In the classroom, Sam Witwicky's presentation ended not with a standing ovation, but with the hollow chime of the dismissal bell. Aside from one girl in the front row—Mikaela Banes—who offered a flicker of genuine curiosity, the rest of the class had spent the period in a state of cognitive dormancy.
"Class dismissed!" Mr. Collyer announced, standing abruptly. "And remember, there might be a quiz tomorrow. Or there might not. Sleep in terror tonight, everyone!"
As the students flooded toward the exits, Sam desperately held up the glasses. "Anyone? Fifty bucks? Forty? Look, I'll take twenty and a bag of chips! It's history, people!"
"Give it a rest, Sam. They're gone," Collyer sighed, dropping into his chair and pulling out a grading sheet.
Sam waited until the room was empty before approaching the desk, a strained, polite smile plastered on his face. "So, Mr. Collyer... thoughts? Was it an 'A' effort? Maybe an 'A+' for the props?"
"I'm thinking a B-minus," Collyer replied, his pen hovering over the paper. "Your narrative structure was... eccentric. And the commercial break at the end was a breach of academic protocol."
"B-minus?" Sam's face fell. "Sir, look out that window."
Collyer adjusted his glasses and looked. In the faculty lot, a green hatchback sat idling. Sam's father, Ronald, was behind the wheel, looking at his watch with military precision.
"You see my dad? That's a man with a contract," Sam whispered, his tone becoming dead serious. "He promised me a car. My first operational transport. But the terms are strict: two thousand dollars and three A's. I have the cash and two of the grades. Your B-minus is a systemic failure of my dream, Mr. Collyer. If you were that boy, standing on the precipice of freedom, what would you do?"
Collyer stared at Sam for a long beat, his expression unreadable. He performed a tactical lean-back, crossing his arms.
Ten minutes later, Sam sprinted out of the building. The B-minus had been successfully negotiated into an A-minus. The contract was live.
Ronald didn't disappoint. He drove Sam straight to the Porsche dealership—only to pull a hard left into the gravel lot of Bobby Bolivia's World-Famous Used Cars.
Neither of them noticed the rusted yellow Camaro with black racing stripes that rolled into the lot on its own, its engine a low-frequency hum that signaled the arrival of the first Autobot scout.
Nevada. The Connors Canyon Base.
Four jagged silhouettes streaked across the desert sky, banking hard as they descended into the canyon. They transformed mid-air, landing with heavy, rhythmic thuds that sent tremors through the base floor.
"Finally," E-13 rumbled, his optics scanning the main corridor. "I wonder why the Commander summoned us back from the Florida sector so abruptly."
"New objectives, obviously," E-15 added, his gears clicking with excitement. "Since the Commander achieved High-Tier status, his clearance with Starscream has spiked. We're no longer just grunts; we're the vanguard of an Elite."
The status of Nathan—now officially recognized in the base logs as Skygnaw—had become the primary topic of gossip among the drones. To the lower-tier Seekers, Nathan was proof that "scraps" could become "steel." They saw his promotion as their own ticket to secondary resource allocation.
"I'm just glad to be out of that chemical plant," E-16 muttered. "The humidity was causing micro-corrosion in my knee-servos."
"Weak," E-14 spat. "With Soundwave now on-planet, the shadows are over. Soon, we'll be walking through their cities in the light of day, no more hiding in ruins."
"Hiding was a directive from Skygnaw," E-13 reminded him. "Are you questioning the Commander's tactical caution?"
"I'm not questioning—" E-14 began, but he froze as a massive shadow fell over the group.
Nathan stood at the corner of the corridor, his eight-meter frame looking far more lethal in its dense, Cybertronian Steel plating. He hadn't moved, yet his presence commanded the entire hallway.
"Commander Skygnaw!" the four barked in unison, immediately lowering their head-casings.
Nathan observed them for a moment. He didn't care about their bickering. He was focused on the mission. "Prepare for immediate deployment. We are moving to rendezvous with Barricade. Tactical loadout: full combat readiness."
"Yes, Commander!"
Nathan watched them scramble toward the Energon vault. He had summoned them for a specific reason: insurance. Frenzy had found the lead on LadiesMan217, which meant the confrontation with Bumblebee was imminent. If things turned kinetic, E-13 and the others would serve as a necessary distraction, giving Nathan the window to either secure the asset or execute a high-speed extraction.
He checked his internal clock. The yellow scout was already in play. The game had truly begun.
217 Crescent Drive. Los Angeles.
"Okay, Mojo, I have the car. Now I just need the social standing."
Sam threw his backpack into the corner and dove for his laptop. On the floor, his chihuahua, Mojo, offered a disinterested whuff. Sam logged into eBay, his fingers flying across the keys.
User: LadiesMan217
Current Auctions: Archibald Witwicky's Glasses
Current Bids: 0
"Great. Total market indifference," Sam groaned, his face hitting the desk.
He shut the laptop and moved to the mirror, checking his teeth and spraying an excessive amount of breath mint into his mouth. He began practicing his "casual" driver persona for the police.
"Evening, officer. License? Oh, this? It's just my vintage muscle car. No big deal. Just a man and his machine..."
He had no idea that at that very moment, two distinct Decepticon squadrons were converging on his location, and the "machine" in his driveway was currently reporting his every move back to a hidden Autobot fleet.