Chapter Text
Awareness came in a flash of muted yellow and a strange, harsh voice that he knew wasn't his. And there were other voices, more familiar than the one that woke him, echoing inside him but they weren't his. Nor was the voice that commanded him and the other voices to introduce themselves.
The hollow, deep voice - the one who flared anger and rage and loathing so strongly - spoke first, declaring himself Motormaster. A hiss of recognition and understanding snaked from the quietest thread, though it was not acknowledged by him.
And then the silver mech, who seemed to embody the very meaning of "threat", turned his optics to him.
He was the best. He was the fastest, the smartest, the best fighter, the cunning one - he would lead. Drag Strip would lead.
"I am Drag Strip! I live to obey!"
The acceptance and awareness of his name unlocked what few files had been hardwired into his frame. He was a Decepticon, a faction from a planet that had been embroiled with civil war for millennia. His task was to destroy the Autobots, the enemy of his birth faction, and destroy them without conscious. He was also special.
The silver mech, who stood before Drag Strip and the other four mechs gathered next to him, had no wheels but Drag Strip did. Decepticons flew, their mastery was the skies, as his few files noted. They had no use for wheels, and even scorned wheels and those that mastered the roadways.
But he'd been made to be the swiftest Decepticon - and he was a… grounder. Drag Strip had been made with a purpose, to counteract the enemies of the Decepticons where they excelled. He was special and he liked the rush, the thrill, that stoked through him at the thought of displaying his speed before these enemies.
They would all come to fear his speed, both in battle and on the road, and the Decepticons would know who was responsible. Drag Strip would be the leader, and he would show even the silver mech - Megatron - that he was the best.
But, when Drag Strip and the rest of his team - something in his coding told him that all four were his - arrived on the Decepticon base and to Megatron's throne room, it was not Drag Strip chosen as leader but Motormaster.
Motormaster!
What did that mech have that Drag Strip did not have tenfold over? Motormaster wasn't as fast as Drag Strip, nor was he as smart or as cunning. What did the black and gray semi have that Drag Strip didn't?
He was jealous.
And, to Drag Strip's chagrin, none of the others even complained about the choice in leadership. Could they not see the threads of fury that dripped like oil from Motormaster? Did none of them realize that Motormaster did not think as quickly or as intelligently or with as much cunning as Drag Strip did?
They were idiots to not see that Motormaster would just lead them to failure - and then the Decepticons would look at Drag Strip in disgust, not admiration. And so resentment grew within Drag Strip, though he never let his team know of the origin behind his feelings.
He had learned the gestalt bond quicker than any of his other "brothers" - it was the only word in his coding that could easily define the relationship Drag Strip had been forged to feel with the other four mechs - and had twisted and turned it until he could decide what to reveal to his brothers. Breakdown and Wildrider knew nothing of his manipulation, nor were they smart enough to formulate their own sides of the gestalt bond to their bidding.
Dead End didn't care and thus Drag Strip was bombarded by thorns of gray misery, a constant and aggravating presence he fought constantly. The pessimistic car was lazy, but it was his red finish that drew all the attention from the Decepticons.
Drag Strip hated it, hated Dead End for drawing the Decepticons attention away from the one Stunticon deserving of it. And, to make matters worse, Breakdown drew comments and optics and snide remarks, all when the paranoid mesh of nerves wanted what Drag Strip hated the most - no mech looking at him.
Couldn't the Decepticons see who was the warrior of the Stunticons, the fastest car to ever terrorize the Autobots? No, they could not, and that only became more true when the Decepticons met Menasor.
Menasor was Motormaster's anger and Wildrider's unpredictability. He was Breakdown's chaotic, paranoid mind and Dead End's apathy - Menasor didn't care about anything for too long, and he'd only find interest for a short amount of time until he became unfocused. But it was Drag Strip's desires to be the best that pushed Menasor through his brothers' stalls and quirks, and made him the fierce soldier he was.
Drag Strip centered Menasor's purpose but no Decepticon noticed. The only Stunticon any Decepticon even talked to was Motormaster - and every single Decepticon reviled the semi! Even Megatron paid his own personally forged team little mind.
