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Sex Ed, Stunticon-Style

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Motormaster stalked through the Nemesis, glaring at everything and looking for someone to hit. He'd have just stayed back in Stunticon quarters and kicked the shit out of one of his team, but he wasn't even sure why he bothered anymore. His team just wasn't listening. Wasn't obeying. Wasn't improving. No matter how much he beat 'em and yelled at 'em and told them what worthless glitches they were--with specifics, even!--they didn't change.

They were getting worse, even.

His Stunticons were built to be Megatron's elite troops. Motormaster was created to take down Optimus Prime himself! And, okay, they'd had some setbacks with the Autobots, who hadn't, but Menasor had still taken down Bruticus easily.

And somehow they'd gone from that to being roundly derided as a bunch of useless half-Autobot groundpounders with more personality glitches than wheels, and more wheels than any Decepticon could ever want or need.

Usually they weren't actually talking about Motormaster, at least not when he could hear them. If they knew what was good for them. But the rest of 'em couldn't really be expected to kick the slag out of the entire 'Con army, and Motormaster couldn't do it all for them.

If it were just the jealous screeching of a few seekers, that would be one thing. But it seemed to be 'common knowledge' in the whole army, now.

And speaking of screeching, Motormaster's thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a couple of seekers doing just that.

Motormaster looked around the half-open door of a mostly-empty storeroom (empty because the latest raid had failed, and that was totally the Combaticons' fault) to see what was going on. Could be useful, if it meant the seekers were having the kinda trouble he did all the time.

One of them was unmistakably Starscream. The other one--he could tell it wasn't one of the coneheads. He hadn't wasted the storage space on remembering which of Starscream's wingmates had which color scheme (it was only fair, since they didn't know which Stunticon was which, either) but he didn't think the voice was Thundercracker's.

So, Skywarp. He was lying back on the floor and Starscream was kneeling over him. Skywarp's--Motormaster's programming supplied the name 'spike,' and its function as 'interface,' although there wasn't much in his databanks on this subject--anyway, it was sticking straight up out of his crotch, and Starscream was lowering himself down over it--taking it, the same programming said, into his 'valve'.

"Yes, Skywarp! Beg for me!" Starscream raised his hips again, slowly, before he'd even fully sat down.

And Skywarp did. "Please, Starscream! Have mercy! Please! I'll do whatever you want! Anything! Please!"

That was more enthusiasm for obedience than Motormaster had seen in a long time. And Skywarp was hardly damaged! His plating was scuffed in a few places, but it didn't look like he'd sustained a beating--even from Starscream. He checked his limited files on spikes again--they were listed as extremely vulnerable, when removed from their protective housings. No wonder Skywarp was begging for mercy.

"A little better, Skywarp." Starscream lowered himself all the way this time, and started moving faster. Motormaster could hear their fans running hot, like they would in the middle of a battle, and Skywarp's screams were nearly as piercing as Starscream's when Megatron beat him, and a lot more enthusiastically obedient.

Watching it, Motormaster could feel his own systems heating up a bit in sympathy with Starscream's. But he knew he couldn't stay long; eventually they would notice him, and although he had no fear, obviously, of two mere seekers, even if one of them was Starscream, it would be absolutely mortifying if it got out to the rest of the Decepticons that he was spying on Starscream to learn how to discipline his own troops.

Fortunately, the sounds the two of them were making were loud enough to cover up the heavy sounds of Motormaster's cab-feet as he quickly walked back to the Stunticons' quarters.


It wasn't long at all before Motormaster had an opportunity to put his newly discovered discipline strategy to work. As was to be expected: at least one of them needed a beating almost every day.

Today, it was Drag Strip. It was usually Drag Strip--managing to win at this if nothing else. And unlike the rest of 'em, Drag Strip kept purposefully challenging him.

This time it was over their limited energon rations. The latest raid had failed, so the rations were short, which meant that the Stunticons had been given only two cubes between the five of them.

Motormaster had, quite sensibly, taken one for himself and split the other one between the other four.

Drag Strip had decided that this was entirely unfair. "I should get half a cube at least! I covered your retreat! I shot ten Autobots and wounded three! If it hadn't been for me--!"

At which point Motormaster grabbed him by the neck and shut him up. "I didn't have to give you any, Drag Strip. In fact--" He handed the quarter-cube to Wildrider. "Drink it."

Drag Strip squeaked and kicked at Motormaster's legs, completely ineffectually.

Wildrider looked from Motormaster to Drag Strip, but he'd been the one who'd gone without energon the last time, and an astrosecond later, the energon was gone.

Drag Strip howled, and he opened the team commlink to start complaining, since Motormaster had cut his vocalizer off. "You can't do that! I'm your best soldier! You're nothing without me! Wildrider, I'll get you for this! I'll get Motormaster too, some day I'll lead you all!"

The other three--energon rations consumed quickly--were watching this in morbid fascination, although when Motormaster looked at them, both Breakdown and Wildrider found they had to be somewhere else, quickly, and Dead End slowly started bestirring himself to leave as well.

Next time, maybe he'd do this in front of the rest of 'em. For the moment--in case there were any difficulties--he was going to try Starscream's method in his private quarters. He carried Drag Strip by his neck out of their common room, closed and locked his door one-handed, and threw Drag Strip onto his berth.

Drag Strip had ran out of objections and was simply staring at him in confusion. As well he should--he had no way of anticipating Motormaster's new disciplinary technique. Why, Motormaster hadn't even beaten him yet. Maybe later, he'd give him a beating and an interface, but for now he was going to try Starscream's method on its own.

Drag Strip was lying on his back, which was the right position. Motormaster straddled him--it wasn't quite like Starscream and Skywarp, since he was so much bigger than Drag Strip, but so far it was working.

Drag Strip regained use of his vocalizer. "What are you going to do with me?" He was trying to sound defiant, and failing miserably.

Motormaster just smirked at him. Drag Strip would find out soon enough. He grabbed the part of Drag Strip that corresponded to the place the spike had been on Skywarp, and gently tore at the plating until a panel came off, revealing a valve (irrelevant) and the tip of a spike.

"Ack!" Drag Strip's yell of pain was quite gratifying. "What are--what is--I'm sorry?"

Definitely a good technique. Motormaster put the excess piece of Drag Strip on the berth next to him, and set out to get the spike to extend. This was a bit more of a problem, as there was only a small part of it visible, and there wasn't enough room around the edges for Motormaster to get a good grip on it. Though he liked the noises Drag Strip made when he tried. Screaming and moaning were a good start, even if he wasn't begging or promising obedience yet. That could come later, after Motormaster got the slagging thing out.

