Chapter Text
Hot Rod propped his feet up on the table and leaned his chair back at a precarious angle. He took a long draught of his energon mixer, savoring the clean flavor and sheer quantity filling his cube.
“Get your fraggin' feet off my desk!” Freeway wacked Hot Rod’s offending limbs.
“Hey! Watch it!” Hot Rod yelped, nearly toppling over his delicately balanced chair. “You almost spilled my energon!”
“Well, I wouldn’t have if you weren’t here in the first place! Go bother someone else!” Freeway grumbled, shuffling unmarked datapads filled with encoded registrations. “Racers are supposed to wait in the lounge.”
“Yeah, but... I’m waiting for someone.” Hot Rod swirled the energon in his cube, studying the analogous shades of pink like they might hold the answer to the growing question in his mind: Will Deadlock show up?
“If you’re waiting for someone, you should go hang out with Trickdiamond. She meets everyone as soon as their shuttles land. They don’t get here until after they’ve checked in with her first and ran their qualifiers.” Freeway gestured down the quarter mile dragstrip to the booth set up at the far end.
“But your registration booth is closer to the lounge,” Hot Rod downed the rest of his energon with one gulp. “Speaking of which, I need a refill!”
“Then make yourself useful and grab me one too!”
“No problem!” Hot Rod offered a cheeky salute and vaulted to his feet, bumping Freeway’s desk and sending the meticulously sorted datapads scattering. He dodged the empty energon cube launched in his general direction, laughing as Freeway’s cursing reached new levels of exasperation.
Hot Rod happily jogged down the twisting natural cavern, temporary sodium lighting casting everything in an amber hue. Blurr and Swindle really stepped up their game for this year’s secret non-factional race. Every time the event gets a little bigger and a little nicer. They set the entire staging area in an expansive cave system. The minerals scrambled scanners, making this a perfect area for everyone to gather before the races start tomorrow.
Despite the dim lights, his new paintwork shimmered. He bounced his rebuilt spoiler with a smile. Ratchet was the best. After his totally successful personal mission to locate the Decepticon Warworld cutting off their supplies put him at the mercy of Turmoil, he was in rough shape. Although he didn’t like to think about it, if Deadlock didn’t intervene, he might not have survived at all. Hot Rod could always guess the severity of his injuries by how angrily Ratchet shouted. When Optimus set his battered frame gingerly on the operating table, Ratchet’s silence almost made him purge his tanks. In absence of his usual bluster, Hot Rod noticed a sadness so soft and deep Ratchet’s usually stern blue optics that it sent a shudder through his system.
Somewhere ambient moisture dripped in the shadows. Hot Rod froze.
Drip.
The sensation of dangling aloft with cruel fingers tightening around his throat flashed in his brain. He could practically feel the energon running down his lacerated back, dripping softly onto the cell floor littered with shards of his ruined spoiler. His vent fans whirled.
Drip.
He shuddered in a vain effort to shed the terrible sensations assaulting his frame.
Drip.
Irrational fear shot through his spark and he bolted.
Hot Rod tore down the long corridor, pistons pounding. He skidded around the last turn before Blurr’s makeshift racer’s lounge and flattened himself back against the solid stone wall. Clenching his fists, he willed his revving engine to cool down.
That was stupid. He was fine.
Raucous laughter drifted around the bend in jovial bursts. Too reminiscent of his tormentors’ jeers, it made his plating crawl.
Everything is fine.
Ratchet patched him up. Sealed all his cuts and rebuilt his ruined armor. No one could see the patchwork weld seams beneath his glittering flame decals.
Totally fine.
He fiddled with the gray magnetic patch plastered over his Autobot badge. Blurr insisted everyone cover their faction badges while on site for the races. This whole event revolved around pure speed, with no place for warfare. Although the narcissistic blue racer had lobbied for flashy painted patches, Swindle bought the plain gray ones because they were cheaper. Wearing the patch never bothered him before, but today it chafed like grit in his gears. After nearly being beaten to death, Hot Rod found the large gray spot right over his spark to be an ominous omen.
“Ugh. I’m a wreck,” Hot Rod muttered to himself, dragging a palm down his face.
“Tell me something I don’t know!” Someone laughed and clapped his shoulder hard.
All Hot Rod’s defensive systems snapped online. He whirled around, fists clenched and flames flaring around forearms. His white-hot blaze illuminated four familiar faces, gray patches covering their Decepticon badges.