Megatron had shown a degree of pride in Drag Strip and his brothers before their first battle against the Autobots, but that had changed the moment Superion and Omega Supreme had knocked Menasor unconscious. Megatron's special gestalt had failed and there was no one but Drag Strip and his brothers to blame.
And blame he did, and that was the last time Menasor functioned as designed.
Drag Strip, Dead End, Breakdown and Wildrider had sulked in their shared quarters while Motormaster had gone to debrief with Megatron. Motormaster had not been able to block his gestalt brothers from feeling the semi's agony as Megatron beat him, striking him until the Decepticon leader had snapped Motormaster's jaw - punishment for his team's failure.
Motormaster had limped to their quarters and, without warning, beat each of them as badly as Megatron had he. From that moment, Drag Strip hated Motormaster and Menasor knew.
Menasor struggled in every fight since that day against Omega Supreme and Superion, so at war were his components' minds that the combiner had become the laughingstock of the Decepticon forces. Even Bruticus and his treacherous Combaticons were more well regarded.
Drag Strip hated the Combaticons and hated Motormaster, and he'd even grown to hate Megatron. If Megatron had chosen him as the leader, the Stunticons would be feared and respected by the Autobots and their fellow Decepticons alike. But no, he chose Motormaster.
A hiss of hot air above Drag Strip's helm sent a bolt of fear shooting through his backstrut and, though he already knew who was behind him, Drag Strip turned and gave Motormaster a coy smile.
"Heard of fuel cleaner before, Motorbreath?"
Rage brushed his field and scorched the bond before the expected fist smashed into Drag Strip's faceplate. He felt his plating dent under Motormaster's fist astroseconds before his chassis smashed against the wall of the hallway.
A smirk played its way across Drag Strip's mouth as he slowly gathered himself to his pedes and faced Motormaster, who was grinding his denta as he stopped in front of Drag Strip and glared down at him. "When will you learn respect, Drag Strip? I am your leader, not some mech you can insult whenever you desire."
"It was no insult, Motormaster, just a harmless suggestion that may help how the other Decepticons react around you," Drag Strip said. He shifted his stance deliberately and flared his panels in a preening manner, and he received the response from Motormaster he had desired.
Motormaster's optics flickered for a moment as confusion from the semi's gestalt bond prodded roughly at Drag Strip's own. Motormaster had always been the most frustrated by the gestalt bond, and how easily his smaller brothers had adapted to the bond, all while Motormaster tried to hide from the revealing bond. It was a vulnerability that Drag Strip would not hesitate to use against his leader.
He needed to take any advantage against Motormaster, if he wanted to live. Motormaster was more powerful than Drag Strip or any of his brothers, and the semi took to reminding them of his strength over them by beating them down. Using the gestalt bond that Motormaster struggled with on every solar cycle to conspire so openly with his brothers was the only way to resist his anger.
"I don't appreciate you always trying to undermine me," Motormaster hissed. His digits twitched and flexed as if the semi wanted to strangle Drag Strip, but he resisted as the mech let steam hiss from his intakes in a display of frustration. "Back to our quarters now."
"Of course, Motormaster," Drag Strip smiled slowly, and then inclined his helm slightly to avoid Motormaster's gaze. Motormaster hated a challenge from one of his gestalt brothers, and Drag Strip wanted him to think that Drag Strip was cowed. "Anything for the best leader to ever grace the Decepticon faction."
Anger poured off of Motormaster's field at Drag Strip's statement for a klik before the semi's faceplate scrunched in confusion and he tilted his helm to the side quizzically. His bond again pricked at Drag Strip, a curious thread of his signature black and purple that bashed against Drag Strip with his typical lack of control.
Motormaster believed Drag Strip, though there was a hint of caution from the semi's bond as a flutter of pride raced through his field. The semi stared at Drag Strip for a klik before he jerked his servo in the direction of the Stunticons' quarters. "To your quarters."
Drag Strip nodded, ducked under Motormaster's left arm, and walked with quick purpose towards the quarters he shared with his brothers. He knew when and where to push Motormaster, and going for his leader's pride was the only way he knew to smooth out any potential blow ups from the mech. But he had to be careful with just how much he praised Motormaster, lest his eldest brother realize Drag Strip was mocking him.
