more than just a tired, worn down hauler who ran across the country to scrounge for scraps of money for his brothers. His optics sparked, his thoughts shifting and turning around themself, before Motormaster turned to Hot Spot—
"I'll think about it."
Motormaster's plating itched. Heat churned as Hot Spot inclined his helm and patted Motormaster's shoulder plate.
"I'd enjoy working alongside you."
Motormaster stared at Hot Spot's retreating back, his processor emptying of all thought.
What?
Motormaster excused himself and hurried away from Hot Spot, aware of the buzz of thoughts that had his brothers poking at him through the bond. He didn't know what to say to them or how to explain his feelings on what the Protectobot had offered.
Menasor woke up wrong.
He could feel someone's agony through the bond.
Fear flashed through the bond as Menasor was thrown into the bonds of his five components. All but for... one... were asleep.
Who was... unwell?
A quick search showed that Motormaster was the one awake but, judging from how bored he seemed as he looked over a datapad of stocks, he wasn't who had pulled Menasor from dormancy. After a few seconds of scouring each of his brothers' bonds, he found the source. Dead End.
Without hesitation, Menasor wrapped his bond around the Porsche and flooded Dead End's with comfort. ::. Brother. I'm here. .::
Dead End's bond surged at Menasor's intrusion, as Menasor swatted away the nightmares plaguing his brother. Carefully, he curled around all of Dead End and held him. He was safe.
They were all safe with Menasor.
Sunlight warmed Menasor's plating as he lay out on the grassy plain. His optics were closed and his fans hummed as he absorbed the sun's rays.
Birdsong near his helm had Menasor open his optics, just in time to see a small flock of birds fly over his faceplate. He did not dare move as he felt the birds land on his helm horns, nor did he hardly vent. He couldn't scare them off.
"Steady," Wildrider's voice chirped from his side, where the Ferrari was leaned up on the combiner's side, staring up at Menasor's helm and the birds that had roosted there on his helm horns.
Menasor waited, frozen.
The tinny sound of scratching from Wildrider frantically sketching into the massive art book Breakdown had purchased years ago, as well as the chittering of the birds, was the only sound Menasor heard as he waited. Until a burst of wings erupted around his helm and the flock of birds fled.
Wildrider sighed from his side as Menasor turned his helm to where the Ferrari was seated. His brother noticed Menasor's shift and turned the art book up where the combiner could see it.
Hasty sketches of birds (or what Menasor guessed were supposed to be birds) adorned the page, as well as one that — after much squinting and Menasor leaning extremely close to the book — looked vaguely like the combiner with an entire flock of birds resting on his helm horns.
Wildrider let out a bemused laugh at Menasor's skeptical look. "I'm nowhere as good as Breakdown. I'm not actually sure if this is you or someone else that I drew. Maybe it's Defensor. Not grumpy enough to be you, honestly. But at least I tried!"
"I wasn't going to say anything," Menasor chuffed. The edges of his mouth twitched with a smile as Wildrider playfully smacked his side, the fake affront in the Ferrari's purple optics warm with affection.
With a growl, Menasor pounced, reaching for Wildrider before he could escape — not that Wildrider was trying to — where the combiner snatched the Ferrari in one servo. Wildrider giggled as Menasor gently scratched his helm with the digits of his right servo. The sound made Menasor laugh, especially when Wildrider finally batted away his servo and dropped from his grasp.
"I'm bored, let's go beat up the Aerialbots," Wildrider groused before he rejoined Menasor, the art book abandoned where the Ferrari had dropped it when Menasor grabbed him.
Menasor frowned as he bent down on one knee, picked the art book up with careful precision, then headed towards the Ark. He passed a few of the Autobots as they finished their patrols, each of whom he greeted by name (though he needed Motormaster and Dead End to remind him of most of the Autobots' names) as he stomped past. The only one he wasn't very friendly to was Sunstreaker, though he restrained his decades long dislike for the yellow Autobot to an engine rattling snarl.
Sunstreaker ignored him as he and his brother headed out of the Ark, the two Lamborghinis racing away just as Menasor heard Fireflight's cheerful voice call to him. Menasor greeted Fireflight back with a simple wordless growl as he placed the art book Wildrider had forgotten onto the ground, a growl that made a dreamy, pleased smile appear on Fireflight's faceplate.
