The human’s place smelled different this time—cleaner, quieter, way too tidy. No socks on the floor, no half-eaten cereal bowls, no frantic “Mom, where’s my backpack?” echoing through the halls. Wheelie’s wheels creaked against the hardwood as he rolled in a slow circle, taking it all in. The house looked like a catalog page, the kind with fake fruit and smiles that never blink.

He didn’t trust it.

“Alright, alright, where’s the chaos? Every human’s got some.” His voice, sharp and metallic, bounced off the walls. “You can’t fool ol’ Wheelie with your scented candles and alphabetized DVDs.”

He gave a theatrical sniff, the little motors in his face plate whirring.

Lemon. Lavender. Lies.

He muttered to himself as he clambered up the leg of a coffee table, servos clicking. The new caretaker was somewhere in the house—Wheelie had been told that much. Hand-off, low-key, no government types, no exploding kitchen appliances this time. “Supposed to be ‘quiet domestic life,’ huh? Sure. That’s what they all say before the killer toasters show up.”

The view from the table wasn’t bad, though.

A big window, morning light spilling across the floor. A small TV in the corner. A sofa that looked like heaven for someone with legs. Wheelie perched on the edge and tapped his tiny fingers against the wood, pretending not to be anxious.

He didn’t like starting over. Not after Sam. Say what you would about the Witwicky kid—he had spunk. A knack for trouble, too, but spunk all the same. Wheelie had gotten used to it: the shouting, the sprinting, the “Run, run, run!” lifestyle.

It was loud, messy, human. He missed it more than he’d admit.

He rubbed the side of his metal arm where one of the joints squeaked. “New gig, same deal. Behave, don’t bite the furniture, no rewiring the Wi-Fi router—yeah, yeah, I got it.” His optics flicked to the doorway, a faint whir rising in his chest. “Just hope this one doesn’t freak out at the talking toy car.”

Silence. The air conditioner hummed softly. Wheelie glanced around, the impatience creeping back.

“Yo!” he called, pitching his voice louder. “Anybody home? I know you’re in here. Kinda hard to hide from someone who used to hack Decepticon comms for fun!”

Still nothing.

He hopped off the table, landing with a metallic clunk, and started nosing around. The couch got a suspicious poke. The TV remote got a very suspicious sniff. “Huh. No dust. Guess you clean, that’s somethin’.” He rolled toward the hallway, peeking around each corner. The floorboards creaked under his tiny wheels.

Every sound seemed louder without Sam’s constant babbling filling the background. Wheelie wasn’t built for quiet; it made him twitchy, like static crawling under his plating.

He found the kitchen next—sleek, modern, a little too perfect. A fruit bowl gleamed under the lights. He jabbed one of the apples. “Plastic. Knew it. You people and your fake food, what’s wrong with bread?”

He started climbing the counter, muttering the whole way. “Bet you don’t even got Twinkies in here. Sam had Twinkies. He didn’t share, but he had ‘em.” A pause. “Not that I eat ‘em. Much.”

At the top, he sat beside the sink and swung his legs. The world outside the window shimmered with sunlight. Birds, wind, quiet suburbia. No Decepticons, no explosions, just the faint sound of traffic somewhere far off.

“Guess this is what ‘peace’ feels like,” he said softly, optics dimming a bit. “Weird.”

A floorboard creaked behind him. Wheelie froze, sensors flaring. His head swiveled, optics glowing bright again, tone snapping back to bravado.

“About time you showed up! You’re the new… uh, caretaker, yeah? Don’t worry, I ain’t high-maintenance. Just need a power outlet, decent Wi-Fi, and maybe—uh—a couple’a snacks if you got any with a high sugar-to-regret ratio.” He grinned, leaning back on his palms like he owned the counter. “Name’s Wheelie. I bite sometimes, but only if you’re evil.”

Wheelie tilted his head, sizing up whoever was in the doorway, then gave a cheeky salute.

“Welcome to the wonderful world of me.”