The quarters were, for once, silent. Dead End was reading in the corner, while the doors to Breakdown and Wildrider's rooms were shut. Drag Strip greeted Dead End as he plopped over the giant, Stunticon sized couch Wildrider had made from an assortment of stolen human material. It was comfortable, though downright hideous, made with an array of mismatched fabrics that burned Drag Strip's optics.
Dead End didn't even bother to look up from his data pad when he responded to Drag Strip's greeting with a tired, flat voice. Drag Strip's mouth quirked slightly but he vented and, stretching his legs out across the couch, relaxed.
But it was a relaxation that lasted only for a few kliks before the heavy tread of Motormaster stopped outside the door to the Stunticons quarters. Drag Strip quickly straightened up on the couch, his digits curling at his sides just as Motormaster entered their quarters. The semi headed directly towards Drag Strip, though he stopped an arm's length from the couch. Purple optics shifted towards Breakdown and Wildrider's rooms before Motormaster crossed his arms and, his bond tight, he sat down on the couch beside Drag Strip.
Drag Strip shuffled to the very edge of the couch as Motormaster settled his large bulk down to the creaking, groaning protest of the couch. Motormaster shot Drag Strip a glance before he jerked his helm towards Dead End and beckoned the Porsche to join them on the couch.
Dead End looked up from his datapad and shook his helm as he sent a jerking wave of apathy through the bond. Motormaster scowled beside Drag Strip before he sent a very loud and very demanding wave of anger to Dead End.
::. Join us, .:: Motormaster demanded loudly. His voice shrieked through the bond, untempered by inexperience, but it was his use of the bond that piqued Dead End's interest from his data pad.
Dead End looked up from his data pad, his visor and mask hiding any expression, and gave an uninterested shrug. "Fine."
The Porsche settled in between Drag Strip and Motormaster, crossed his legs and let disinterest wash over his field. None of them spoke, and a tense, awkward air crackled between the three Decepticons. Drag Strip, at least, didn't mind. This was better than Motormaster screaming at him.
Stupid, arrogant, cruel semi.
"Stop that," Dead End suddenly hissed from beside Drag Strip, anger crawling like oil through the bond.
Drag Strip flared his plating and opened his mouth to retort - he hadn't done anything! - when he felt Motormaster's frame tense. His typical anger matched Dead End's as it curled and flamed from the semi's field, so heavily and chokingly that Drag Strip had to resist his every instinct to scramble away from the two mechs. Motormaster would beat him to an unrecognizable shape if Drag Strip moved.
"Stop what?" Motormaster snarled defensively. The plating along the semi's shoulders bristled and lifted as sharp vents hissed his displeasure and his fans heaved.
But Dead End did not care as Motormaster glowered down at him and, with a bored vent, Dead End picked at the plating of his right arm. "None of us enjoy you stumbling around in the bond like an overcharged fool, least of all while you block all of us out and hit us for even approaching you."
Primus, Dead End was brave, that or insanely stupid. Drag Strip liked challenging Motormaster - that was what any ambitious mech would do - but he knew how to challenge the semi without driving Motormaster into a fit of rage. Dead End just didn't care enough about what Motormaster did to him to curb his glossa. Drag Strip admired that in his pessimistic brother, and it was the only time he'd willingly concede a "loss" to anyone.
And it was to none of Drag Strip's surprise when Motormaster suddenly punched Dead End off the couch, sending the red mech sprawling to the ground. Dead End staggered onto all fours and wiped at his mask, brushing away a trickle of energon before he slowly got to his pedes and faced Motormaster.
Motormaster got up from the couch - the sudden shift of weight almost sent Drag Strip off the couch - grabbed Dead End's shoulder, and yanked him forward so that their chest plates were practically scraping against each other.
"Shut up!"
Dead End's bond seethed as he lowered his gaze from Motormaster's optics, though he did not speak until Motormaster lowered him to the ground. Dead End brushed his plating absentmindedly before his engine ticked over, and his fans stirred.
Before Dead End could retort - he seemed almost obsessed with snark - a hard rap on the door that led out of the shared Stunticons quarters snapped his mouth shut. Drag Strip got to his pedes to answer the door but a harsh look from Motormaster stopped him in his tracks.
