Chapter 2: The Present

Many years later…

"You've requested reassignment," Onslaught says, setting a datapad down. "For what reason?"

Mayday stands before his desk in the straight military stance she has been taught. In the absence of both Galvatron and Cyclonus, Onslaught gives orders on Charr, though to Mayday that is just one more sign of their mighty leader's insanity. Megatron would never have trusted the Combaticon to that extent.

But although she likes very few of the surviving Decepticons, she respects only two of them – Hook and Onslaught. The Constructicon is off-planet now, and the rumors that the rest of them will soon be as fortunate are true. Onslaught found or captured two ships large enough for all of them, and although Mayday doesn't know where they're going, she doesn't care. Anything would be better than Charr.

She wants a transfer to the other ship, though. And now Onslaught asks why.

"I would rather not be in such close quarters with the Stunticons," Mayday says, her voice as calm as always. No matter what she feels, she is more determined than ever not to show it.

There's no real reason for Onslaught to question that, since the Stunticons are even more unpopular than Mayday is. She allows herself to hope, until Onslaught glances down at the datapad and says, "I could reassign you, but a higher rate of injury is probable on any ship where Motormaster and his team are penned up for any length of time. Your skill would be necessary there."

Mayday hasn't lasted that long among the Decepticons without learning to obey orders. She manages a nod and waits to be dismissed.

Onslaught hasn't finished, though. "What is your reason for requesting this?" he says. Impossible to see any expression through the faceplate, but Mayday hears a faint curiosity under the controlled tone. "I've heard there was some incident involving you and the Stunticons some diun ago. What happened?"

For a klik, Mayday thinks of lying – not refusing, since one does not refuse to answer superior officers. It only lasts a klik, though; for all her faults, she isn't a liar. "I was asked to repair one of the Stunticons. He was dying, so I declined. Our medical supplies were so low at the time that I could not have justified expending them on mechs who were likely to deactivate even with assistance."

She's not sure whether she's doing a good job of explaining her side of it, and she knows she's not likely to receive sympathy even if Onslaught were the kind to hand it out. After so many years, her cool reserve has hardened into a cold clinical demeanor, and the Combaticon leader gives her no sign either way, so she has no choice but to continue.

"The other Stunticons disagreed." Something about the words "spare parts" set them off. "They insisted that I proceed regardless." They threatened to kill me, which didn't work. "I eventually conceded." After Motormaster made a threat of a different kind, and showed exactly what he meant by it.

Naturally, she's hated them all ever since and they've repaid the sentiment in full.

"I see," Onslaught says and Mayday feels as though a lead weight has settled across her shoulders. For all her insensitivity towards emotions, she's very receptive to tones of voice and body language. That's also a necessary skill among the Decepticons – or at least among the ones who aren't as strong as the others. And she can tell right now that Onslaught isn't thinking of gestalts that compete with his own; he's wondering if she would have refused had Blast-Off or Vortex been the one needing emergency repairs (yes, she would), and imagining what he would have done under those circumstances.

She's not going to come off well.

"I suggest that you do not antagonize any other Decepticons," Onslaught says finally. "Hook can afford to play the prima donna because he has a long history with us and a team to back him up. You lack both. And Lord Galvatron will always consider Menasor more valuable to our cause than you."

It's not the first time Mayday has heard something like this – few Decepticons had felt a medic, and one trained by the Autobots for that matter, was a valuable addition to their ranks. So she says, "Yes, sir," and thinks, I won't react. I won't respond in any other way.

"You are assigned to the same ship as the Stunticons," Onslaught continues, hammering the lesson home like a spike to the head, "so resolve this situation as best you can before we leave. Dismissed."

"Yes, sir." Mayday turns on her heel and leaves.

Even outside she can't afford to give way until she's back in the small boxlike room that serves as her quarters. She would have liked to hit something, but she finds no pleasure or even release in violence. And she's been trained by Hook – she would never do anything to damage her hands. That leaves only one option.

She has never over-energized before; either her self-control has been too strong or the energon reserves have been too low. Now, though, like most of the Decepticons on Charr, Mayday has learned the habit of hoarding energon and there is enough in her little stash to wipe out humiliation and anger and fear alike – at least for a little while.

