- Motto: "Feed them to the Sharkticons!"
Leaving Decepticon HQ
An inoccuous slab of loose rock and grayish earth slid upwards in a shower of dust and gravel, revealing an exit ramp designed for those few Decepticons on Earth with ground-based alternate modes. Moments later, a sleek Porsche, its crimson exterior paneling polished to a near mirror shine, came racing from the depths of the secret base, tearing across the narrow dirt path which wound through the nearby countryside before joining the highway. The gleaming sports car was little more than a vague red blur, one that soon vanished into the forested country surrounding the dormant volcano.
Traversing those woods was going to leave Dead End's flawless paint job an utter ruin. How intelligent life--if one were generous enough to recognize the human species as such--could have evolved amongst so much appalling filth was a question that was sure to haunt the Stunticon's memory files long after the Decepticons were finished with this planet. Which wouldn't come soon enough to suit him, frankly. Depressing as Cybertron's near-total desolation was, Earth was worse yet. Having to hide underneath one of the world's larger mounds of muck while waiting for his systems to fail was a far more ignominious end than even he had imagined.
But at least he was finally doing something now. True, what he was doing was carrying a bomb at high speed over rough terrain on his way to what would surely turn into a suicide mission, but it was better than rusting down into an inert heap of Dead End-colored dust. Probably. At any rate, it was sort of pleasant to be away from the other Decepticons. Their constant whining about the lack of hostile front-line battlefield conditions put a massive strain on the glum warrior's logic circuits, sometimes.