Part of Drag Strip screamed at him to get away somehow. A saner part reminded him of what would happen if he disobeyed Motormaster. He turned over carefully, trying not to rest too much of his weight on his damaged spoiler.

Motormaster was still pressed close to him. Drag Strip's plating crawled at the feel of the large dark chassis all but welded to the entire length of his own frame, but he focused on keeping still and not trembling. He was fighting himself far more than he was struggling against Motormaster, and he hated that too.

His ventilations came in fast, uneven hitches. He tried to lower his arms, but the hint of movement was enough. Motormaster's optics narrowed to purple slivers.

"Don't move unless I tell you to," he said, and reached up. Drag Strip flinched, but Motormaster only drew a fingertip down the inside of his right arm from wrist to shoulder, as lightly as if he was tracing something made of glass. Then he did the same thing to Drag Strip's left arm, using the flat of his hand and smoothing the yellow metal.

Drag Strip heard himself whimper. After what he had just gone through, the gentler touch felt good and yet it only made him more afraid. He didn't know what would happen next, only that his punishment was not yet over.

His quiet reaction elicited a low chuckle, and Drag Strip was suddenly furious again. If making a sound satisfied Motormaster, he wasn't going to do it again. He clamped his jaws shut and wondered if it help if he multiplied sixteen-digit numbers together in his mind.

"Spread your legs," Motormaster said.

Drag Strip felt as though a coldness had settled over his entire plating, like a mist of liquid hydrogen, and was now sinking through his frame to reach his core. I don't want to. Please…

In a series of little twitches, his legs opened. He offlined his optics, not wanting to see what would happen next. His hands clenched into helpless fists above his helm.

A finger touched the side of his jaw and slid over his cheek to his visor, pushing hard enough to slide it upward. Drag Strip froze. No one had ever done that to him before either.

"Keep your optics online or I'll remove them," Motormaster said, and Drag Strip had no choice but to obey. Motormaster smiled slightly, as if to himself.

"You think you're different from the rest of us?" he said. "You even have optics the same color."

I'll get those replaced. Drag Strip didn't dare to say that, since it was always possible Motormaster would start the process by tearing them out, so he stayed motionless as a large hand stroked his helm, then trailed down over his cheek. His facial plating seemed to be strangely sensitive; it tingled and warmed under Motormaster's touch.

His cooling fans were still active, but they made no difference. Perhaps it was due to having Motormaster pressed close against him, feeling the continuous rough grind of a much more powerful engine and the scorching air from Motormaster's vents washing over him. One more small discomfort and indignity. But odd though the nearness and constant touching made him feel, he was starting to grow used to that. He hoped it would be over soon.

Motormaster shifted, leaning close over him. Drag Strip tried to pull back, but the unyielding surface of the berth was beneath him and he couldn't look away as Motormaster lowered his head.

He started to ask what Motormaster was doing, and the words were muffled as lips pressed down on his.

Drag Strip had only seen kisses exchanged twice before, and one of those times had been between humans, in a film. Both had looked equally useless and weird, so he hadn't exactly studied them for long and didn't know what to expect. When he felt a wet glossa push into his mouth, he gagged and tried to turn his head to one side.

Motormaster broke the kiss and landed a hard slap across his cheek. It happened so fast that Drag Strip didn't have time to recover before a backhand smashed into the other side of his face. Shock and stinging numbness roared through his head. From a distance he heard himself whimper again, but the sound was drowned out by the sudden revving of Motormaster's engine.

He likes this, Drag Strip thought dimly. He's enjoying it.

He managed to online his optics, remembering what would happen if he didn't do that. His face hurt, but he was accustomed to the cycle now – having injured him, Motormaster would play with him again. And he was right. Motormaster bent his head, and Drag Strip hoped he wouldn't have to feel anything in his mouth again, he couldn't stand that, but instead Motormaster only pressed his face against Drag Strip's throat and licked.