She thinks of drinking to the memory of each friend or mentor or leader she has lost, then realizes that she'll pass out from energon intoxication before she gets to the end of that list. Everyone she admired and loved either died on a shuttle or was thrown out of one. So she just slugs the first cube down, tries not to think of Skywarp teasing Thundercracker on not being able to hold his energon, and finishes the second cube. By then either the room or her head is spinning, but at least she's feeling better.

She even manages to remember her time in the Ark in a those-were-the-good-old-days kind of nostalgia. Wonder what the Aerialbots are doing… if they still got those little planes I gave 'em.

Hey, that's an idea, she thinks in a spurt of energon-fueled optimism that is completely unlike her. She gets up and finds her way to the makeshift communications room, concentrating very hard on moving in a straight line and not looking at all over-energized. No one is on duty, which would have been unthinkable on the Nemesis but is not so uncommon on Charr.

Mayday fumbles with the controls, establishes a link on the third try and makes her request, articulating carefully. Then, feeling relieved that she has done something to follow Onslaught's order, she stumbles back to her quarters and considers starting on a third cube. She collapses on the floor before she can decide either way, though, and everything goes pleasantly dark.

When she wakes up a joor later her head pounds as though Rumble is hitting it, and she has never felt so abysmally sick. She hopes no one needed medical assistance during her lapse in judgment; she can't be sure because she can't remember anything of what happened after she left Onslaught in the comm center. She thinks she might have sent a message to someone, but she can't recall who, and Soundwave is highly unlikely to turn a copy of the logs over to her.

Telling herself that she has far more pressing concerns, she doctors herself as best she can to return to duty. Even if there is nothing more for her among the tatters of the Decepticon Empire, the ruins of a vision, she has nowhere else to go. I staked everything I had on the losing side, she thinks. And there's nothing I can do to change any of it now.

Three months later…

Motormaster studies the box suspiciously. It's battered and dented as if someone's kicked it in the side, and part of a label seems to have been torn off. There's a logo that begins "II", but nothing else is visible, and the box seems to have been opened and then sealed back up.

"How d'you know that's for us?" he says. He wouldn't put it past some of the idiots among the ranks to box up something useless or dangerous for them, as a stupid prank. Wouldn't be the first time, though at least one of those idiots went down in the war. Motormaster doesn't miss him.

"Looked inside." Long Haul doesn't raise his optics from the data pad, busy clicking off items.

The Constructicon isn't known for his sense of humor or indulgence in tricks, so Motormaster goes over to the box. Large as it is, it's surprisingly light and he lifts it with one hand, the other held at the ready just in case something happens. Nothing does, though, even when he takes it back to the Stunticons' quarters.

Their recharge berths take up most of the space in their private rooms – one for Motormaster and one for the other four – so the other Stunticons refuel and clean their weapons in a common room only slightly larger. There's nothing in the room except for a table that Wildrider has kicked one too many times, and the only thing that keeps the other Stunticons from fighting too much is Motormaster's presence. He enjoys that, as much as he can enjoy anything these days.

They look up from whatever they're doing when he comes in, though no one says anything until he dumps the box on the floor. "What's that?" Drag Strip gestures at it with a wrench.

Motormaster grins slowly, without humor. "Why'nt you open it and see?"

As he expects, Drag Strip is torn between being the first to have a look and being the first to have the box blow up in his face. "Sure," he says. "After Dead End scans it."

"Scans it?" Dead End says. "I have combat radar, not X-ray vision."

"I'll do it." Curious as always – and utterly without fear – Wildrider starts forward.

"No, don't," Breakdown says. "What if it's some kind of trick? Has it been inspected and passed?"

Of course it has, Motormaster thinks in disgust. How else could it get into the base? There isn't as much security here as there was in the Nemesis, but it's not sloppy enough to let a bomb through. He doesn't say that, though, because it's amusing to watch the other Stunticons flinch back as he draws his sword.

One stroke rips the box open. Then he stares down at what's inside, frowning.

Since the box hasn't killed him, Drag Strip and Wildrider pace forward as well. Breakdown, of course, hangs back and Dead End wears a bored look and a new coat of polish. "Awesome!" Wildrider chortles when he sees the box's contents, but Drag Strip is faster. He grabs the small yellow racecar and draws back before Motormaster can even decide whether to use the flat of the sword on him for not waiting for permission.

"Look at this!" he says to Dead End and Breakdown, turning the car in his hand so that light gleams off its surface. The little tires look as though they might actually turn, and the Decepticon symbol on its bumper is tiny but precisely detailed. Red stripes, high spoiler, engine block… it's Drag Strip in miniature and he's showing it off as if he made it himself.

