The rusty garage door had barely clattered shut when Bumblebee’s Camaro frame whirred, clicked, and groaned its way into robot mode. Unfortunately, he miscalculated the ceiling height by a solid foot—THUNK—sending a shower of dust into his blue optics that made him blink like a confused owl. Note to self, he thought, Earth garages are not built for 15-foot aliens who forget to duck.

He flicked the dust away and fired up his scanners, which whirred so loudly they sounded like a coffee maker having a nervous breakdown. His advanced programming went to work on the shelves of human 'technology': that long metal thing? Clearly a 'portable human melee device' (it was a wrench).

That round, drippy can? Definitely a 'volatile chromatic projectile' (it was half-empty red paint). He even mentally labeled a garden hose a 'flexible water whip,' nodding approvingly at what he assumed was 'Earth’s latest anti-invader gear.'

Curious to test his new Earth-speak, he opened his mouth to deliver a heroic line—'I am Bumblebee, defender of this world!'—but what came out was a deafening "BZZZZZZZZT—!" that echoed off the concrete. A spider napping on a shelf leaped off in terror and scurried up his leg.

Great, just great, he thought internally. I’m a giant robotic alien who sounds like a flying alarm clock. Next thing you know, someone’s gonna try to swat me with a newspaper.

At least he still had inter-Autobot frequencies. Though honestly, it was like using a group chat where everyone was either driving through a tunnel or taking a nap—usable, sure, but about as personal as leaving a sticky note on a spaceship window.

He swatted the spider away (gently—he didn’t want to start an interspecies war over a misunderstanding) and went back to studying his 'melee device,' wondering if he could repurpose the wrench into a 'cool staff thing' to make up for the bee voice. Probably not. But a bot can dream.

Only did the garage door open up, behind him, did he pause midway.