“Fragging hell, Drag Strip! I could have killed you!” Hot Rod nervously shook the fire off his frame.
The bright yellow speedster stared blankly at him for a second before bursting into laughter.
“Pftt! Good one, Hot Rod!” Wildrider snorted.
The rest of the Stunticons laughed like it was a hilarious joke. Hot Rod rolled his optics and hoped they didn’t notice his face flush with embarrassment. He personally burned his own city to ashes and orchestrated the destruction of a Warworld, but still no one took him seriously.
During previous races, Hot Rod had a great time hanging out with the Stunticons. Different factions aside, they liked to drive fast, pull reckless stunts, and play stupid games. Normally, it was a blast. Today, when Wildrider casually hooked an arm around his neck to drag him into the lounge, Hot Rod’s entire frame automatically tensed.
Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Ratchet hadn’t given him clearance to return to duty yet. Something in that look the medic gave him made Hot Rod feel a little guilty about sneaking away. He knew from experience no one would miss him or his shuttle for a few days. Although he never missed a race weekend, if he was completely honest with himself, he came for a different reason than maintaining a perfect attendance record... A tall dark handsome one.
Unfortunately, Deadlock hadn’t arrived yet. Facing the possibility that Deadlock might not show up at all, Hot Rod swallowed his disappointment and determined to force himself into some form of normalcy. He mustered up a facsimile of his usual energy and playfully elbowed Wildrider’s side.
“Enjoy the view of my taillights so much, you came back for more, huh?” Hot Rod teased.
“Please!” Wildrider huffed as he hooked his other arm around Drag Strip. “Nobody’s gonna beat us this year!”
“You won’t hear any arguments from me!” Hot Rod flashed a cheeky grin as they entered the lounge together.
“Wait? You agree??” Breakdown narrowed his red optics. “You’re up to something.”
“You think everyone is up to something,” Dead End groaned.
“Because they usually are,” Breakdown muttered. His optics shifted around the room, likely considered how everyone present is secretly plotting his demise.
“I’m just saying...” Hot Rod shrugged innocently. “Nobody can beat you. That’s a fact!”
“What are you-” Wildrider began.
“Nevermind!” Drag Strip shoved him, pointing at the digital display board mounted on the wall behind the makeshift bar. “They’re posting our times!!”
Once racers check in with Trickdiamond, they run the quarter mile to Freeway’s registration booth to record qualifying times which are used to determine the lineup order for the following day’s race. As part of the anonymous nature of their secret gathering, everyone must choose a nickname to race under. Hot Rod usually raced under Rodimus Hot Bodimus, but he chose something different this year. Something that only a very specific Decepticon might recognize.
The Stunticons’ times lit up the board, all but one placing very near the top. Their nicknames were mind-numbingly predictable: Left Arm, Right Arm, Left Leg, and Right Leg.
“HA! Check it out!” Drag Strip beamed, pointing at his time listed as ‘Right Arm.’ “Second place! Suck on that, slowpokes! So far the only person faster than me is... ‘NOBODY’?!”
The Stunticons all stared at Hot Rod while he did his best to feign innocence.
“Holy frag!” Wildrider laughed. “Is that you? Did you pick that name just so you could make stupid jokes about how ‘Nobody can beat you’??”
A sly grin spread across Hot Rod’s face. While that wasn’t the only reason he picked that name, Hot Rod could never pass up the opportunity to make stupid jokes.
“I don’t fraggin’ believe you!” Drag Strip muttered. Annoyed at Hot Rod’s faster time, he abandoned his boasting and ordered a round of quality racing fuel from Blurr. He shoved a cube at Hot Rod too.
“Oh, you better believe it!” Hot Rod sipped his energon. “Although, after the Menasor fiasco last year, I didn’t expect to see you losers again.” Hot Rod relaxed. Despite the disorienting din of dozens of conversations in the crowded lounge, teasing the Stunticons helped him feel more at ease.
“Don’t remind me!” Dead End rolled his optics. “That was terribly embarrassing.”
“Needless to say, we learned a thing or two about gestalt bonds that day,” Breakdown sighed.
“You can say that again.” Dead End grumbled. “When they say you share everything, they mean everything. There are no secrets in a combiner.”
Last time the Stunticons attended, they had recently become part of a combiner team with Motormaster to form Menasor. Not realizing that they share memories through their bond, Drag Strip and the other speedsters abandoned Motormaster to sneak away and go racing. The next time they combined into Menasor, Motormaster found out, felt betrayed and the massive combiner spent the entire battle curled up in a ball weeping profusely.