It was starting to extend, slowly, as Motormaster grabbed at it. Frustratingly, it didn't seem to respond to being pried at; it moved fastest when Motormaster just rubbed at the tip of it. The tone of the yelling changed a bit, and he got a downright desperate-sounding "...please."

Eventually, Motormaster had gotten out about the length of his index finger, and he decided it was enough for now. "Keep it out," he ordered.

Drag Strip didn't attempt to disobey. "...yes..." he said. His hands were digging into Motormaster's berth, and his jaw was clenched, and his visor was bright, staring at Motormaster.

Good. Now, for the next part. In with the limited information Motormaster's processor had about spikes and valves, there had been a set of commands for exposing them, and he opened the panel over his valve. Not his spike--there was no reason for him to be as vulnerable as Drag Strip was right now.

He looked back up at Drag Strip's face for a moment before trying to get his spike in. His mouth had fallen open, and he was looking even more confused that he had earlier. When Motormaster squeezed the spike a little, he screamed and his hips tried to move under Motormaster.

Motormaster smirked. Clearly this would make more of an impression. "I'm the team leader here, and you'll do what I slagging well tell you." He squeezed it again. "I decide what your rations are. I decide what you're gonna do. Any choice you have in anything is only because I give it to you." He squeezed again.

Drag Strip managed to restrain himself from full-on screaming, and when Motormaster's grip loosened again, he said, "Yes--please--anything you say, Motormaster, I'll please you! You'll enjoy it, I promise, just--get on with it!"

Motormaster's engine rumbled with pleasure. That really was better. Starscream may be a stuck-up, insubordinate, screechy little jet, but he had some good ideas.

Now on to the main event. It was kind of awkward, reaching under him to put the spike into his valve, and with luck Drag Strip couldn't tell how much Motormaster was fumbling with it. Or thought that was part of the punishment. Finally he got the tip of the spike in the right place and attempted to sit down on it.

There were two unexpected problems. One was that it hurt. He'd been expecting it to hurt Drag Strip, and considering that the little racecar'd just screamed again, that seemed to have worked fine. Motormaster wasn't expecting it to hurt him. He ought to be tougher than that. Besides, Starscream didn't seem to have been in any pain, and both Skywarp and his spike were substantially bigger for him than Drag Strip's spike was for Motormaster. Motormaster did a couple fast cycles of air through his cooling vents, but he didn't allow the pain to stop him or anything. He wasn't going to show weakness. If his team lost respect for him, then they would all be destroyed.

The second problem was that he simply couldn't get all the way down to Drag Strip's hips very easily, since his own legs were so much larger. Interfacing while kneeling over him, as Starscream had with Skywarp, was simply going to be impossible. He was going to have to reposition them. The simplest way would be to put Drag Strip on top of him, but that would give him entirely inappropriate ideas about his place in the universe. He settled for lying down on top of Drag Strip, trying not to visibly wince as the spike moved within his valve.

Not that Drag Strip seemed to be in any condition to notice right now. He was squeaking in a most undignified manner. "Please! Motormaster! Just--what do you want me to do?!"

"Whatever I tell you to do," Motormaster growled. "For now, you can stay put." A simple, straightforward, easy order which Drag Strip nonetheless seemed disinclined to obey. His faceplates took on a 'delusional and about to be insubordinate' expression and he reached his arms up, touching Motormaster's chestplates.

"What did I say?!" Motormaster grabbed both Drag Strip's wrists in one hand and pulled them roughly up over his head. "Keep them there or I'll make them stay there." He didn't mean by holding them, and Drag Strip should have enough experience by now to know that. Drag Strip kept them there.

Now to get it all in. Motormaster held himself up on his elbows as he shoved his hips, hard, down over the rest of Drag Strip's spike.

He was better prepared for the pain this time, but it was still a bit of an effort to come out with a reasonably dignified yell. It helped that Drag Strip had screamed as well.

But somewhere in that, Drag Strip's hands had moved again and Motormaster had to dislocate his shoulders before they wound up clinging to his sides or something. It'd be a quick enough fix, and Drag Strip had asked for it. "Do as you're told!" he said, as he threw Drag Strip's arms back up over his helm again.

"Y-yes, Motormaster."

Good. The punishment was having the desired effect. For the moment, anyway; it remained to be seen if it had any lasting effect. Motormaster grunted and raised his hips again. It was a relief to not have as much in his valve for half-an-astrosecond before he drove himself back down again, slamming a couple tons of truck slamming into Drag Strips. He might have broken something under him, Motormaster wasn't quite sure.

About the third or fourth time down, it stopped hurting quite so much. Or, well, the pain was still there--and from the feel of it, he'd ruptured a few fluid lines--but he was starting to get into it. It was like administering a good beating--he'd get into his rhythm and for a little bit all of his troubles would slip away in the exhilaration of power and motion, the satisfying clang of contact, the slight give of Drag Strip's plating under his fists--or, in this case, under his body. Drag Strip wasn't protesting anymore, or seriously trying to struggle, although Motormaster could feel his hips try to move under him just a bit. And he was making some delightfully incoherent sounds, pained and helpless and uncategorizable, his vocalizer, like the rest of him, clearly under Motormaster's control, not his own.

Motormaster's engine revved, out of his conscious control, moving the entire berth a few feet until it slammed into the wall. His valve still hurt, but the whole area around it was starting to heat up, and it got easier and easier to drive Drag Strip's spike harder and harder into his valve, as he drove Drag Strip's body harder and harder into his berth.

A warning indicator popped up that he'd never seen before--"overload imminent"--but it was a low-priority warning, and he ignored it. He wasn't going to show weakness in front of Drag Strip.

And then few more of those warnings popped up--referring to the sections of his circuitry that controlled his hips and his interface systems. Motormaster felt his valve tighten even harder around Drag Strip's spike--it must have been excruciating for Drag Strip--but Motormaster wasn't feeling any pain at all, anymore. Instead, there were waves of pleasure emitting from his valve, powerful spasms wracking his lower body. His hips pressed closer together, and he crushed Drag Strip's legs between his own, as his subordinate's spike was crushed in his valve and his chassis between Motormaster's body and his berth.