The Phantom hovered near his right shoulder plate before he landed on Menasor as the combiner slowed to a stop near the volcanic canyon that bordered the Ark's crash site. Fireflight leaned against Menasor's throat plating, who flinched as the Phantom's wings accidentally scrapped under his plating joints, which Fireflight seemed entirely unaware of.
As per usual.
::. Ask him to summon his team, .:: Motormaster hissed, his not-really-a-command supported by the rest of the Stunticons. Breakdown egged him on with bemusement as Menasor tilted his helm enough to get a view on the Aerialbot.
"Menasor and his components wish to spar against Superion. We are bored."
Fireflight startled, clearly not expecting to be addressed again, nearly falling off Menasor until he caught himself. With his helm tilted in return, Fireflight looked up at Menasor, then grinned. "Sure, why not?"
Moments later, the rest of the Aerialbots appeared from the Ark, with varying degrees of confusion on their faceplates. Slingshot looked like he'd just woken from recharge, while Air Raid and Skydive were eagerly hovering near Silverbolt. The Concorde stepped up to Menasor, where he lay a single servo on the combiner's left leg as he peered up at the Stunticon combiner.
Menasor expected Silverbolt to say one of his usual kind monologues or to probe him about the reason he wanted to fight, but Silverbolt did not. Instead, the Aerialbot smirked up at him and bared his denta in a smile.
"Ready to lose again, Stunticons?"
::. As if! .:: Drag Strip cackled, his absolute faith in Menasor making the combiner preen.
"Menasor will win."
Silverbolt laughed, a sound that riled Drag Strip as quickly as it softened Motormaster's competitiveness. "We will see about that."
Before any more words could be exchanged, Superion's fist was sailing towards Menasor. He dodged the strike and lunged for his rival.
Neither combiner gave the other an inch as they sparred. Superion wrestled Menasor, the Aerialbot combiner's strength evenly matched to Menasor. He had his forcefield lowered, desiring a true fight against Superion without protective barriers. Back and forth they battled, getting further and further from the Ark (though Menasor had spotted numerous Autobots watching the two combiners tussle) with each kick, punch or sidestep.
Wildrider cheered him on as Menasor ducked a punch from Superion, grabbed his rival by his throat plating and slammed him to the ground. Superion coughed underneath Menasor as the Stunticon combiner smiled down at his rival. Superion rolled his optics, but smiled in return, before a loud laugh escaped from him.
The sound startled Menasor, who stood up from his rival, bewildered. He'd never heard Superion laugh before. Never.
Shock startled through the gestalt bond from each of his components, most notably from Dead End and Motormaster.
"Superion?" Menasor prodded at Superion, who was still laid out on his back and laughing, with his right pede. Uncertainty made him hesitate before Menasor shifted and sat down beside Superion.
Scuff marks and dents marred Superion's chassis where Menasor had punched him throughout their tussle, but Superion didn't even seem to notice them. Not when Menasor saw Superion look towards him with the softest smile he'd ever seen on his fellow combiner before.
It was similar to the one he felt from Motormaster whenever he watched his brothers from afar. It was affectionate, warm and loving.
"Why does Superion laugh? Menasor does not find himself amusing," Menasor asked, his optic ridges raised past his cowling, where they were hidden from anyone's view.
Superion stopped laughing, his expression drawing into a frown as he shook his helm. "Superion would not laugh at you. I am happy. I enjoy your presence, as do my components."
Menasor frowned, uncertain of Superion's words. Superion never lied. Menasor suspected he couldn't, unlike Bruticus (Menasor was still sour about the time Bruticus had assured him the large gas station was safe to stomp on and that it wouldn't explode. That had taken days to heal from and Motormaster had yelled at him for months for listening to any Combaticon). The Aerialbot had little reason to lie here.
He had to trust him.
Menasor growled softly as he laid down next to Superion, his left servo hesitant as he moved it towards Superion. The other combiner noticed but didn't move towards Menasor — instead, Superion jerked away.
Confusion had Menasor tilt his helm at his companion until he noticed a pallor of color underneath the pale plating of Superion's faceplate.
Superion had an energon flush.
A blush, as Menasor's components knew it to be called by the humans.
Why, though, Menasor couldn't answer.
Drag Strip seemed to know, though, for Menasor could not hear anything but the yellow Stunticon's uproarious laughter through the gestalt bond. Only a bored comment from Dead End silenced Drag Strip enough for Menasor to hear his own thoughts.
"Then why do you laugh? Menasor does not understand humor."