“How’d you give Motormaster the slip this time?” Hot Rod asked, grateful for the distraction.
“About that...” Dead End winced
“We kinda... didn’t?” Breakdown hunched his shoulders.
“HEY! WAIT UP!! WHERE DID YOU GO??” A gruff voice bellowed, echoing down the twisting caverns.
“You brought MOTORMASTER?!” Hot Rod nearly choked on his energon. “He’s not a racer! That’s against the rules!!”
“What were we supposed to do?” Wildrider slumped down and thumped his helm on the counter. “After he got so upset, we couldn’t just leave him again! Honestly, I felt kinda bad for the fraggin’ idiot. Fortunately, as a Combaticon, Swindle understands the situation. Why do you think Onslaught, Blast Off, Vortex and Brawl oversee security for the races? He probably couldn’t leave them behind either.”
“G- GUYS??” The bellow lessened to a whimper.
“Ugh!” Drag Strip threw his head back and groaned. “It’s hard to stay angry at him when I’m intimately aware that the big lug is terrified of being left alone. Especially since last time we left him, Motormaster picked a fight with wrong bot and wound up in the medibay. Someone go get him before he freaks out.”
“Breakdown, you have the slowest time.” Dead End shoved him towards the door.
“What?! No fair!” The blue and white sports car protested.
“Next time be faster!” Drag Strip smirked above the rim of his energon cube.
Breakdown whined about how the world was always out the get him as he shuffled off to retrieve their wayward gestalt teammate. Normally, only racers are invited, but Motormaster presented a bit of a special case. Not in any hurry to spend time with the lumbering brute, Hot Rod chugged his energon and bid his farewells to the Stunticons. He stopped by the bar to grab one for the road.
“More energon, Hot Rod?” Blurr quirked a brow as he handed him another cube.
“Yeah,” Hot Rod sheepishly rubbed back of his helm. “I haven’t had fuel this good in a long time. Can I get an extra one for Freeway?”
“You don’t have to run errands for him. Freeway can get off his own aft and haul his chassis in here himself if he’s thirsty.” Blurr narrowed his bright blue optics and handed him a bunch of extra cubes.
“Thanks, but I’m waiting for a friend out by the registration table so it’s no problem.” Hot Rod stashed the energon. He had no idea how Blurr secured so much quality energon for their races. Even Autobot bases weren’t so well stocked. Knowing Swindle was involved, it was probably best not to ask.
“Alright, but if anyone gives you a hard time, you let me know. Okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” Hot Rod waved over his shoulder on his way out of the bar. While he knew Blurr’s concern came from his spark, it grated on his circuits. He may be small, but Hot Rod could take care of himself.
Hot Rod hustled through the caverns, following the amber light strings back to the registration desk. He temporarily dialed down his audials’ sensitivity to avoid any dripping liquid freaking him out again.
“Hey! Hot Rod! Perfect timing!” Freeway hollered as soon as Hot Rod emerged from the caves. He hunched over the comm radio and snickered. “You gotta hear this! Trick’s really got her hands full with this one! It’s hilarious!”
Hot Rod handed Freeway an energon cube and crouched over the radio. Through the intermittent static, he could hear Trickdiamond in the midst of a heated argument with an extremely disagreeable racer.
::I don’t care who you fraggin’ think you are! None of that matters here! Unless you’re the second coming of Solus Prime, which if you are, frankly, I’m unimpressed, you follow MY rules or you get the frag out!::
Hot Rod snorted. Trick doesn’t have time for anyone’s scrap.
::I’m not putting anything you give me on my plating!!:: A familiar voice growled through the static.
Hot Rod’s optics flared. His jaw dropped. He’d know that growl anywhere.
“Holy scrap!” Freeway gasped, noticing his reaction. “Is THAT the friend you’ve been waiting for? Primus! You picked a live one!”
::Solus save me! Just put the fraggin’ patch over your fraggin’ badge or I'll do it for you!::
::Don’t touch me!:: Frantic desperation crackled on the edge of unbridled ferocity.
That subtle hint of fear spurred Hot Rod into action. He transformed and tore down the quarter mile to Trickdiamond’s check in booth, Freeway’s laughter ringing in his audials. His engines roared and his spark spun faster.
Deadlock had come after all!