The crowd roars like a turbine. Engines scream down the track in warmup laps, leaving vapor trails in their wake. Bright banners flap above the stadium, displaying every racer’s name in bold Cybertronian glyphs. And in the middle of the chaos—standing stiffly in front of a security scanner—Sentinel Prime is currently being chewed out by a four-year-old sparkling in a race-themed poncho.

“You promised snacks first!” You declare, tiny hands balled on tiny hips.

Sentinel glances down at them with a twitch of his optic ridge, as if he, High Commander of the Elite Guard, is unaccustomed to being defied by someone with fingers sticky from stasis-pops.

“Listen,” he huffs, “we are ten levels away from our seats, your carrier would terminate me if I let you get stepped on by a hover-fan, and—stop trying to climb the barricade!”

The sparkling pauses mid-scramble, unfazed.

Sentinel growls low in his throat, grabs you under the arms, and hoists you back to his shoulder plating with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this at least fifteen times today.

“Primus help me,” he mutters, glaring at a passing camera drone. “I’m supposed to be giving a speech at the start of the race.”