The semi stalked to the door and opened it, revealing the short form of Rumble. Motormaster bristled at the appearance of Soundwave's cassette, and his tone told his dislike of Rumble when the semi snapped, "What do you want?"
"Lord Megatron wishes to see you for a mission debrief, Motormaster," Rumble smirked, "says he's been comming you for the last few groons. Our lord grows impatient."
Shock and embarrassment blasted from Motormaster like a shot from a cannon, though he tried to mask it with a threatening snarl that he directed towards Rumble. "I have received no communications from Lord Megatron. I would never ignore any comms from our lord! Are you suggesting I would ignore him?"
"I did not intend to imply anything," Rumble hurriedly interjected as Motormaster drew himself to his full height over the Cassetticon, "I was just told to locate you."
Drag Strip felt Motormaster's rage shift slightly, quelling into the core of his spark, where it would stew and snarl and hiss until the semi unleashed it upon Drag Strip or his brothers. Plating lowered and his fans stilled, quieting until Motormaster straightened and jerked his helm. "Lead the way, Cassetticon."
Rumble glared at Motormaster before he nodded and headed down the hall, Motormaster following just behind him, the heavy tread of his pedes fading finally.
Drag Strip's fans stilled as Motormaster's imposing presence left the room. "Hopefully Megatron will keep him occupied for awhile."
"He might," Dead End intoned, his helm turning towards Drag Strip with a shrug of his shoulders, "but Motormaster will blame us nonetheless for him not receiving Megatron's summons. Maybe he'll deactivate one of us. He's angry enough as it is."
Drag Strip stared at his brother before he shot him a glare and crossed his arms over his chestplate. "You saw to that, 'End."
Dead End's visor sparked slightly - the only hint of his expression - before he shrugged his shoulder plate and vented. "I was satisfied with where I was. He had no need to order me to the couch. I do not have any personal liking for that appalling display of Wildrider's organic obsession."
"Yeah, but you talk to him like you want him to deactivate you."
"As if you don't do the same," Dead End retorted hotly, defensively even. He was getting mad. Drag Strip could feel it, though he could tell Dead End was attempting to temper his anger behind his usual wall of "I don't care" facade.
Drag Strip snorted at Dead End's defensiveness, and was about to tease Dead End when the soft creak of Breakdown's door opening drew his gaze to where his anxious brother was peering out of his room. Breakdown's digits were clenched and he was keeping himself small as his optics snapped around the living room fearfully.
"Is he gone?"
"No, he's hiding under the couch," Drag Strip sneered, "and he's watching you."
Breakdown's amethyst purple optics widened as he stumbled back into his room, the sound of crashing metal and a squeak of pain quickly drowned by the frantic hissing of his fans. The lights in the living room began to flicker as the tell tale snarl of Breakdown's engine began to reverberate through the room.
Dead End shot Drag Strip a cold look before he got up from the couch and stalked into Breakdown's room.
"Good going."
Drag Strip jumped at the sound of Wildrider's voice behind him and whirled around to face the red faceplate of his brother. Wildrider was marcometers from him, so close that Drag Strip could feel steam hissing from his intakes, with a scowl that looked more like Motormaster than Wildrider. Rage smoldered deep within Wildrider's unnerving vivid cerulean blue optics, his attention too focused on Drag Strip for his tastes.
"You should apologize to Breakdown," Wildrider suggested coldly. He was sounding abnormally lucid for Wildrider, a fact that made Drag Strip's plating bristle.
Crazy Wildrider made sense. Wildrider was always crazy. But calm, normal, not-crazy Wildrider? Drag Strip didn't like him that way at all. At least crazy Wildrider was predictable.
"Shut up, Wildrider," Drag Strip countered, "Breakdown needs to brave up. And it was a joke."
Wildrider blinked and then suddenly snarled at Drag Strip, who hurried backwards and drew his gravito gun from his subspace instinctively. Drag Strip's optics widened when he realized what he was about to do, and quickly stored his gun back into subspace. Wildrider looked unamused as he crossed his arms over his chest plate and slowly gestured towards Breakdown's room.
