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   There he was, embarrassed, perched against the bar and dressed in some gaudy blazer he was told by Micky would certainly not make him blend in with the locals. Paisley print, all yellow, gold, black and orange. But with that thick head of curls he could “pull anything off”, told by their rehab-incarcerated drummer, Linus, and with those curls he could get anything he wanted. Was he coming onto him? Highly likely. Elmo might have believed him, carried himself around with his chin high and an air of confidence if it weren’t for tonight...wallet lost at an English pub. He’d came out to do some research ( RESEARCH, we’ll call it, not an excuse to get drunk ) and familiarize himself with the area. Listen to some local British bands. Ogle over pretty British women. See what the area’s nightlife had to offer. But now he’s patting his pockets, all of em—jeans, blazer, the unconventionally small pocket on the breast of his t-shirt hidden beneath. “Always check the shoe”, another wise sentiment from their late drummer, but after digging into those laced up, beat-up combat boots of his, all he found were socks and hairy ankles. No sign of a wallet...not that he’d consider putting it in there, anyway. The bartender had been giving him a particularly hard time over it, sneering, granting him the dirtiest of looks as he twisted a rag inside of an empty beer pitcher. If it were a female bartender, all he’d have to do is bat his eyelashes. That’s what Micky did. He’d ring up Micky for help if it weren’t for that bartender’s watchful eye. “Oi, don’t think you’re moving 'til you pay for this drink, mate.” His elbows were glued to the bar. There’s the distressed rubbing of his thumb and forefinger over his beard as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. The twisting of his soul patch as dark eyes scan the bar for a solution, for help. He didn’t want to have to do this, but he saw no other choice. Leaning over to the stranger with their back facing him, he gently asks over the shitty drumming of the opening gig, very non-British,

He was far from the type to attend events like these, but his twin had begged that he attended. Surely enough he got himself dressed and made the way down to his throne, canes tapping on the marbled floor.

“Oh my God, why did I wake up with my heart pounding like this, and I’m shaking, am I dying?!” Luigi in mid panic finally realizes something, and lets out a slow breath.

What a day to go on a long, quiet drive. Springtime was in the air, and the surrounding climate of Witwicky was generally warm with a cool breeze. It was a very good day for a patrol run.

It reminded Optimus of the late nights back home on Cybertron, when his mining shift ended. Escaping away to the top of the highest tower, looking towards the stars, and feeling the breeze on his face. That was long before the throes of war.

Then, in the height of their War, with the pollution caused by the many battles and smoke, their planet's atmosphere was reduced to a putrid and steaming musk.

Earth was a welcome relief.

With a hum, Optimus flips through the channels on the radio to find his favorite. Classic 60s and 70s, no less. Right as he tunes in, one of his FAVORITE songs begins to play.

♪ You know, they all call big Jim boss, just because

And they say

You don't tug on Superman's cape

You don't spit into the wind

You don't pull the mask off that old lone ranter

And you don't mess around with Jim ♪