Motormaster's entire status screen went red for an astrosecond. Electricity that he'd had no idea he was even building up vented all over him, causing Drag Strip--he was vaguely aware--to convulse helplessly under him, even his involuntary movements constrained by the bulk of his team leader on top of him.

It felt really good, but he didn't like being that out of control. Or, as the pleasure from the "overload" went away, how tired he was. His energy levels were much lower than they should be, even on limited rations, and he had an urge to fall into recharge on top of Drag Strip.

Motormaster was stronger than that, though. He rolled off of Drag Strip, sprawling next to him on the berth for a moment as he assessed his subordinate's status. Temporarily offline, dented and scuffed all over, yellow paint streaked with gray--and Motormaster was going to have to fix his own paint job before he went out anywhere, slag it--but functional. The area around his spike was dripping with lubricant, and a bit of energon--Motormaster's or Drag Strip's, he wasn't sure, but with luck Drag Strip would assume it was all his own. The spike itself had retracted--presumably. Motormaster couldn't see much of it, and he would have been able to feel it if he'd snapped the thing off.

The arms, on the other hand--Motormaster grabbed them, one after the other, and roughly shoved the joints back into place. Drag Strip came back online with a muffled scream. "Move 'em."

Drag Strip did, trying to pull himself slightly away from Motormaster in the process. Good. Having to involve the Constructicons because Motormaster himself had been incompetent would just be embarrassing. "Out," Motormaster handed Drag Strip the plating he'd torn off earlier and shoved him off the berth.

Any verbal reaction Drag Strip had to this was drowned out by the clang--and short shriek--as he hit the floor and scrambled up again. "Of-of course, Motormaster." He stood up--bending over a bit, painfully, and clearly despite his best efforts. But he still looked back at Motormaster, and it almost seemed like he was trying to smirk at him--but, at the moment, failing even at that.

"And show some respect in the future," Motormaster growled after him.

"Yes, Motormaster!" Drag Strip quickly limped out the door.

Motormaster was still feeling a bit tired, but even alone, he wasn't going to allow himself to just slip into recharge. No other Stunticon could be allowed to wear him out. He swung out of bed and started the bothersome task of making himself presentable again.


Motormaster had taken him, Drag Strip, to his berth. He'd taken Drag Strip's spike into his valve.

Drag Strip clung to this knowledge as tightly as he could. If he didn't, this would just be yet one more painful and humiliating punishment.

It was painful, and it was humiliating, and the context suggested that it was a punishment--but, no. Motormaster had interfaced with him. He hadn't done that with any of the others. Clearly Drag Strip was being set apart for a reason. Because Motormaster recognized that he was the best! The only one that could satisfy him!

Maybe he secretly lusted after Drag Strip. Of course! Motormaster paid a lot of attention to him, after all. He was always rebuking him and hitting him and generally getting close to him. He did that a lot with the others too, of course, but he did it more with Drag Strip.

He'd thought it was because Drag Strip threatened his leadership--he was clearly the most worthy of the position, after all. And Motormaster knew it--why else would he be so dedicated to beating him down? But having been taken to Motormaster's berth--he'd never even been allowed in Motormaster's quarters before!--and having been allowed to (forced to) interface with him--well, didn't that put another complexion on things?

Drag Strip could take advantage of this.

Sometime. Later.

His more immediate goal was to make it to his own berth without falling over or humiliating himself in front of his teammates. Even an amorous Motormaster who'd suddenly recognized Drag Strip's charms--at least in the berth--was heavy, and the damage to his shoulders was uncalled for. He was just trying to make Motormaster feel good! Clearly it would take awhile to get Motormaster to trust Drag Strip's berth skills.

As for his spike--he was pretty sure it was still functional. It had better still be functional--this advantage of his was going to come to nothing, otherwise. Most everyone Drag Strip'd heard from on the subject said that a tight valve was a good thing, and if asked (and if Motormaster wasn't around) he was certainly gonna brag about having been allowed into--no, having spiked--Motormaster's hot, tight valve.

And fail to mention that the tight valve in question had squeezed his spike to the point of pain, and had gave him--brief--fears that it would be torn off entirely. He didn't know what was up with that--it certainly couldn't be size, because it hadn't been like that with any of the other Stunticons, and they were much smaller. Maybe it was a strength thing?

But whatever it was, Drag Strip could take it. Had taken it. And he'd won, too--he'd felt Motormaster overload, hard, on top of him. Because of him, Drag Strip. And after an experience like that, Motormaster wouldn't be able to stop himself from going back for more.

Next time--well, maybe not next time, but eventually--he'd have the upper hand. Oh yes. Motormaster would be begging him.

The only one in the common room was Dead End--Breakdown and Wildrider were presumably still off wherever they'd run to, earlier. He looked up from his datapad when Drag Strip came in. His usually apathetic gaze lingered a little longer on Drag Strip than it usually did--oh, yes, even he could recognize Drag Strip's superiority.

"Motormaster took me to berth," Drag Strip said. He didn't stop--if he stopped walking, he wasn't sure he'd be able to stay upright. "He 'faced with me and I made him overload, hard. He wants me bad!"

Dead End didn't look impressed. But it was always hard to tell, with Dead End. Somewhere beneath that faceplate and visor, he was sure Dead End recognized his superiority. Somewhere deep down. "Will you be requiring repairs?"

Trust Dead End to miss the point completely. Although it wasn't an entirely bad question. He clung to the back of a chair for a moment and said, "No. I'll be fine." He'd be great. Although he might, actually, need repairs. He hoped not. Non-battle-related repairs were expensive. And embarrassing.

Dead End went back to his datapad. Drag Strip looked at him for just a second longer, hoping that his greatness would be recognized, but then realized that (1) this was Dead End, he'd be waiting for a while, and (2) he needed to get to his berth fast, before his hips gave out.

He didn't quite make it to his berth, but he did make it to Wildrider's. It would have to be good enough.

He tried to relax--it was better for his self-repair that way--but if he started thinking about how awesome he was, and how Motormaster had finally recognized it, the pain came back--in his hips and spike, which had born the brunt of Motormaster's rough interface; in his shoulders, roughly dislocated and then roughly reset; in the rest of his body, from Motormaster's weight; in his spoiler, pinned between his body and the berth; and in his neck, where Motormaster had held him when it all began. Together, they called up extremely vivid memories of the actual event, which was--not nearly as pleasant as the thought--the obvious fact--that Motormaster wanted him.