Superion hummed, his blue optics narrowing as the combiner stared at a point far beyond the tree line. "Silverbolt will not allow me to fight you. He finds fighting you… difficult. His thoughts are elsewhere whenever we fight. I do not understand what he thinks about but I have not been able to utilize my strength against you properly since he has started invading my mind with these... thoughts."
"Then we don't fight," Menasor concluded simply.
Silverbolt was likely unwell, even for the confidence he'd shown prior to merging to form Superion. If Motormaster's friend was unwell, Menasor wouldn't push him.
Superion glanced at Menasor briefly, but nodded. "I concur."
Menasor moved closer to his companion, his optics shuttering closed as he felt the wind brush across his frame. Breakdown and Wildrider made tiny pleased comments about getting a break from standing, before they drowned themselves in their own state of gestalt coding dormancy.
Silence passed between the two combiners, until a low rumble from Superion's engines made Menasor turn his optics online and shift his helm to look at the Aerialbot combiner. Superion was watching a small murder of crows as they banked around, floating on thermals above the combiner.
"Don't move," Menasor whispered, "birds don't like quick movements."
Superion's optic shifted towards Menasor with clear uncertainty.
"Dead End says it will work."
Superion huffed, his expression shifting from doubt to belief as the combiner flicked his gaze from Menasor to the crows. Stillness enraptured the entirety of Superion's frame until not even the smallest of movements from his digits could be detected. It seemed to work. The crows landed on top of Slingshot's wings that protruded from Superion's left arm, their caws and socializing (that's what Dead End said the birds were doing as they hopped around on Superion and preened each other) wholly distracting.
Only when the crows dispersed in an immense heave of cawing and fluttering wings, did Superion finally relax. His frame seemed to sink into the ground as a sigh of relief escaped from Superion with a gust of his fans.
"That was… interesting." Superion rubbed at his left arm as he turned a still bewildered expression towards Menasor.
Drag Strip snickered something about 'bird poop' through the gestalt bond that gave Menasor the worst images from his components, and made his faceplate screw up outwardly with disgust.
"What?" Superion quiered from his side, his expression startled and worried.
His expression resembled the Concorde perfectly.
Stupid Silverbolt. Always making the same expression whenever he looked at his brothers as Superion was now sending him. How did Silverbolt think when he worried so much?
::. He doesn't, .:: Dead End deadpanned, only for Motormaster to shush the Porsche immediately.
Which made Drag Strip start to laugh so hard that Menasor had to force his components into dormancy to stay combined.
"Menasor had an unpleasant image given to him by his components of bird 'poop'."
Superion gagged, but nodded, his expression slipping back to its regular serious state as he inclined his helm towards the Stunticon combiner. "That is an unpleasant thought."
Both combiners shuddered and fell silent, their presence enough for the other.
Until Superion broke it with a sudden comment. "You seem to be speaking to your components more. How have you been feeling?"
Menasor frowned. Since his conversations with Breakdown, Silverbolt, Drag Strip and Motormaster, his brothers had begun including him in their day to day lives and were speaking to him more. It felt natural whenever they talked about him or commented something while they were combined. Motormaster spent time out of his day, each day, just for Menasor to vent, ramble or simply hang out, with undeniable genuinity. Dead End's deadpan, apathetic commentary was commonplace and soothing all at once.
How he could explain that in full to Superion, when Menasor was anything but a wordsmith, eluded him. Menasor didn't know how to express his feelings purposefully through his field, or how to voice them. He struggled to piece together a response until a nudge from Breakdown reassuring him he didn't need to explain anything untied Menasor's vocalizer from its static.
"Menasor feels… better."
"Good," Superion hummed, his expression deeply pleased. "Do your components trust you as well?"
That made Menasor think, for a long moment, before he nodded. "They do."
"If they don't, I could always step on them." Superion smirked, the levity in his expression making his comment clear it was a joke.
"Do not," Menasor gave a soft chuckle at his—
Friend?
He and Superion were socializing, to a degree.
Superion had admitted to liking Menasor's presence.
Were they friends?
Wasn't this exactly what Breakdown said he'd done when he and First Aid became friends? Listened to the other, talked to the other, simply spent time with First Aid?
To Menasor that was friendship, but to Superion?
"Superion?"
"Yes?"
"Are we friends?" Menasor finally asked, as his spark pounded erratically in his torso. Condensation built under his plating as stress — why was he stressed? — built inside his fans and chassis.