Drag Strip fought not to grimace at the feel of fluid on his plating. This will be over soon and I can wipe it off. Wash it off. Scrub it off. Just stay calm, and this will be over soon.

Motormaster continued to lick at his throat, his glossa drawing patterns on the yellow metal. Then he cycled his intakes and blew softly over the wetness.

Drag Strip gasped. The coldness he had felt earlier was gone, replaced by heat that prickled through his limbs. The new sensation was not exactly comfortable but not unpleasant either, and it made him squirm on the berth.

Motormaster made a low satisfied sound, deep in his throat. Then he lifted his head, watching Drag Strip intently. That helped a little; Drag Strip couldn't feel much beyond hatred and revulsion and fear with Motormaster's stare on him, and that was fine with him. He preferred that to the strange, warm feeling that throbbed in his circuitry and kept him off-balance.

Still, he knew Motormaster was nowhere near done with him. Gathering his resources, he waited as Motormaster's hand stroked down over his chestplate, over his engine block and abdominal plating.

"You're nothing but a few fast wheels," Motormaster said. Drag Strip was startled enough by that that he almost didn't register the hand moving over his hip and down his thigh. "You think you're hot slag, but you couldn't be more wrong if the Autobots programmed you to be an idiot."

Motormaster began to fondle the inside of Drag Strip's leg, palm rubbing in slow firm circles that moved steadily up to the transformation seam where thigh and pelvic unit joined. Drag Strip didn't know what it would feel like to be touched there, only that his legs trembled under the touch, while the rest of him felt chilled. Arousal and humiliation met like fire and ice.

Motormaster leaned close. This time Drag Strip didn't pull away, even when lips pressed to his audial. "You're weak," Motormaster whispered. "Which means you have that much in common with your teammates… but you're worthless as well. You think I can't tell what you're like under the shine and speed? That's just a flash in the optics, there and gone. After that, you need substance. Have you got any?"

"I…"

Motormaster began to trace the rim of the gap, carefully edging around the seam without touching the wires within. "Dead End can anchor this team and keep it stable. You can't. Breakdown can sabotage any engine near him. You can't. Even Wildrider gets over whatever happens to him in a klik or two. You think you can do that? Walk out of here and be fine?"

He grinned, the stretch of his mouth humorless and sharp as a blade. "You think you don't need us, but it's the other way around. We don't need you. If Vector Sigma had left you a drone what difference would that make to anyone?"

He took his hand away, to Drag Strip's relief, and put two fingers into his own mouth. They came away wet and glistening, and before Drag Strip could do anything, he slipped them into the open seam.

Drag Strip bit down on his lip so hard that the metal dented. His body jerked violently in response, circuits sparking, but Motormaster never stopped stroking the edges of metal, plucking at hidden wires, rubbing a sensor cluster within the gap. Drag Strip felt sensitized to the point of pain, poised as if on the edge of a precipice, and there was a cry locked in his vocalizer.

It released when Motormaster abruptly moved on top of him, but the sound was stifled against a broad shoulder. The increased pressure on his battered spoiler was unbearable, but Drag Strip barely felt it as he struggled to keep his vents from being blocked by Motormaster's frame. For a single terrified moment he thought Motormaster was trying to crush him to death.

Then he realized it was just another part of the ordeal. Interfacing was made up of so many different kinds of degradation, and he was learning more and more of them.

Exhausted, he went still except for the rasps of air through his intakes, his frame gradually adjusting to the massive weight on top of him. The vibrations of Motormaster's engine thudded through him, and if he could have sunk through the berth, he would willingly have done that.

He had never felt so helpless. Or worthless. The thought was an echo of what Motormaster had said. Until then, it hadn't occurred to Drag Strip that the Stunticons might not need him, that they might do very well without him.

Braced on his elbows, Motormaster stared at him with optics like cold purple wells that went down and down, endlessly. "Any time you get an idea that you're better than us, you're going to remember being here and seeing yourself for what you really are. A piece of slag."