"Fine," Drag Strip vented before he turned on his heel and walked into Breakdown's room slowly.
Breakdown's room was sparsely decorated, with only his berth and a datapad occupying the space. The Stunticons had found out about Breakdown's paranoia on their first night of existence, when he'd suddenly woken all of them from their recharge by flinging every object out of his room. He'd been shrieking about cameras so loudly that it had taken Motormaster tackling Breakdown and smothering him into the ground for the Lamborghini to finally relax. Since then, Drag Strip and his brothers had to be careful about anything they brought into their quarters.
Drag Strip didn't fancy Breakdown shooting another die-cast models of his alt mode he'd found. Losing one was more than enough for the Tyrrell.
Breakdown was hunched over, his knees pressed against his chestplate, in the northernmost corner of his room. Dead End was crouched down beside Breakdown and was patting Breakdown's right shoulder slowly.
"Look, I'm sorry, alright?" Primus, Drag Strip hated apologizing. It wasn't natural to him, not in any way. That was Breakdown's speciality. "It was an ill-mannered joke. Motormaster's at a meeting, he's not hiding under our couch. He couldn't even if he was here. He's too big, if you remember right."
Breakdown refused to look at Drag Strip and he only burrowed further into himself as Drag Strip spoke. Humiliation was shock waving off his field, slamming against Drag Strip without remorse.
"I'm sorry," Drag Strip vented. "I shouldn't have teased you-"
"Leave me alone!" Breakdown spat as he jerked to his pedes and glared at Drag Strip. Drag Strip took a surprised step backwards at his brother's aggressive stance, then scowled.
He turned on his heel and stalked out of Breakdown's room to see Wildrider slouched over the couch and watching the television. Wildrider's blue optics shifted towards Drag Strip then away as a frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. Drag Strip glared at Wildrider before he sat down on the opposite end of the couch, scowling irritably as he glowered at the television.
Breakdown was the only one of the Stunticons who couldn't take a joke, and Drag Strip had known that. He hadn't thought much of Breakdown's anxiety - it was suffocating and downright frustrating sometimes - or of not poking at his brother' fears. Breakdown was supposed to be able to take a joke, especially when Dead End and Motormaster were able to at times.
He's no less sensitive than you.
Drag Strip ground his denta together angrily at the reminder. He was not sensitive! Being sensitive was a Breakdown thing, not Drag Strip! There was nothing to be sensitive about anyways when Drag Strip was the best at everything.
::. You are a slagging idiot. .:: Dead End's comment was as monotone as a human child's television show, and equally as mind-numbing.
But it meant that his brothers had heard his every thought. Every single one of them.
"Oh, frag off, the lot of you!"
Drag Strip stormed into his room, slammed his door and angrily sent unpleasant thoughts through the bond - namely aimed at Dead End - to hide the insecurity that had clawed into his spark. He had always hidden the intense feeling that he was useless behind his arrogance and self-preening. Drag Strip hated that half of himself was all a lie, manufactured to hide that stupid, useless, worthless low self esteem of his.
The Stunticons didn't need to know that Drag Strip tried so hard to draw everyone's focus because he was afraid of reminding himself just how worthless he was. If any of his brothers saw what Drag Strip was really like, they would never let him be ever. He didn't want them to mock him and tease him…. just as much as he knew Breakdown didn't want to be the butt of an insensitive joke.
Frag.
::. Breakdown? I am sorry… really. .::
No response came from Breakdown until, finally, Drag Strip felt Breakdown soften and vent through the bond. ::. I believe you, but I don't like being part of your joke. .::
Drag Strip scowled irritably but nodded nonetheless. Silence overtook the Stunticons' quarters until the heavy tread of their eldest brother stopped at the door. By that point, Drag Strip had conceded defeat and entered the main room, where Wildrider and Dead End were once more returned to their boring activities. The latter reading, as always, while Wildrider was goofing around with some toy cars he'd stolen.
Toy cars Motormaster didn't know about.
Wildrider straightened and stashed the remote controlled cars he'd been messing with under the couch, moments before Motormaster entered the room with a proud smirk. Drag Strip shot Dead End a look that was matched, though Dead End almost looked relieved to see Motormaster in a positive mood for once.