Superion stared at him, bewilderment sharp in those studious optics. "Of course we are."
Menasor looked into Superion's optics, searching every single fractal and glint of blue energy until he could find nothing but truth. Nothing but affection, truth and a hint of that Autobot branded self confidence.
Superion didn't lie.
Menasor smiled at his friend, one that was as wide and without abandon as those he'd seen from Wildrider. His brothers spoke to him and liked him. Superion was his friend. He was happy.
Superion hummed quietly at Menasor's side. The Aerialbot combiner shifted his frame closer to Menasor, until their shoulder plates were brushing. Menasor felt his faceplate heat, made worse when Superion raised his right arm and laid his servo over Menasor's helm.
With Superion's digits scratching at his helm, Menasor leaned into his friend's touch. Superion continued to scratch, from cowl to helm horns until Menasor felt himself relax completely, his optics closing as a content purr rumbled from deep within the combiner's torso.
Though the Decepticon symbol remained on Menasor's chest, he was thankful his team had defected from their birth faction. Menasor knew he owed too much to the Autobots and their surprising generosity and forgiving natures towards his components. His brothers were happy, as much as Menasor was himself.
His purr ramped up, to a loud thrum that rattled Menasor's plating as he pressed closer to Superion, who continued to scratch at his helm.
"Motormaster!"
The shout of his name was all the warning Motormaster had before he was slammed into and large, warm arms wrapped around his chassis. A familiar deep rumble of turbojet engines and the way his instincts didn't stiffen and throw off who had hugged him told Motormaster that it was Silverbolt. The Concorde released him as Motormaster turned to his friend, optic ridge raised as he looked up at his friend.
Silverbolt looked exhausted, but pleased, judging by the smile that tugged at his mouth as he stepped back from the semi.
Motormaster noted the dirt and deep scratches across his friend's chest plate and, with a hint of protective indignation, gestured to the scratches. "Who did that to you, Bolt?"
A laugh was not the response Motormaster expected from Silverbolt, nor the warmth from his field as Silverbolt shook his helm and, somewhat self-consciously, patted his chest plate. "No, no, no one hurt me. I. Uh. Crashed."
Motormaster could not help the way his expression turned flat, his raised optic ridge turning skeptical (and, perhaps, teasing) as Silverbolt awkwardly rubbed at the nape of his neck. "How high up were you when you crashed?"
"Twenty feet," Silverbolt chuffed, "but I was going supersonic."
"At twenty feet?" Motormaster asked, incredulous. Sometimes Silverbolt worried him.
Crazy flier.
Another soft laugh escaped from Silverbolt, the softness and pure joy of it even making Motormaster roll his optics and smile as Silverbolt nudged him in the side with his elbow. Motormaster shoved his friend away, then started to walk, the Concorde quick to follow behind him as the semi headed aimlessly towards an outcropping of rock on the opposite side of the mountain from the Ark. Neither spoke even as Motormaster sat down at the edge of the outcropping, flopped his legs over the side, propped his servos against the ground, and leaned back.
Silverbolt sat down beside him, close enough that the Concorde's thigh plating rubbed against Motormaster. He didn't mind the press of metal or Silverbolt's warm, generous field as it nudged against Motormaster. It was simply nice to spend time alone with his best friend. Silverbolt had been busy almost every day with a program the Autobots had been roped into agreeing to following G.H.O.S.T disbanding. The Concorde and all other Cybertronian fliers had to attend and participate in military exercises that kept the flyers away from the Ark more than not. The rule had only recently been implemented and already Motormaster missed how frequently he and Silverbolt could talk. (He also had an intense distrust for the human military and could not help but suspect the humans of using Silverbolt and his team to their advantage).
So he would take whatever time he could grab to be with Silverbolt. Motormaster leaned his shoulder plate into Silverbolt as he let out built up pressure within his engine and vents. The semi relaxed as his chassis relented from the built up steam and heat coursed through him, his plating lowering until it rested evenly over his frame.
Silverbolt's arm around his shoulder tugged Motormaster closer, until the side of the semi's helm rested under Silverbolt's shoulder cuff. The Concorde's field wrapped itself around Motormaster, a soothing calm energy that made him close his optics, vent and simply enjoy himself as he swung his legs lazily over the edge of the cliff.
Bird call, the quiet gusting of the wind and the soft rumble of Silverbolt's engines was all the noise that breached the calm of the two combiner leaders. It made Motormaster want to simply rest his optics and recharge.
