Aboard the transport Ultrax, Earth Orbit
Motormaster looked up from the helm as the Ultrax slid into parking orbit above the third planet in the system – a miserable blue-green mudball the local fleshbags called Earth. The aforementioned locals were a disgusting carbon based organic that had swarmed all over the world. The only thing they had going for them was some rather interesting designs for their vehicles, giving his team a good selection of alternate forms to choose from. He’d already picked his own, a massive Kenworth K100 tractor-trailer, and had ordered his Stunticons to make their own choices. If they knew what was good for them, they would have complied.
Rumor had it that Optimus himself was, for some reason, making his base on this third-rate chunk of rock. Motormaster hoped that the rumors were true. Optimus Prime had long been considered the "king of the road," but Motormaster knew he was the better mech. He looked forward to the chance to ram the overrated old relic off the road, and then crush the life out of him with his bare hands. He was tired of everyone looking at him as second best. He'd remedy the situation, and then everyone who'd doubted him would suffer.
“All right you little glitches,” Motormaster boomed, turning from the command console to glare down at the assembled Stunticons, “sound-off. Wildrider, Dead End, Dragstrip, Breakdown – do you have your alt-forms and are you ready to roll?” Motormaster’s baleful optics promised pain for any who didn’t answer “aye.”