Giving up on that for now, he turned over to his side and curled around--not wanting to sit--to inspect his interface hardware. It was still uncovered. Drag Strip had a momentary panic--was his armor still in Motormaster's berth? would he have to walk around without it?--before realizing that he'd had it clutched in one hand the entire time. He put it down on his own berth, in front of him--fortunately Motormaster hadn't damaged it beyond a few dents.

The area around his spike was damp, as might be expected. He pulled a cloth out of his subspace and wiped off the extra lubricant; there was a bit of energon there, too, which was unsurprising, considering how the whole area felt. Nothing seemed to still be leaking, however. Perhaps nothing had been! Perhaps he had made Motormaster bleed!

(But then would Motormaster call him back? What if he'd hurt him and Motormaster didn't want him before? No, no, clearly Motormaster had loved being on his spike. He could still feel the (excruciating pain of) Motormaster's overload on and around him.)

The spike itself did not want to extend. He tried to force it, for a second, to examine it (and gaze on the spike that Motormaster couldn't resist!), but the command hurt, and the status reading indicated that it was undergoing self-repair, use not recommended.

No slag. If Wildrider came back and wanted anything, he could slag off. Drag Strip'd 'faced with Motormaster now, Wildrider could just wait.

Or use his valve, if he absolutely couldn't, since Drag Strip wasn't really in a condition to enforce 'no' for an answer, and he didn't want Wildrider to know just how weak he was.

Dents aside, the armor piece still fit back into place, and pretty soon it should be fully functional again--the controls that allowed Drag Strip to control it with a mental command were a low priority just now.

From there, he didn't move. Neither his legs nor his wheels wanted to go anywhere right now.

Predictably, Wildrider laughed at him when he got back. "Motormaster slag you hard enough you couldn't even get to your own berth?" He transformed to root mode in the doorway and stared down at Drag Strip, a little bit of concern visible in his usual maniacal expression.

"No. I interfaced with him." Drag Strip uncurled himself and fell back onto his back--trying to not make it look painful--so at least he could face his teammate with some dignity.

Wildrider stared at him for a second, then laughed again. "You mean, he 'faced with you." He poked at Drag Strip's pelvic armor, right above his spike.

Drag Strip involuntarily tried to curl up into a ball again. "Hey, stop that!"

Wildrider took his hand away. "You broken?"

"No, I'm fine! Well, nothing a little self-repair can't take care of. It's a hard job, satisfying Motormaster, but he chose the right Stunticon to do it!" Drag Strip did his best to look smug rather than pained. "He just can't resist me!"

"I'd say you can't resist him!" Wildrider laughed, although he was still giving Drag Strip that slightly-concerned expression.

"He so wants me!" Drag Strip said, a little more quietly than before. He was too tired to argue with Wildrider for long.

"Lucky you!" It sounded more sarcastic than Drag Strip would have liked, but he took it as conceding the point, nodded smugly, and let Wildrider go on. "So for that you've decided to take over my berth?" Wildrider vaulted over him and landed, perfectly, on Drag Strip's own berth, making himself comfortable there. Drag Strip winced slightly. That was his berth, and just because Drag Strip couldn't get to it, didn't mean Wildrider had a right to lie there! That Drag Strip couldn't fight for it, sadly, meant that Wildrider did. And he was just as glad Wildrider wasn't trying to throw him off the berth he was in.

"Yup." Drag Strip tried to continue being smug, but really he just hurt. "More comfortable." Which was certainly true, in the sense that it had definitely been more comfortable to fall right down on the nearest bed than to walk one foot further.

"Oh, I dunno." Wildrider squirmed on Drag Strip's berth and laughed again. "Yours isn't bad. Maybe I'll keep it."

Wildrider was going to pay for that, eventually, but as long as it kept Drag Strip from having to move, he was good with it right now. Losing interest in Drag Strip, since he didn't respond, Wildrider's radio started blasting earth music.

For the first second or so, Drag Strip almost complained by force of habit, but he didn't have the energy, and soon after that he discovered that he found it relaxing--it filled up his processor with meaningless words and noise, and was so very thoroughly Wildrider that Drag Strip felt oddly safe with it.

Was he going to turn into Wildrider, now, he suddenly thought, unable to deal with silence? No. Of course not. Not when the key to success was finally within his grasp!

But the music was useful for the moment. While his body recovered. He focused on it, and halfway through the fourth song he was able to put himself into recharge.


Motormaster cleaned himself thoroughly, touched up his paint, and went back to work immediately. His pelvic area still hurt, but it wasn't anything more than he could handle, and his diagnostics weren't showing any actual damage--just a few small tears in the mesh of his valve and some strained servos in his hips. He didn't have a problem taking the pain, though he was a little surprised that Starscream did.

Starscream was weird, though. He sure didn't act like he enjoyed it when Megatron beat him, but he was always back for more the next day. Maybe he enjoyed pain. Or maybe he'd broken his sensor net vorns ago.

But no use thinking of Starscream. Motormaster had reports to work on, requisitions to argue with Long Haul about, and then, finally, his recharge cycle.

Motormaster wasn't expecting it to still hurt the next day. It was irritating. Not like a battle injury, not like the way his fists and his servos would ache when he'd been punishing his team--or brawling, or otherwise hitting other mechs for too long--this was inside of him, well beneath the forcefield, in parts that he'd never used before. And neither his programming nor his diagnostics had anything useful to say about it.

He tried poking at it, but it didn't help at all. He felt a little better when he put fingers in to check on the tears--like the better parts of being on top of Drag Strip, actually--but when he took them out, it just ached more. There wasn't any energon on his fingers, but there was a bit of lubricant. Oil leak? Or just a normal friction-reducing reaction?

So he ignored it all and went about his business--carefully minding his stride and posture, so know one would know that he had injured himself. Surely if Starscream endured it, he could as well.

And the last thing he wanted to do was to go to the Constructicons with injuries that he'd gotten trying to punish his own team. The Constructicons gave him patronizing looks and acted like they knew better than he did how to run a gestalt. And, okay, maybe they did; after all, they'd been doing it way longer than he had, and didn't look like they had nearly as many problems as his Stunticons gave him. But the Stunticons weren't the Constructicons, and even if he'd lower himself to accept their advice, most of it didn't apply.

Besides, Menasor could kick Devastator's aft.

So he didn't go anywhere near repair bay. The pain was no no worse than a bent strut. A bent strut that he couldn't unbend, granted, but he'd fought through worse, and after the first day, his diagnostics said that there was nothing whatsoever wrong with him.