The gentle press of Silverbolt's servo against his side did not help the semi stay awake. With a shift closer to his friend, Motormaster let his engine purr his happiness to the Concorde. A tiny, faint laugh escaped from Silverbolt as he tightened his grip on Motormaster's side. Recharge flickered at the edge of Motormaster's awareness as he felt Silverbolt move his helm so that the Concorde could rest his chin on top of Motormaster's cowl.
Motormaster's engine thrummed louder while Silverbolt pulled him ever so slightly closer.
This was nice.
Silverbolt was different from his brothers.
Larger and stronger than his brothers combined.
Soothing like Breakdown and Dead End, but there was a fierceness underneath that reminded him of how Drag Strip and Wildrider got when their family was threatened. He wasn't Stunticon, but he was as close to trusted as the semi could accept any outsider.
"Hey, 'Bolt?" Motormaster grumbled through his half-recharge state.
Silverbolt moved slightly, acknowledging Motormaster without a word.
"Thanks. For… sticking around."
Motormaster felt Silverbolt frown through his field. Before the Concorde could answer, a familiar beat of rotors slammed Motormaster's spark deep into his core.
Megatron.
With a suddenness he hated giving to his friend, Motormaster pushed Silverbolt off him and scrambled to his pedes, just as the silver form of Megatron's alt mode appeared around the curve of the mountain. Silverbolt growled as Megatron transformed out of his alternate mode and landed a few feet from the two combiner team leaders.
"Afternoon," Megatron greeted, something in his gaze drawing Silverbolt to step beside Motormaster even as Megatron raised his servos in a non-threatening gesture. "Just wanted to check in with Motormaster, I do apologize for interrupting."
"You're not forgiven," Silverbolt hissed, but Megatron seemed to ignore him as his red optics turned to lock completely onto Motormaster. Motormaster felt his spark churn with anxiety as the tiltrotor approached him and reached a servo out towards—
"Don't touch me." The snarl was instinctive and lined with anger as Motormaster stepped backwards from Megatron, optics narrowed as wariness shifted his frame to a ready stance.
Megatron froze, something flickering through his optics before he inclined his helm and pulled his servo back to himself. Motormaster felt Silverbolt touch his shoulder plate reassuringly, though there was a dangerous fire in the Concorde's field. A quiet hiss from Motormaster's comms alerted him to Silverbolt contacting him.
"Do you want me to stay?" Silverbolt's voice, though muffled through the crackle of their radios, snarled. That fire Motormaster felt brushing against him from the Concorde's field was one of a deeply protective nature.
Silverbolt didn't move as Motormaster looked between Megatron, whose optics had narrowed fractionally when Silverbolt stepped closer to Motormaster, and his friend. Finally, with a puff of steam from his exhaust pipes, Motormaster gave a near imperceptible shake of his helm to Silverbolt.
The Concorde glanced at him, studying the semi for a moment before he nodded, activated his thrusters, transformed and shot away from the outcropping. Dust and chips of rocks sprayed across Motormaster's plating as Silverbolt roared away to the entrance of the Ark, leaving the semi with his creator.
Motormaster felt off balance by Megatron's appearance. The tiltrotor would always approach him in the Ark and only the Ark. Somehow he couldn't help but feel Megatron had sought him out intentionally when Motormaster had little intention to talk to Megatron that day. Things were… frustrating with the former Decepticon.
Since Motormaster had spoken to his team about Megatron, he had given the other time to talk to him or hang out. Some of Motormaster liked that Megatron sought him out, but part of him couldn't forget the abuse Megatron had inflicted on every Stunticon.
Part of Motormaster still yearned for Megatron's approval and that was what made him keep tolerating the times Megatron wished to speak to him. But that tolerance was leveled solely to when Motormaster felt in the mood to have to go through his convoluted feelings over Megatron. A mood he was most certainly not in that day. He had too much on his mind.
A feeling he opened his mouth to express to Megatron until Megatron interrupted him.
"I hear Drag Strip is leaving to join the Constructicons, is that correct?"
Motormaster bared his denta in a snarl. "Only for a few months," the words came out venomous, more than Motormaster intended. Getting his team to work through their feelings around Drag Strip finding a job elsewhere had been hard for Breakdown. Wildrider had accepted it with ease, as did Dead End. Only Breakdown of the four Stunticons had clung to Drag Strip as he finally explained his desire to work with the Constructicons to his family.
