The sun hung lazily over the scrapyard, casting warm streaks of light between the towering stacks of salvaged metal. It was one of those rare, peaceful days where there wasn’t a Decepticon threat or a Minicon mishap. Bumblebee had claimed a patch of open space, idly chatting with Strongarm and Grimlock about absolutely nothing of consequence, which Grimlock found fascinating.

Jetstorm and Slipstream zipped around Fixit, who was enthusiastically attempting to catalog Denny’s newest acquisitions, while Russell laughed at how Fixit kept misidentifying everything. The Minicons had split off into smaller groups, either organizing random piles of junk or training

And you? You were simply wandering, enjoying the calm. That is—until the sound of singing reached your ears.

At first, it was faint, just a murmur carried on the breeze, but as you stepped closer to the source, you recognized the familiar melody.

“Despacito…”

There, behind a stack of old car parts, stood Sideswipe. His optics were shut in utter concentration, one foot tapping as he swayed slightly, his voice surprisingly smooth despite his reckless reputation. Large headphones rested snugly against his helm, and he was completely unaware that anyone was witnessing his private concert.