If the punishment worked, it would be worth the pain. Even if he had to do it with every one of them. Anything to get his team to obey.


The next time Motormaster ran into Drag Strip, he noticed with satisfaction that he looked substantially worse than Motormaster did. He was not succeeding at all in concealing the pain he was experiencing while walking, although he was clearly trying, and he was being careful not to move his arms too much or too far. He'd had taken the time to wash himself off and retouch his paint--or he'd gotten one of the others to, either way Motormaster approved of the initiative--but there were still some dents in his chest and upper leg armor.

Motormaster thought, for a few seconds, that the new punishment might have worked. And then Drag Strip turned around to face him, a smirk on his face like the one Starscream had when Megatron's fusion cannon wasn't close enough to his face. Motormaster was still trying to process that when Drag Strip briefly offlined one of his optics--winked at him?--and then he angled his hips very slightly in Motormaster's direction.

At which point Wildrider burst into giggles, Drag Strip turned to glare at him, and Motormaster yelled, "Shut up, we have an important mission from Megatron today!"

And, for once, they did shut up, responding to Megatron's authority if not Motormaster's. Motormaster carefully outlined the plan, ignoring the looks Drag Strip was giving him, and the way Wildrider kept looking at Drag Strip looking at Motormaster and suppressing giggles, and the disdainful looks Dead End was giving both of them...

"What is WRONG with the both of you?!" He grabbed Drag Strip by the neck and hauled him up to glare at, since he seemed to be the source of the trouble. Again.

And Drag Strip actually leaned in and whispered, "Just can't resist me, can you?"

He didn't say it anywhere near quietly enough to keep the entire rest of the gestalt from hearing him. No one collapsed into laughter this time, but Wildrider commented to Dead End, in an even louder whisper, "Ooh, maybe Drag Strip is right..."

Dead End didn't deign to respond. Breakdown was taking the opportunity to blend into the background. At least Motormaster could count on some of his gestalt behaving normally, today!

"What the slag are you even referring to?!" Motormaster shook Drag Strip, hard, hearing his gears rattle around inside of him. "Of course I can resist you. Or have you forgotten that you are the one being suspended by your throat, six feet above the ground?!"

Drag Strip, for a moment, looked absolutely panicked. Good. But the grin he had greeted Motormaster with tried to reassert itself, even though Motormaster could tell that Drag Strip was in a lot of pain. Motormaster would almost be proud, if Drag Strip wasn't being stubborn at him. "What new processor glitch have you developed today?!"

"Ah...sorry, Motormaster, I shouldn't've mentioned it in front of the others..." Drag Strip was still looking into Motormaster's optics. Motormaster couldn't figure out his expression, but he didn't seem ashamed of himself like he should be.

"Mentioned WHAT?!" Motormaster punched Drag Strip right in his smirking face. Under the satisfying clang of metal on metal, he could hear the other three backing off, and Wildrider still trying to whisper to whichever of the other two would listen (neither of them).

That didn't matter right now. He could deal with Wildrider later. Drag Strip was looking a bit less confident, now, although it was hard to look confident with his faceplates dented. He probably wasn't physically capable of smiling at the moment, which was good to see, although hardly a state Motormaster could make permanent.

"Ah--that you want me. In your berth." Drag Strip sounded uncertain, now, not to mention somewhat garbled by his face injury. But it was clear enough what Drag Strip had said. Motormaster didn't know what he meant, though. Surely Drag Strip didn't think that Motormaster had him in his berth yesterday as some sort of honor!

Lacking anything to say at the moment, and not wanting to appear taken aback, Motormaster punched Drag Strip again, in the chest this time. Drag Strip doubled up satisfyingly, while Motormaster tried to process what he'd said, and figure out what to do about it. Apparently his punishment had backfired.

Perhaps he had completely misinterpreted, and Starscream had actually been giving Skywarp a reward? But it couldn't be that. He knew he'd hurt Drag Strip, even Drag Strip couldn't think that was a reward.

Motormaster hit him again. "I don't know what ideas you've gotten into your processor! But you were not in my berth for any reason except to hurt you. Understand?" He hit Drag Strip again.

Drag Strip looked crushed for a moment. "But you--!" He pulled himself together as Motormaster prepared for another punch. "Of course, Motormaster, sir."

Motormaster glared at him for a little longer, but didn't actually follow through on that punch. Drag Strip was damaged enough from last night, still, and Megatron would need his chassis--if not his faceplates--for the mission.

That and it was always embarrassing, to be in front of the rest of the Decepticons with his team visibly damaged, and not from a battle. Not uncommon--and not a problem limited to his team, certainly it seemed to happen to Onslaught almost as often--but it still reflected on him.

"Now that we understand each other..." Motormaster put Drag Strip down, not gently, but he did place him on his feet rather than letting him fall. His hip joints weren't up for a drop, today. "I'm going to finish outlining the plan, and no more disruptions!" He looked around. "Get back over here, all of you! Breakdown, where the slag are you?!"

Breakdown emerged, guiltily, from his quarters, and Wildrider gave up briefly on trying to talk to Dead End, and all of them gathered to hear about their vital role in Megatron's latest master plan.

"And you, Wildrider--any more disruptions, and you're next!"

It could have gone worse. But Motormaster was never going to try to emulate Starscream again. What had he even been thinking?!


When Motormaster dismissed them to prepare for the fight, Drag Strip started work on, once again, making himself more presentable, functional, and even perhaps reducing the pain. Clearly it was going to be hard work, being Motormaster's lover, but that just meant Motormaster had chosen the right mech for the job!

The others didn't think so, of course. "Can't resist you, can he?" Wildrider mocked. "He certainly didn't seem in a hurry to get you in his berth today."

"He just doesn't want to show it in public!" Drag Strip said. "Next time you're all not around, he'll be all over me. I'm sure of it!"

But he was, perhaps, a little less sure than he'd been the previous night.


Motormaster tried to put the whole thing behind him. Just another failed experiment in Stunticon discipline. Within a few days, Drag Strip was behaving just as poorly as he ever had, no better but no worse, and Wildrider had found more interesting things to giggle about.

His valve stopped hurting after the first day or so, but occasionally he still felt strange twinges from it. Most often it seemed to be when he was in the middle of a good hand-to-hand fight, beating at an Autobot who was giving as good as he got, or, occasionally, when he was beating one of his subordinates into the wall or floor. Motormaster wasn't quite sure what the connection was, but until he did find out, he wasn't going to be doing anything more with it.