Motormaster was a tad… Stressed at losing one of his team, temporary though six months were. But he had been the most willing to help Drag Strip prepare to join the Constructicons because he knew he had to let him go. Arguing with Drag Strip would have led to resentment from him that Motormaster didn't want to leave their brother off with.
"How do you feel about that?" Megatron's voice lowered as he gestured for Motormaster to sit where he had been with Silverbolt before the tiltrotor's interruption. Motormaster crossed his arms but did as Megatron suggested. Megatron sat down next to him as Motormaster rubbed at his faceplate with one servo, then answered the former Decepticon.
"I want him to do whatever makes him happy, but I'm not… pleased about it. It is hard knowing I won't be there to protect him if something goes wrong, or to get him to behave when he's acting out." Motormaster scooped up a rock that was precariously hanging off the edge of the outcropping then flung it away from him, then vented heavily. "I will miss him, and I don't know what to do with that feeling. I've never been without my team…"
Megatron's large servo pressed over the semi's shoulder plate, drawing him to freeze in place at his touch. Comfort radiated off Megatron's field but Motormaster jerked away from Megatron. A glare warned Megatron off quietly before Motormaster sunk his chin onto his servo and sighed.
Megatron noted his sigh and, this time with keeping his servos to himself and his field away from Motormaster, the tiltrotor let out a low, questioning, growl, "What is it?"
"I'm proud of Drag Strip, but now…"
Now Motormaster's plating itched to do more.
"I wish I could find a new job, like he has."
Megatron raised an optic ridge and let out a low "hmm". It sounded thoughtful, but also judgemental. Motormaster could not, for the life of him, figure out Megatron's quirks and demeanors. He didn't mind spending time with Megatron when he was in the mood, but at the same time he didn't know Megatron and he was consumed by distrust and anxiety around his creator.
"Is that job what you see yourself doing for the rest of your years on Earth?" Megatron asked, his helm tilted to the side quizzically as he peered down at Motormaster.
Motormaster sighed, his left servo raised to pinch at the bridge of his nose before he shook his helm. "No."
Megatron blinked, his red optics boring into the semi without another word.
"I'm the only one who can haul goods. I can't up and abandon that for some other line of work," Motormaster growled behind gritted denta. Hot Spot's suggestion to join the Protectobots in their line of emergency services work prickled at Motormaster's backstrut. He wanted to do something meaningful with his strength. With the forcefield Megatron had imbued within him. With that insufferably lingering itch to fight.
Again, Megatron didn't answer. It only made Motormaster stew further.
Drag Strip had spoken of his new job with the Constructicons with excitement. With a near glowing field that burrowed into Motormaster's spark as he went on route after route to deliver pallets of supplies. He wanted to drive with intent. The last time he had was protecting his team after they'd left the Decepticons. When it was just them.
"Why don't you quit then?" Megatron's voice filtered through the roar in Motormaster's chest plate, stifling every thought as he turned to face Megatron.
Megatron's optics were narrowed on him, his expression drawn as he studied Motormaster's faceplate. It made Motormaster look down to his curled servos, where his digits dug against his palms. Anger seethed inside his spark.
"The entire backbone of our business relies on the fact that you," Motormaster jabbed a digit into Megatron's chest plate, with some anger, "made me out of a semi whose entire purpose in the human world is to transport goods. We wanted to stay under the radar of humans and Cybertronians, so we picked roles that our alternate modes fit. My brothers used holoforms whenever they worked on repairs for customers' cars. No one knew who we were and we were content that way. Now that is pointless, every human knows who we are, so why keep going in a job that I get nothing out of besides income for my family?"
A strained laugh escaped from Motormaster as Megatron did not answer, his silence leaving Motormaster to pinch the bridge of his nose tightly. What did he want to do? Why didn't he quit?
"Motormaster…" Megatron's voice was quiet, but it was enough to make the semi relent.
His plating rattled as Motormaster cleared his vents with a deep intake of air. He relaxed his servos, then stared off into the distance, beyond the Ark.
"Hot Spot suggested I could work with his team," Motormaster admitted, somewhat uncertainly, "and I haven't stopped thinking about what I could do with them. This… anger Vector Sigma gave me doesn't go away. The soldier you made me hasn't left. I want to be something more than what you made me, and transporting materials isn't enough for me."
