#motormaster

Also, Motormaster ditched Iacon first thing and went off to join up with that Megatron mech out in the wilderness. He hates that too. His actual friends are all still in the city, but somehow his day feels emptier without a massive slaghead hanging around getting on his circuits.

When the Prime puts out a call for recruits to a new Elite Guard, Silverbolt jumps at the chance to be doing something. He's almost late to the first session of try-outs thanks to a yet another mid-air traffic snarl, though, gets there twitchy and on-edge and definitely doesn't make a good showing of himself. The try-outs are overseen by an ancient, battle-scarred mech named Kup who keeps a cy-gar clenched between his teeth the whole time and whose scrutiny makes Silverbolt nervous, and then Optimus Prime himself comes out to greet everyone personally and his tension get so bad he nearly goes into shutdown.

Except that when Optimus Prime gets to him—last, because he got stuck at the back of the whole group—he sort of…lights up, like he's excited. "I recognize you, you're Silverbolt. D and—I, uh, used to sneak out of the dormitories during off-shift to watch you and Motormaster race."

Silverbolt blinks. "You did? That is, ah, thank you, Prime."

"Oh, it's O—actually, could I speak with you privately for a minute?"

More blinking. "At your convenience, Prime, of course."

Silverbolt follows Optimus Prime out onto a balcony, which is a little bit nerve-wracking, and there's a long, awkward silence before the Prime says, "I have a, uh, a special assignment for you, if you're willing to accept it."

A beat, and then Silverbolt force-reboots his audials and says, "I'm sorry, a special assignment for me?"

Optimus Prime nods firmly and then audibly resets his vocalizer before continuing. "You may have noticed that a lot of 'bots who just got their cogs recently—me included, unfortunately—well, we're, um. Not the best of drivers. We're not…used to it." An awkward shift. "Anyway, I've got Sergeant Kup and a couple of others working with folks with ground modes, but we don't have as many flyers, and you're. You know. You. You're kind of famous for being a good flyer. And also a cautious flyer, which I think is probably—people get really excited to test out their new alt modes and they're not always, um, as careful as they could be." One of his hands moves to rub at what Silverbolt realizes after a moment is a scrape in his paint, and then he catches himself and straightens up and says, in a much more serious tone, "Silverbolt, I am formally appointing you as the Iacon flight instructor." Another pause, and, less serious again, "That is, if you're willing to do it. We really need everyone in top shape and not…crashing into things."

"I'd be honored," Silverbolt says in a rush before his fizzing circuits can get the better of him. "More than honored. I'd be happy to, really."

Optimus Prime sags with relief, muttering, "Oh, thank Primus," and then visibly realizes what he's doing and straightens up again. "That is, uh. Thank you for your, your service and expertise. Come on, I'll introduce you to Fireflight and Air Raid first, Ratchet's threatened to stop patching Fireflight up if he keeps getting distracted in the air and running into things." He starts heading back into the building. "And Air Raid's mostly doing great, but he's been having trouble with his landing gear and I'm sure you'll be able to talk him through it…"

--

More newcogs show up at the Decepticon encampment in Tarn every day, and none of them can drive for scrap, and it's really starting to grind Motormaster's gears. Here he is, King of the Road, gracing these idiots with his presence, and he can't go three mechanometers without some cog-drunk miner bouncing off his siding. He's picked up more dings in his paint in the last quartex than in the century before it.

Even Megatron still gets loopy about transforming. Motormaster spotted him once, off in an abandoned lot where he clearly thought nobody would see him, shifting back and forth from root mode to tank and back again, practically giggling. Fragging ridiculous.

He almost misses Silverbolt. Sure, 'Bolt's a stuck-up slagger, but they could've griped about bad drivers together, he'd get it.

He finally loses his temper the day one of the newcogs gets distracted by his own slagging reflection while driving and leaves a streak of red paint down the full length of Motormaster's trailer. Of course, the little slagheap immediately hides behind his buddies when he realizes how badly he's messed up, so Motormaster's bearing down on four gaping idiots instead of just one and snarling, "You miner types think you're all so—" when he realizes that they're not actually staring at him anymore.

Someone standing right behind him says, "You got a problem with miners?"

He swings around immediately. "Absolutely not, Lord Megatron."

Megatron's optic ridges rise. "Do I look like a lord to you?"

Motormaster stares, baffled. "I, uh…yes?"

A sputtering-engine snort. "I'm not a lord. I'm a miner." Megatron looks him over. "I remember you, you're Motormaster."

"That's—"

"I remember passing you in the Iacon 5000. With a jetpack."

Motormaster's back goes stiff, his plating flaring in offense. He's had his suspicions, but until now he hadn't fully made the connection between Megatron and the two miners who'd blown past him on the racetrack. "Why, you—"

Except that Megatron's not a bitty little cogless miner anymore, he's a Pit-spawned tank and they're the same height. Even worse, he looked pleased with himself, or at least amused about something. He glances at the little gang of miserable drivers still standing frozen in Motormaster's shadow and says, "So what's your problem with these four, anyway?"

Motormaster rolls his optics. "Damn newcogs don't know how to steer. One in the back there sideswiped me." He huffs. "You're gonna leave your paint all over me, you oughtta show me a good time first."

There's a beat, and then Megatron says, unexpectedly, "You know, you've got a point there."

They've got more of an audience now—Soundwave and that squawking aft Starscream are both hovering nearby, a few of the other old-guard types with them, watching Megatron like they want to see how he handles this as Motormaster says, stupidly, "About a good time?"

"About driving." Megatron grins abruptly. "Congratulations, Motormaster. You've been promoted."

Motormaster's engine stutters. "'scuse me?"

"To driving instructor."

"To—" It takes a klik to process, and then Motormaster's jaw drops. "You want me to teach these scraplets how to drive?"

"Of course." Megatron claps him heavily on the shoulder; he has to lock his knees to keep from stumbling. "A lot of our new recruits are still getting used to having alt modes at all. Obviously we've already got the best flyers in the air to handle the ones with wings—"

(Behind him Starscream preens visibly and then stops himself, mouth twisting.)

"—and you're the King of the Road, aren't you? Who else should I ask?" Megatron lets go of his shoulder, gaze swiveling to the four idiots. "You can start with these four, you're not the first mech to complain about them. They're a Pit-damned problem. Speaking of which," taking a step forward that makes all four idiots take a step back, "you four have ten days to get in shape, and then after that if I get more complaints about any of you I'll throw you out myself."

He turns and walks away, his trailing observers following him, and Motormaster is left standing there blinking at his…new charges, apparently. The red one who scraped him hangs his head and mutters, glumly, "Well, I guess that's it. It was bound to happen eventually."

His shiny yellow pal elbows him with a clatter. "Oh, cheer the frag up, Dead End. Hey, so," to Motormaster, with what strikes Motormaster as a deeply obnoxious degree of energy, "I'm Drag Strip, maybe you've heard'a me—"