The problem was how to find out without letting anyone know that he didn't know already, because it seemed to be something that everyone knew and Motormaster just hadn't been programmed with.

But it was hardly his biggest problem. The day-to-day business of fighting Autobots on the battlefield, Decepticons in the Nemesis, and his own team anywhere and everywhere kept him thoroughly occupied. Having for the moment discarded the idea of using his interfacing hardware to help with any of that, the topic quickly slid to the back of his processor. Someday, sometime, he would find out, and then he could interface properly.

The opportunity came sooner than he'd expected. About a week after the events with Starscream, Skywarp, and Drag Strip, there was a battle with the Autobots. Motormaster spent most of it as part of Menasor, so he didn't remember the fight very well, but he knew from the gestalt's vague recollections and the reports of the other Decepticons there had been a long and particularly intense hand-to-hand fight between Optimus Prime and Megatron.

Motormaster wasn't entirely sure how he felt about those. Megatron had created him to destroy Optimus Prime, so it seemed like a personal failure when Megatron himself continued to battle him. He knew that the two leaders had been fighting each other for millions of years before had been created, so it wasn't surprising that they continued to fight each other regularly--and avidly--but it did made him feel entirely insignificant.

He didn't like feeling insignificant. He knew that if Menasor's battle with Superion successfully kept the Aerialbots out of the sky while their own jets--the loyal ones, anyway--carried off the energon--but they hadn't been built to provide cover and a diversion for mere seekers!

But Motormaster's feelings on the matter were irrelevant. There wasn't, at that point, even a Motormaster to have feelings. After the fliers had escaped with an adequate amount of energon, Megatron called the retreat. Menasor separated, and Motormaster had a few more cubes thrown into his trailer as they took what they'd gotten back to the base. It was a pretty good haul, and--by the reduced standards of Motormaster's third month online--they'd done well. Even if Motormaster--like the rest of the Decepticons--wanted more.

They all had full rations that day, and a little bit of a bonus for good work, and as soon as they'd gotten their share, the rest of his team zoomed back to their quarters to enjoy the experience of being fully fueled and of having a bit of leisure time.

Motormaster himself stayed behind a little longer, comparing reports on the battle with the higher-ranking Decepticons. During the brief meeting, he noticed that Megatron's optics were on him much more than usual. Had he done something that he was unaware of? It was hard to sort through the whirlpool of hatred and fear and everyone's processor glitches that was Menasor's psyche and remember what had actually happened, so while he thought he'd just spent the time battling was always possible that Menasor had decided to shoot Bruticus in the back instead. The traitors would have deserved it, after all.

But if it had been something like that, Onslaught probably would have mentioned it, and some of the others as well. This time it was only Megatron, who was looking at him intently, optics glowing brightly and his gray paint still slightly touched with red and white and blue--in Prime's shades, not Starscream's.

The meeting was dismissed quickly, and since no one had much at all to say about Motormaster, the Stunticons, or Menasor, he could only assume that nothing particularly exciting had happened. But when he was preparing to leave, Megatron grabbed him by the arm. "You, come with me."

"Yes, Megatron." He followed unquestioningly, even as he frantically searched his processors for what he--or his team--could have done wrong.

"Megatron!" Starscream's unmistakable voice followed them out of the meeting room. "You're going to be taking him?!"

"You were dismissed," said Megatron, aiming his fusion cannon at him, and for once Starscream had the good sense to leave. He turned back to Motormaster. "You, come with me." And instead of just leading the way--Motormaster was quite able, and indeed willing, to follow him, he wasn't some unreliable seeker who needed to be hauled around all the time!--he kept hold of Motormaster's arm and would have dragged him down the hall if Motormaster had not, in fact, been walking willingly alongside him.

For some reason, Motormaster's valve was feeling strange again. It seemed to have something to do with close physical contact. "Where are you taking me?" Motormaster risked asking.

Megatron gave him that look again. "My quarters, of course."

Of course? Did Megatron want to punish him for something privately? He didn't know what he could have done that would merit a private punishment.

Megatron's quarters were pretty much like Motormaster's--berth, desk, datapads, porthole, not a whole lot else. Megatron slammed the door shut behind him and locked it firmly, then half-threw Motormaster onto the berth and climbed up on top of him. They didn't have the energy to keep the forcefields up inside the base, and he wouldn't raise his against Megatron, anyway, so the impact rang through his body, and he was acutely aware of the cold metal beneath him and Megatron's heat above him. "What are you doing?" Motormaster asked.

"Doing? I'm interfacing with you, of course." Megatron pressed his lips down hard on Motormaster's, licking and biting at Motormaster's lips until he parted them, then pushing his tongue inside. A kiss. Motormaster did know about those, but as far as he knew they were for affection, between humans or Autobots.

Not that there was anything soft and Autobot-like about Megatron's kiss. No. It was hard and rough and powerful and Motormaster found himself instinctively pressing back against Megatron's tongue, not wanting to bite his leader--he was loyal!--but wanting to demonstrate that he, too, was powerful and worthy of Megatron's attentions.

Whatever these attentions meant. His valve was starting to tingle even more--did this have something to do with interfacing? And would it be a punishment, a reward, or something else entirely?

Megatron's hands were on his chest, now, exploring his undercarriage, surprising Motormaster by digging in deep enough to find energon. He didn't know that anyone could do that bare-handed, even without his forcefield, and he was surprised to find that he liked it. His leader was powerful.

Motormaster's arms wrapped around Megatron, touching his back carefully--he didn't know if he was expected to touch Megatron in return, or how to do so if he was--he didn't think Megatron would want him to draw energon from him, even if he could--and his mouth was too occupied right now to ask. When Megatron pulled back for a moment, Motormaster said, "Megatron--" not sure himself what he was asking, or even if he was asking anything--what are you doing? why? is this a punishment or a reward?--but he had no time to say anything more before Megatron captured his mouth again.

The second kiss, Motormaster was better prepared, and returned Megatron's kiss with his own lips and tongue from the start. After the fourth time Megatron bit him--observing that it didn't seem to hurt very much--Motormaster cautiously returned the gesture, and the growl Megatron gave him in return as he bit down even harder on Motormaster's tongue didn't actually seem displeased.

He still couldn't focus well enough to do anything in particular with Megatron's back other than hold on tight, one hand clinging to the barrel of Megatron's gun-form. But Megatron's hands were still busy all over him, and Motormaster decided that this couldn't possibly be a punishment. It felt too good.

