#make tracks

(Make Tracks, Season 2, Episode 25)

9:58 PM EST November 22, 2023:

Us3 - "Make Tracks" From the album Hand On The Torch (November 16, 1993)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

Disclaimer: Transformers are the copyright of Hasbro and Takara. This work of fiction is written solely for entertainment purposes and is not intended for profit.

Author’s Note(s): This story is dedicated in memory of Benjamin, the last known living thylacine who died on September 7th, 1936 at the Beaumaris Zoo in Hobart, Tasmania. 

This story follows Season 2 of the G1 Transformers, but should also be considered AU for several reasons:

1: The setting is modern day instead of the 1980s. Some liberties have been taken.

2: Some concepts from later renditions such as the All Spark and Primus will be acknowledged. 

3: The elements and subject matter of the story will deal with mature themes that would not be found in  a series targeted at children.

Chapter 2: Spa Day

It was daylight when Tracks opened his optics. He found he was lying in the recharging chamber. The last thing he remembered was collapsing into the arms of Optimus Prime and everything going dark. He strained his brain module to recall what happened. He remained still for a while until footsteps approached and the chamber opened. Ratchet peered over him and administered another energon infusion.  

“You gave us a scare,” he told Tracks while checking his vitals. 

Everything was hazy. “How long have I been out?” Tracks asked him.

“Not long,” gested Ratchet, “Only thirty-two Earth hours.”

“Thirty-two hours?” Tracks exclaimed, sitting up.

Ratchet forced him back down. “Just relax until I’m finished with you, okay?”

Tracks reluctantly obeyed while Ratchet continued working on him. Internally, he wished he could just jump out into alt-mode and drive away. 

Optimus Prime entered after Ratchet put his tools away. He approached Track’s bedside and looked down upon him. “Tracks, how do you feel?”

“To be honest, Prime, I’m not sure I feel anything. Well, maybe dreadful.” Tracks admitted. He wasn’t sure what else to say. 

The autobot leader knelt down beside Tracks. “I understand,” he told the corvette while placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m just glad to see you awake.”

Tracks sat up. “I really made a mess of things with my foul temperament. I apologize, Prime.”

“You can make it up to me by taking better care of yourself. Listen, Tracks, I want  to talk to you about something.”

“What’s that?” Tracks asked. He braced himself for whatever Prime had to say.

Optimus filled Tracks in with the details about the World Expo and the car show. Under normal circumstances he would have jumped at the opportunity to be washed and waxed to perfection, but he just nodded.

“I want you to go there with Beachcomber and Sunstreaker,” Prime commanded.

Tracks became angry. “There’s no way I want to be anywhere near that revolting lunatic! Look at what he did to my beautiful hood!”

“You were also to blame!” Optimus retorted sharply. “I’ve already dealt with Sunstreaker. He apologized for his part. Beachcomber offered to work with you. I need someone to keep an eye out for the Decepticons, but this is also an opportunity for you to have what the humans call a spa day.  Will you please do this for me as your leader and your friend?”

“I’ll do it,” Tracks promised. He rose from the chamber bed and stretched his sockets. “I feel so stiff in the joints. I guess a little relaxation would do me some good.”

Optimus smiled. “That’s the spirit, Tracks. I’m not anticipating any trouble, but who can say when it’ll find us?.” 

Tracks walked beside his leader. He still felt unsure about everything, but keeping distracted seemed a better option than flipping out. Although he rarely worked together with Beachcomber, he was grateful to have him tagging along. The smaller autobot’s chill disposition might help keep things civil between Sunstreaker and himself. 

“So what’s in it for Beachcomber anyway, Prime?” he asked

“Well,” explained Optimis, “There’s a special exhibit he’s dying to see. The Thayer Research Institute has apparently revived one of the Earth’s extinct creatures called a thylacine.”

“Thylacine? What’s that?”

“It was a carnivorous marsupial that was once native to Islands of Australia, Tasmania, and New Guinea. Tasmania was their last refuge until their population was wiped out by humans. These thylacines are clones created from the DNA of well-preserved specimens.”

Tracks shrugged. “Figures. Well, Beachcomber can have them.”

“You could say they are the most valuable creatures on the planet right now.” Optimus said thoughtfully. He recalled Powerglide’s mention of protests in front of the institute the other night. Something about that bothered him. He supposed the protesting was linked to the thylacines, but why? His suspicions went back to what he said about their value. He knew how humans liked to collect and keep rare and exotic animals for their own amusement. It was one thing to have animals that had been domesticated over thousands of years, but these thylacines were still technically wild. They deserved to live freely as any sentient being.  