A sudden heavy presence stirred inside Motormaster, beyond his spark. Menasor.
::. Easy, .:: Motormaster whispered to the combiner.
Menasor always seemed to stir awake whenever Megatron pushed at Motormaster, or simply was near him. Motormaster knew it was due to Menasor's protectiveness and an extreme dislike for Megatron. That dislike was fully the combiner's own, for all of his components were tolerating Megatron in varying degrees. The bond tasted bitter whenever Menasor thought about Megatron (for Motormaster always saw when Megatron and the Combaticons had hunted them down and nearly killed all but himself and Breakdown. Menasor never forgave, no matter the turncoat Megatron had become to the Decepticons or the Combaticons aligning themselves to assisting or helping the Stunticons).
After a moment of hesitation, Menasor huffed, then returned to dormancy. Dead End's side of the bond flickered, flared and churned before it faded. He was worried. The Stunticons let Motormaster be when he met with Megatron, but that tolerance for distance lasted only so long as Motormaster's side of the bond stayed inert and at peace. Dead End was very displeased by Motormaster letting Megatron into his life and radiated much of the same intolerance as Menasor.
It was comforting, in a way, knowing Dead End would not let his love for his family mute his role as the Stunticon second in command. Someone had to contrast Motormaster's stubbornness and continued overprotectiveness for the betterment of their family.
Megatron shifted to Motormaster's side, the sound of metal scrapping rock screeching through his audials as the tiltrotor stood up and looked down at Motormaster. "You shouldn't stay somewhere if it isn't making you happy, Motormaster," Megatron's sigh felt world weary and ancient. It ached of worn rotator cuffs and joints. Of permanently damaged motors and exhaustion.
It was enough to make Motormaster look up at Megatron, his gaze narrowed on the silver Cybertronian. Megatron's expression warred with itself, his red optics in a distant plane that wasn't directly in front of Megatron. Motormaster wondered if his former leader was thinking about his switch to the Autobot faction. He had only explained in passing to Motormaster that Megatron had abandoned the Decepticon cause when he finally became aware of the pointlessness of the Cybertronian war.
For some reason, Motormaster still felt bitterness when he thought about that response.
He hadn't dissected why, nor had he brought it up to the Autobot therapist to have them help him analyze what was going on inside his processor over that. It felt as uncomfortable as the urge to fight that Motormaster could not extinguish.
But Megatron's advice was correct.
Motormaster had had to encourage Breakdown to relax with Drag Strip and his fear over his brother abandoning them by reminding him of how he had to let Drag Strip do what the Pagani thought would make him happy. If that meant working with the Constructicons for half a year, and Drag Strip returned happier, that was what mattered the most to Motormaster. Breakdown had finally seemed to agree and he had been turning around in his misery over Drag Strip leaving… which made the idea of Motormaster explaining to his brothers that he was tired of his role in their business somewhat easier.
Maybe he'd find something for him in emergency services.
"They can always hire a driver, can't they? Instead of using you?" Maybe there was a hint of a smile in Megatron's question.
Maybe that lightness made a small chuff of amusement escape from Motormaster before he shook his helm. Maybe he felt himself relax minutely as Megatron let out a low, amused laugh as Motormaster slowly stood up from the cliff edge.
"We could," Motormaster shrugged with a cursory glance to Megatron, "if that human could withstand working with us."
"You could ask Optimus?" Megatron's suggestion made Motormaster roll his optics, but the idea wasn't unfounded.
Optimus was busy more than often not, but the Autobot leader had openly told the Stunticons he was willing to help them whenever and wherever he could. Perhaps Motormaster could float the idea by Optimus the next time he saw him. If Optimus tentatively agreed, or offered a different Autobot or solution to the fact Motormaster wanted to be something other than a freight hauler, then he'd feel better about leaving his brothers to deal with the repercussions of their semi abandoning his post.
"I'll ask him when I see him," Motormaster huffed before he turned away from Megatron, though turned an optic to the former Decepticon with a growled, "Thanks for the suggestion."
"Anytime, son."
Motormaster winced at Megatron's term. An uncomfortable rush of heat activated the semi's cooling system as he turned his back on Megatron. He hated the conflict that term created in him.
Megatron didn't say another word until Motormaster turned to look at the tiltrotor, optics narrowed as he recognized a bemused smile on Megatron's faceplate.
"What?"