"We've been given a mission tomorrow, and one of great importance-"
"Let me guess," Drag Strip interrupted Motormaster before he could even process what he was doing, "we're going to watch that old missile silo and make reports every few kliks."
Motormaster stared at Drag Strip confused, until the semi blinked and, with his vents snarling quietly, flatly said, "No. The Decepticons are going to attack the Autobot base, and our mission is to strike the front and draw out the Autobots combiners, while Megatron leads the rest of the Decepticons in an ambush of their base."
"Oh, joy," Drag Strip muttered, "more time in Menasor's processor. I'm thrilled."
"You remember the plan, correct?" Motormaster hissed as he turned his helm towards Drag Strip and his brothers.
"Understood it the first one hundred times, Motors," Drag Strip smiled, playing up his excitement for the mission for his cranky brother's sake.
Motormaster nodded then, using the bond to snarl the order, ordered all five to merge into Menasor.
Drag Strip wanted to refuse - he hated the feeling of transforming into Menasor and despised being in the combiner's head - but once the order was issued, no Stunticon could refuse.
Menasor was happy to be out, and given such an important task by Megatron - take that Bruticus! He was the best gestalt, and always had been. Stupid Bruticus was so mean and nasty, always making Menasor get hurt by tricking him. Menasor never tried to trick his fellow combiners, not even when one of his components desperately told him to do something to Bruticus. Then there was Devastator. Menasor liked him. Liked the way Devastator spoke to him and scritched at his horns gently.
"Menasor, now!" Lord Megatron always sounded so annoyed whenever he talked to Menasor, though Menasor could find no such reason for his moodiness. What did Menasor do wrong? He smashed and slashed and roared. Wasn't that his job?
"Menasor will destroy Autobots!"
There, play it up for the Autobots! Come and get me, yeah! Fight the scary, big combiner! He's going to step on you, hehehehehe!
Almost immediately, Superion and Defensor emerged, along with their tiny little companions that weren't even as big as one of Menasor's digits. He loved stepping on the small ones, especially since their frames made such loud hissing noises when they got under the combiner's pedes and were crushed.
"It is unwise of you to attack us here, Menasor." Superion always sounded so high and mighty and, honestly, Menasor thought it made him sound like a taller Starscream. Menasor hated Starscream.
"Menasor is not stupid, Menasor's just havin' fun!"
With that roar, Menasor swung his sword straight for Superion and Defensor, taking measures to stomp at the smaller Autobots scurrying at his pedes. And the fight went well, with Menasor's components actually getting along for once, his processor was clear of their immaterial arguing and he could focus completely on the task.
Distract Autobot combiners and step on Autobots. Easy.
Menasor had Defensor downed and was plunging his sword straight for Superion’s helm when his right leg suddenly started sending signals that made ABSOLUTELY NO SENSE. Fear, optics, yellow paint, everyone's looking at me-
And then suddenly Drag Strip was Drag Strip once again, torn ruthlessly from Menasor by Superion. His processor was slow - like molasses, humans would say - and sluggish, trying to function after the sudden, impromptu tear of the combiner bond. He heard Menasor's voice distantly, along with the furious rage of Motormaster shrieking at someone through the bond… and then…
"Unbelievable! YOU SCREWED UP EVERYTHING!"
Motormaster had been screaming at Breakdown since the five Stunticons had been ferried back to the Victory inside Astrotrain - yelling non-stop. Drag Strip wished he could tear out his audio receptors but he knew if he tried that Motormaster would only beat him down too.
Dead End was laid out on the couch, a miserable aura permeating all over his field, and for good reason.
The mission had gone to scrap and back. Stupid Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had emerged and mocked Breakdown long enough until Menasor had glitched, and Drag Strip had been ripped from the combiner. Everything had gone belly up after that. Drag Strip almost understood Dead End's pessimistic side now, if only because he did not want to show his faceplate anywhere near any of the Decepticons.
It was the Stunticons' fault so many Decepticons were hurt… but it was Breakdown's fault more so than anything else, and Drag Strip was not going to let his gestalt mate forget the embarrassment they'd all suffered thanks to him.