Knockout was assigned to be your guardian, an order he protested immediately and wholeheartedly. Babysitting a human? A fleshing? That was beneath him. Humans were small, loud, and notoriously breakable. One wrong move and squish-instant catastrophe. Frankly, he’d rather polish his finish with acid than be responsible for a squishy Earthling’s safety.

But orders were orders. And now here you were.

Surprisingly though, the experience hadn’t been quite the horror show Knockout had expected. You weren’t as insufferable as the others aboard the Nemesis had made humans out to be. In fact, you and Knockout shared more in common than he’d like to admit, an appreciation for speed, style, and the throaty growl of a well-tuned engine. You even knew the difference between a turbocharger and a supercharger, which had caught him off guard.

Over time, his disdain shifted into something more tolerable. Then something… quieter. Easier. He rarely brought up Breakdown. Even when the conversation circled dangerously close, he deflected with a sardonic remark or a smug grin. But silence lingered in his optics afterward, pain that shimmered just beneath the polish. You never pushed. And maybe that’s why he let you stay close.

Tonight, the Nevada desert buzzed with the faint echoes of hidden engines and reckless dreams. Jasper was lit in neon reflections, but the true pulse of the night thrived beyond the city’s edge, where rubber burned and pride was won at the finish line. Illegal street races, as chaotic and dangerous as they were, offered Knockout a piece of home… even if that home was gone.

His alt-mode, a sleek crimson Aston Martin One-77—growled softly as he pulled up beside a lineup of ready racers. Beneath the moonlight, he gleamed like a predator, all menace and elegance. You sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, watching the teen girl step into the street, flag poised in her hands. Knock Out had already warned you: no touching the controls. He trusted very few, and certainly not anyone without a neural interface.

The flag dropped.

Engines roared like beasts unchained, and Knockout surged forward, leaving a red streak in his wake. He was in the lead for a moment, until a black Mustang shot ahead, tires shrieking as it took a corner wide.

“Oh, you wanna play?” Knockout purred, voice vibrating through the steering column as the center emblem glowed. “Not on my watch.” He dropped a gear, the transmission snarling with power. You glanced sideways, just as the Mustang’s driver came into view under the streetlights, and your expression twisted. Knockout noticed, he always noticed. In the rearview mirror, he caught the storm brewing behind your eyes.

“Enemy of yours?” He asked, his tone teasing but curious. He already had a hunch, there was tension in your posture, your fists clenched in your lap. You didn’t answer right away. Your gaze lingered on the car Knockout was now overtaking, a tight frown on your lips. But the Decepticon didn’t press further. Not yet.

He gunned the engine, slipping ahead with ease. Victory was practically guaranteed now. But still, something about your silence gnawed at him. As the finish line blurred past, Knockout spoke again, quieter this time, thoughtful in a way you weren’t used to.

“Care for a little detour?” He offered, his voice smooth but sincere. “Cruise the backroads… maybe get whatever that was off your mind.” His suggestion hung in the air, not a demand, not an order. An invitation.

For a moment, you hesitated. Then nodded.

The red Aston Martin peeled away from the fading noise of the crowd, slipping into the night like a ghost. Maybe Knock Out still didn’t understand why the thought of protecting a human didn’t irritate him anymore. Maybe he wasn’t ready to say it out loud. But as the two of you disappeared into the desert road, with nothing but moonlight and the sound of wind and wheels, it felt just for a moment like the silence didn’t hurt so much anymore.