No wonder Drag Strip had gotten the wrong impression, but the pride Motormaster felt in pleasing Megatron and in being singled out for this--as well as the overwhelming experience of being under Megatron in his berth, his hands and mouth on him--was enough to keep his mind off Drag Strip and everything else.

And then Megatron's hand dug into the plating right over Motormaster's spike-cover. Motormaster froze, his systems registering intense pleasure--something like how it had been on top of Drag Strip, but much, much better. While Motormaster was focusing on that, Megatron's mouth moved down to his shoulder and then up under the canopy as he could reach, licking and biting as he went.

This must be a reward. It was entirely possible that Motormaster had it wrong again, but surely Megatron wouldn't make him feel like this for a punishment!

"Open." Megatron commanded, and Motormaster triggered the command to open his spike cover. That bit, it seemed like he had gotten right, although he was a little surprised to feel his spike extend automatically into Megatron's hand. Megatron laughed, lightly, but pleased more than mocking. "Eager, aren't you?"

"Always eager to serve you, Megatron!" Motormaster knew the right answer, but he also meant it. Usually he was eager to serve on the battlefield--and took joy in it even beyond the knowledge that he was of service to Megatron--but this service, too, seemed to be one he would be eager to provide.

"Of course. My Stunticons have never lacked for that." Megatron kissed Motormaster again, hard. "Has anyone else had you this way?"

"Ah--no. I've only--only used my valve...and only the once." Motormaster wasn't going to lie. He wasn't that sort of Decepticon, not now and not to Megatron. In any case, he didn't know what the right answer would be.

Megatron didn't sound displeased, although he did say, "Perhaps I should have taken you a little earlier," before shrugging and continuing with, "but it hardly matters."

Motormaster hadn't even had a chance to pay attention to what was going on at Megatron's groin--so busy focusing on his hand and his mouth and his words--so it took him by surprise when his spike was suddenly--

What had happened, he knew, was that Megatron had thrust his valve down, hard, over his spike, but in the moment all he was aware of was the pressure, and the heat, and the sudden flow of current between them as the sensitive parts rubbed together.

And above all that, the feeling of Megatron, who he'd been created for and who he'd pledged to serve, grunting with pleasure and starting to move on top of him. "My warrior--my truck--the Constructicons outdid their specifications."

Motormaster said nothing at all, just held on tighter as his hips started moving without his conscious decision, matching Megatron's strokes--had he been built for this, as well as for battle? "Megatron," he managed finally. "Megatron...!"

Megatron grabbed both of Motormaster's hands suddenly, tearing them away from his back and pinning them effortlessly to the berth. Being held down like this in such a casual display of strength--unable to hold on or to brace himself, only barely able to match Megatron's strokes--with anyone else, Motormaster thought, he would have hated it, but with Megatron--his leader and creator and superior--it just made it better.

Megatron, meanwhile, had stopped talking and was just shoving him hard against the berth, seeming to take him deeper and harder and squeeze him tighter with every stroke, the charge building between the two of them until Motormaster couldn't think of anything else except giving Megatron more and getting more energy and more pleasure in return...

It had some vague resemblances to his experience with Drag Strip, though he sincerely hoped his subordinate had not taken this much pleasure beneath him. No, he couldn't have, because unlike the little racecar, Motormaster was large enough and strong enough to take the full weight and force of Megatron's hardest thrusts, the full strength of his body and valve, and though he might not be able to resist, he didn't break either!

"Megatron!" Motormaster said, and then Megatron's mouth was on his and his leader seemed to thrust even harder and squeeze his spike even tighter and he barely noticed the overload warnings before it happened.

As soon as Motormaster overloaded, Megatron started moving, if possible, even harder and faster, his teeth tearing Motormaster's lip open and his hands squeezing even tighter on Motormaster's wrists, pinning Motormaster to the berth so that he couldn't move if he wanted to. It wasn't long before Motormaster felt what had to have been Megatron's own overload, as his entire body was flooded by the energy emitting from Megatron's valve and he almost overloaded again from his leader's sheer power.

By the time Motormaster recovered enough sense to think about it, Megatron was off him, lying on his side looking at Motormaster with a small, pleased smile on his face. I've done well, was his first thought, and then...he had to know. "Megatron? May I ask you a question?"

Megatron looked at him for another moment. "I do believe you've earned that right." He still sounded amused.

"Why did you do this? I mean--why interface with me?" Motormaster hid his embarrassment as best he could; it was bad enough that he was asking at all, without showing even further weakness.

Megatron looked at him a little oddly. "Because I choose to. Because it gives me pleasure, and because you are my soldier to use as I wish."

"Oh." So that was the purpose of interfacing. "Not--because of anything I did?"

For a second, Megatron looked disapproving, and he looked Motormaster over assessingly, but the moment passed. "Not particularly. Although your team performed adequately today; if it hadn't, then I would not have done this in a manner likely to be pleasant to you." Megatron reached over and started stroking Motormaster's chest again. It was startlingly sensitive, after what Megatron had already done with him.

Motormaster's cooling fans switched on. "Megatron--!" The praise, quite effusive by Megatron's standards, added to the pleasure he was still feeling from Megatron's touch and their interface and the knowledge that he'd pleased Megatron in the berth as well.

"You'd like another round already? You young 'Cons are so impatient." But Megatron kept touching him, and didn't seem displeased.

"Do you--ah, want to do this again?" Motormaster hadn't thought about it until now, but he found he would like that.

"Not the same way we did before. I want all of you." Megatron's touches moved further down towards Motormaster's interfacing circuitry, his spike still out and ready.

"You have all of me." Motormaster wasn't quite sure what was going on, but it became more clear when Megatron's hand ignored his spike and reached down toward the still-closed valve cover.

Now that Motormaster was paying attention to it, his valve was aching. He could guess what Megatron wanted, and it made him a bit nervous. It had hurt even with Drag Strip; if Megatron did it, no doubt it would hurt more. But Megatron had taken his Motormaster's spike in his valve and showed no sign of any pain; perhaps it had only hurt with Drag Strip because they hadn't been doing it right.

But he'd endure far more pain than that for Megatron. He opened the cover immediately, before Megatron could ask. Megatron seemed pleased by the initiative and started rubbing the area around the valve. "You say you've done this once before. Who with?"

"Ah--Drag Strip." It was a deeply embarrassing admission, at this point; everything he'd done that day seemed so silly, and clearly he should have waited for Megatron to show him how it was done.