"One for each of us!" Wildrider says happily, and grabs the grey Ferrari with the red windows. Then he makes it roll along the length of one outstretched arm, across his chestplate and down his other arm to his waiting hand. So the wheels do turn, Motormaster thinks as he resubspaces his sword.

Dead End tries to keep the disinterested expression while ambling over, and he says nothing as he plucks the dark-red Porsche out from a solid-foam block. He even holds it between finger and thumb like a cleaning rag of dubious quality while he inspects it from every angle. Once that's done, though, he unsubspaces a soft buffing pad and begins to go over the car carefully.

"Where did those come from?" Breakdown is still suspicious, and Motormaster admits to himself that he feels the same way. He can't help thinking that if anyone did want to get back at the Stunticons for whatever reason – and they've made enough enemies in their time – sending them traps that look like miniatures of themselves would be a stroke of genius.

Dead End finally pauses in the polishing to take a look inside the box; Motormaster already knows that the outside has no clues. "No idea," he says finally. "Are you sure you don't want yours, Breakdown?" He lifts the blue and white Lamborghini out and gives it a casual flick with the buffing pad that just happens to make one scissor door flip up as it opens.

Breakdown's optics brighten just a fraction – so little that only another Stunticon would have noticed – and Motormaster wonders what he would do if someone were to take the small blue and white car and crush it underfoot to a flat wad of metal. "N-no," he says. "I mean, yes. I'm sure."

Pathetic, Motormaster thinks. Drag Strip grins and holds his car up to eye level. "Yeah, you're right, Breakdown. This could be a disguised camera, you know, watching you. Click-snap, click-snap!"

Dead End flicks his wrist once, hard, and the blue and white car sails through the air as if it has functional thrusters. Breakdown catches it reflexively, looks uncertain for a moment longer and then holds it up as well with the grille pointing at Drag Strip. The weapons mounts just beneath the bumper are visible even at that distance.

"Pow pow pow!" he says.

Even more pathetic. Motormaster has finally had enough. "Get this load of slag out of my sight and take yourselves with it. We've got combat practice in the morning." He kicks the box out of his way.

The others move to obey, but Wildrider is closest to the box now and he looks down at it. "What about yours, boss?"

Motormaster has noticed the grey tractor-trailer, but unlike his subordinates, he isn't going to behave as though he was created yesterday. Nor does he have any interest in toys. "What about it?" he growls.

"I wanna see if the trailer opens." Wildrider reaches into the box.

For such a large mech, Motormaster moves fast when he wants to. Wildrider yelps, ducking just in time to avoid the swing of a fist, then backpedals hastily out of the way. Motormaster reaches without looking, closes thick fingers around the model Kenworth and subspaces it. He can guess what'll happen if the other Stunticons get their hands on it – they hate him enough that they'll scrap the toy. Even if they don't, Wildrider will probably smash it while playing; nothing is unbreakable or shatterproof around him.

If their mysterious gift is going to be destroyed, that's Motormaster's privilege. No one else's.

He stalks to his own room and slams the door behind him. Idiots, you'd think no one ever gave them anything before, when Megatron gave us all the Earth. That they had lost it along with everything else made no difference; Motormaster remembers their first and greatest gift, even if no one else does.

Maybe some day we can reclaim it. Somehow. Motormaster isn't stupidly hopeful or superstitious in any way, so he's not going to read any deeper meaning into the strange gift, but he doesn't think he's going to smash the toys either. He unsubspaces the tractor-trailer and sets it on the far side of his desk as he writes up a report he should have finished some time ago. Articulateness is not his strong point.

Once he's done, he stares at the tractor-trailer. Light flashes silver from the grille, but there's a darker gleam of purple in the windows and on the emblem that rides high on its side. Motormaster takes the toy between thumb and finger, tightens his grip just enough to feel the resistance of die-cast metal beneath them. No, it won't break easily.

The tires roll, the back of the trailer opens, the ramp descends. He closes it back up and places the toy on the desk just before him. Then he takes careful hold of the cab to propel it forward. There's no scale model of Optimus Prime to smash into, but when he balances the datapad on its edge, the tractor-trailer knocks it flat and drives over it.

"Vrrmmm," he says softly.

THE END