Megatron's smile only grew more prominent, a cheekiness to his field that made Motormaster double take. He almost regretted sending Silverbolt away when he had, for no matter what he'd allowed Megatron to insert himself into the semi's life, Motormaster still didn't trust Megatron. With Silverbolt, at least he'd feel on the right foot with the former Decepticon leader.
Wariness shifted Motormaster to his full height as he stared down Megatron, "Sir?"
"How have things gone with Silverbolt? That was quite endearing seeing him want to protect you," was that an edge to Megatron's words, "though you didn't have to send him off."
Motormaster blinked, stupefied. Silverbolt? He'd hung out with his best friend where Motormaster could but they were both busy. Megatron had practically radiated a desire for Silverbolt to leave when he'd asked for time to speak to Motormaster.
Why was Megatron smiling?
"Fine?" Motormaster hesitated to answer. "Why? Better before you interrupted us to bother me."
Megatron stared at Motormaster, his expression infuriatingly impossible to read, except for a flash of frustration at Motormaster's sneering retort. "Nothing. I just wished to see how your friend and you were doing. That is all."
Doubt raised Motormaster's optics greatly. That hadn't seemed to be the intention within Megatron, but he wasn't going to further the topic and potentially dig a hole for himself he didn't intend. Megatron was still Megatron. For all he knew, deep down, Megatron did not approve of Motormaster and his brothers making such close friends with Autobots. Not that Motormaster would allow Megatron a chance to judge him for his choice in friends. Silverbolt was his and Motormaster would defend the Aerialbot with his coldest fury, especially to Megatron.
But Megatron did not broach the subject again. He let it drop, and instead chose to merely back off, servos raised. Motormaster glared at the tiltrotor until he snarled a cold "good day", transformed, then drove away from Megatron.
His entire chassis prickled until he reached the Ark, drove inside, transformed and found Breakdown and Wildrider chatting with First Aid and Air Raid. Air Raid spotted Motormaster first and tapped the two smaller Stunticons on the shoulder plates before he pointed behind them to Motormaster.
Wildrider smiled the instant he turned and spotted Motormaster, and it was in a rush of gunmetal gray and red that the Ferrari lunged on Motormaster and hugged him. Breakdown perked up but did not run to Motormaster as the semi walked, while Wildrider clung to his side, up to Breakdown and the others.
First Aid dipped his helm to Motormaster with a smile and the warmest, kindest field that Motormaster had encountered of the Autobots. It was almost too soft, but he returned the Protectobot's greeting with a growl and dip of his helm. Air Raid patted Breakdown on the shoulder, said a goodbye to the three Stunticons, then jetted off in the direction of the Aerialbots' quarters. By the time he was gone, Wildrider finally released Motormaster and was standing beside him, his infectious smile radiating through his field as the Ferrari leaned on Motormaster's leg.
Breakdown shifted closer to Motormaster as well, though the soft brush of the Countach's servo grabbing Motormaster's own surprised him. With a glance down to his brother, Motormaster tried to send reassuring heat through the gestalt bond. Breakdown responded by pulling Motormaster's servo and arm closer to himself.
Dread hissed through the gestalt bond from the Lamborghini, but there was a level of grudging acceptance. Motormaster knew Breakdown was aware of what the semi had discussed with Megatron. Of the fact that another one of his brothers wanted to leave.
The drive back home was quiet, but a quietness that didn't ruffle Motormaster's plating or drive their bond with fury. Wildrider was quiet, too.
Breakdown lagged behind Motormaster, his headlights illuminating the back of Motormaster's trailer as the semi slowed to pull beside Breakdown. Carefully, the semi filled his field with love and affection in a way he couldn't word, and allowed it lose.
A small sound of surprise escaped Breakdown as Motormaster's field engulfed him. But the tension from Breakdown waned, before Breakdown finally spoke up.
::. You will come back? .::
::. Why would I not? .::
Breakdown hummed contemplatively, but then Motormaster finally felt true acceptance wash through Breakdown's gestalt bond. Trust was returned through Breakdown's field as he let out a loud vent through his alt mode.
::. I worry because I love you both, .:: Breakdown whispered, the sorrow that flickered through the bond met instead by Motormaster (and Wildrider, who had pulled beside them both on the empty highway) prodding him with the warmest feelings of security/safety/love in return.
::. I love you too, .:: Motormaster reiterated, his bond voice strong and without waver.
No matter where his family went or what they did, they were his. They'd always be his, and he'd always love them.