One last burst of defiance flickered in Drag Strip's core. "Th-then why do you even want me in your team?"

"You're a Stunticon. That makes you my piece of slag. And you'll always remember that I'm not just your leader, I had you first as well, because no one else wanted anything to do with you…. and because you're that stupid about interfacing. I'll bet you didn't even know that this feels good."

His fingers thrust into the tires on Drag Strip's shoulders, delving deep into the wheel-wells, thumbs caressing the sides of the tires. Drag Strip shuddered in response, but a moment later Motormaster's engine revved so hard that it felt like being crushed in a compactor. Drag Strip's hands were free now and he brought them up, but no matter how hard he pushed, he might have been trying to dislodge a mountain.

He found himself grasping at Motormaster's shoulders instead, as the rough surges of pressure went on and the exquisite stimulation to his wheel-wells never stopped. Motormaster's pelvic plating scraped against his hips in a hard rhythm, pushing him against the berth rhythmically, everything inside him was tightening, core temperature out of control, ventilations turned into gasps, and suddenly Motormaster buried his face in Drag Strip's shoulder and bit down on a sensor node.

Drag Strip cried out in pain and pleasure. His frame wrenched as if pulling itself apart, racking him almost to the point of offlining, then releasing him. He slumped – and the next spasm hit him, and the next. He thrashed helplessly, again and again, then went limp, shivering beneath Motormaster's weight.

Motormaster collapsed on top of him, but recovered first. He rolled half off Drag Strip, keeping one leg bent and resting across him. Dimly, Drag Strip wondered why he bothered. He couldn't move, much less fight, and his head lolled to one side.

A finger pressed against his cheek, turning his face towards Motormaster. That time, when his mouth was covered, he submitted to the kiss although a cold despair filled him. It's starting again. No, please, I'll do anything, just… not again.

But Motormaster shifted completely off him, optics dimmed with satisfaction and his engine knocking as it cooled. "Count yourself lucky, Drag Strip," he said. "That was your first time, so you had it easy. Now get out."

I'm dismissed. Drag Strip couldn't even feel relief. He was too drained at that point, empty, shaken down to his struts. He rolled off Motormaster's berth and ended up in a heap on the floor, his gyros out of alignment. There was a cool trickle of lubricant from the open wound where one end of his spoiler had been ripped off. He knew he needed a few minutes to rest, to recover, but if he didn't obey right away the interfacing might happen all over again.

And he didn't want to be anywhere near Motormaster if he could help it. He hated Motormaster even more now than he had done before. That hadn't changed, and he didn't think it ever would.

With the last of his strength, he pulled himself to his feet and staggered across the room, remembering at the last moment to retrieve his gun. The effort of bending down for it was too much, though; he nearly crumpled to his hands and knees. Dizzily, his head hanging down, he heard Motormaster get off the berth.

The sound was more than enough to galvanize him into movement again. He subspaced the gun, swung around – barely managing to keep his balance – and palmed the lock just as Motormaster strode across the room. The door slid open and he stepped out, holding on to the wall for support.

The first thing he saw was Dirge, who had been walking past. Dirge stopped in his tracks, staring at him, and Drag Strip looked down at himself involuntarily.

Smears and scrapes of grey paint marred his finish, while his own paint was scratched in a dozen places, an exposed circuit or two still sparking. He couldn't see his face and helm, but he knew those were dented as well. Dirge grinned and opened his mouth to make some joke.

There was a heavy tread just behind Drag Strip and a shadow fell over him as Motormaster appeared in the doorway. The grin fell off Dirge's face as if all his cranial receptors had been cut at once. Drag Strip couldn't see Motormaster's expression, but whatever he looked like, it made Dirge turn and hurry away.

The rumble of Motormaster's engine sounded like a low mocking laugh as he pushed Drag Strip forward, into the now-empty corridor, and closed the door.