"Drag Strip?" Megatron didn't seem to approve either, but he didn't stop touching Motormaster, one hand digging into his chestplates while the other dipped just slightly into the valve. It didn't hurt at all; it felt very, very good. "None of the others?"

"Ah--no!" Motormaster gasped, his legs spreading further without his conscious intent, almost kicking Megatron by mistake. "Do you want me to only do it with you?" Motormaster would be more than willing. He couldn't imagine wanting anyone else right now. There was no one else he would want to be this exposed with, and he couldn't imagine that anyone else could do it as well as Megatron. His leader's finger slid into him slowly, nearly as big as Drag Strip's spike and so much better.

"No. You should interface with others. It is both pleasant and, frequently, useful." Megatron leaned closer and kissed Motormaster hard. "I won't be pleased if I find you lying on your back for anyone else, though."

"...I would never!" Motormaster shuddered at the thought. Megatron was the only one he allowed as his superior, even if he grudgingly acknowledged that certain other Decepticons might outrank him. "Only you. I only submit to you."

Megatron seemed immensely pleased by that. He smiled proudly and kissed Motormaster again. While he did so, he slipped another finger in, quickly, and Motormaster's intakes hissed as his valve involuntarily clenched around the fingers, so that for a moment it felt as though he'd been stabbed. In the heat of the moment, he bit down hard on Megatron's tongue.

Megatron grabbed Motormaster's jaw with the hand not in his valve, wrenching it down and Motormaster's mouth open almost hard enough to tear the metal. "What was that?"

"I'm sorry, Megatron, I lost control, I won't do it again." Motormaster wanted Megatron's pride in him back, not to mention the extreme pleasure he'd experienced earlier. But as Megatron moved his fingers around inside him, he couldn't help but clench up even further, trying to push the fingers out and away, despite all intentions to the contrary. He wanted to be strong enough for this! Wanted to be able to give and take pleasure like Megatron did!

Megatron frowned, noticing the problem, and Motormaster tensed up even more. "Relax." He pressed his other hand to Motormaster's chest, holding him down easily.

It made it a bit easier, knowing that he was in Megatron's hands, that his leader was powerful and in control and choosing to do this with him. "Yes, Megatron." His valve relaxed slightly, but very much, and anything he tried to do consciously with that area of his body just made it worse.

Megatron leaned down closer against him, resting his helm against Motormaster's canopy, as close as he could get to speaking into Motormaster's auditory sensor. "Motormaster," he said, and just hearing the name in his leader's voice, sounding pleased with him despite Motormaster's embarrassing failure, warmed up Motormaster's body and caused Megatron's fingers to move more easily in his valve. "You are my King of the Road. I am going to claim your valve the way I claimed your spike, the way all of you belongs to me, and I am going to make you enjoy it." He bit hard at Motormaster's lip, drawing a small drop of energon, and laid a row of plating-denting bites down his chin and neck to upper edge of his chestplate.

"Yes." Motormaster said, as soon as Megatron stopped talking, and then "Yes, Megatron!" Something seemed to release inside of him, and though he was very aware of Megatron sliding a third finger into his valve, it felt like it belonged there.

Because, of course, Megatron did belonged there, and Motormaster enjoyed having Megatron on top of him more than he'd enjoyed anything at all in his short life--at least outside of the battlefield.

Megatron kissed him hard, and moved his fingers in and out and around a bit, causing systems to light up down there that Motormaster didn't even know he had. His legs spread even wider as he said, "Yes, Megatron, I'm yours."

"You are." Megatron's fingers slipped out of him and both hands went back to his wrist, one still warm and slippery from Motormaster's valve but both of them so very strong, holding him down as Motormaster pressed his hips up, spike as well as valve ready for whatever Megatron wanted. "My King of the Road." Megatron kissed him hard, his whole body pinning Motormaster's to the berth as his spike slid easily into Motormaster's valve.

Motormaster's engine revved hard as he arched up into Megatron's thrusts. Not resisting, not at all; he only wanted to feel more of his leader, more of his power and strength and heat. "Megatron--!" he said, and then, finding nothing at all to say, he leaned his head up as far as he could to press his lips to his leader's. Megatron groaned, pleased, and rewarded Motormaster with another hard kiss as he kept thrusting, hard and fast and rough.

There was no comparison to the other time Motormaster had used his valve. How had he ever thought that this could be a punishment? But there was no room for embarrassment, here; it was obvious that Megatron was pleased, and for the first time in his young life Motormaster let himself go, his concerns narrowing for the moment to properly returning Megatron's kiss and his thrusts. He was fuzzily aware of the overload warnings gathering in the back of his processor, but they were secondary; all of him belonged to Megatron and he was enjoying it.

When his overload hit, Megatron growled in appreciation as the energy crackled between them and suddenly Megatron's spike seemed bigger--or maybe it was Motormaster's valve that was smaller, he wasn't in any position to tell the difference--as Megatron thrust even harder and faster, almost enough to hurt, not that Motormaster cared, until the now-familiar but still-overpowering energy poured through Motormaster from inside him as well as above him. His wrists were squeezed hard enough to leave the imprint of Megatron's hands, and energon poured from Motormaster's lip as Megatron's teeth tore through it.

It was good. Incredibly good.

As he came back to himself, he became aware that his wheels were running along his sides and legs, grinding against Megatron's plating--not hard enough to dent the metal, or to move anything, but somewhat sheepishly he issued the mental command to lock them. "Megatron?" he asked, noticing that his mouth was once again his own.

"Motormaster," Megatron replied, and for a moment his own optics looked as clouded as Motormaster's felt. But before Motormaster could tell, the effect was over, his valve was empty, and Megatron had released his arms and was climbing off the berth, spike already retracted and hidden.

Except for the traces of purple-and-gray paint that joined the red-white-and-blue, and the very slight marks of Motormaster's tires down his sides, Megatron might have been issuing a mission briefing. Even with them, he was every inch the leader--not that he had ever been otherwise. He looked down at Motormaster for a moment, examining him; it seemed that he was satisfied, although he didn't bother with further verbal acknowledgement. "You may return to your other duties, Motormaster," he said, and turned away.

"Yes, Megatron." Motormaster closed his panel, got up, and left.

He was happy, he realized. It was an odd feeling, and odder still that it stayed with him as he went off to face his team and the rest of the Decepticon army.

He was proud to have Megatron for a leader.