They met Beachcomber and Sunstreaker outside. Beachcomber was cheerful and smiled when he saw Tracks emerge. Sunstreaker seemed in a tolerable mood, but the glint in his optics made it clear to Tracks that he wouldn’t guarantee any promises if there were to be another skirmish between them. 

“Are we all ready to go?” Beachcomber asked. It was difficult for him to contain his excitement. 

At least one of us is happy. thought Tracks. I’ll do my best to humor the little guy and stay out of Sunstreaker’s way. He turned to the geologist and answered, “I suppose so.”

Sunstreaker cracked his knuckles. “Let’s get this show on the road already!”

“Very good, autobots,” Prime commanded, “Transform, roll out, and have fun!”

The three transformers transformed into their alt-modes: Lamborghini Countach, Corvette C3 Stingray, and dune buggy. They drove off with Beachcomber in front since he previously input the destination route in his GPS system. It would take them a few hours to reach the expo taking the US Interstate as per Optimus' instructions. The autobots weren’t unknown but they shouldn’t make a scene-especially with the tensions surrounding the main attraction. Beachcomber thoroughly enjoyed the feel of the soft asphalt beneath his tires. His alt-mode was designed for the most rugged of terrains and came in handy whenever his expertise was needed. Most other ground-based autobots were capable of off road driving, but only a few could match Beachcomber. Within miles of their destination, each autobots’ sensors went off. The alert wasn’t decepticon, but human.

“That’s Spike,” Sunstreaker muttered. Spike was one of the few humans he didn’t mind so much.

Tracks drove beside Sunstreaker. “You’re right. He’s stationary. There’s someone else with him.”

“Maybe they’re in need of a lift?” Beachcomber guessed.

Sunstreaker huffed, “Knowing Spike-trouble is his middle name. We can stop, but I’m not gonna be late for my makeover.”

They all agreed and soon came upon Spike and Carly standing by a convertible with a blown out tire. The humans recognized them and looked relieved.

“Are we glad to see you guys,” said Carly, giving Beachcomber’s hood a hug. 

“What happened here?” asked Sunstreaker.

“We were on the way to the science expo to help Dad when that happened.” Spike pointed to the shredded mess that was once a tire. What the hell happened to you and Tracks?”

Tracks pulled up beside Spike. “Don’t ask. Anyway, we’re headed to the same exposition.”

Spike laughed and patted Tracks on the hood. “I get it. They’ll fix you guys up nicely there. I’d say you’re lucky you ran into us.”

“Why’s that?” asked Trunks.

“Well,” Spike said back to him, “If I were to guess, you were aware of the situation with heightened security and plan to stay incognito, right? Wouldn’t it be better if you had actual humans riding inside of you?.”

Sunstreaker moved to the other side of him. “You got a point,” he admitted, “But there’s three of us.”

Carly snapped her fingers. “No sweat! We haven’t called Sparkplug yet. We could have Hoist drop him off, tow my car back to your HQ, and each of us ride in one of you.”

Spike laughed. “We could say he had to pick up some more cars to get fixed up for the car show-if you guys don’t mind keeping up your cosplay.”   

“That sounds like a fine idea as long as I’m able to get a view of the thylacines,” said Beachcomber.

Sunstreak revved his engine. “Hell yeah!!! That’s what I was planning on doing anyway.”

“I’m not sure if I want to be in the car show,” muttered Tracks. 

“Why not?” asked Spike. “Come on, Tracks. It’s not like you to pass up strutting your stuff for the crowds. Besides, Sunstreaker’s going to need some real competition.” Internally, he noted the stylish corvette seemed a little off.

Carly placed a hand on Tracks. “It’s for charity. You love stuff like that. Please?” 

Tracks responded with a slight engine rev. “Okay, I’m in.”

Hoist and Sparkplug arrived a short time later. Hoist hooked himself up to the broken down convertible. “I’ll sneak back tonight when everything’s closed down,” he said while driving off towards the Ark. He had already radioed updates to Optimus and the others back at the base.

Each human selected an autobot: Carly in Beachcomber, Spike in Sunscreamer, and Spark Plug in Tracks. Spark Plug reclined in the driver’s seat, which could almost pass for authentic leather instead of alien material. Cybertronian tech could mimic Earth components to perfection. “I know about what happened at that rec center. I’m sorry, buddy.” The corvette’s tires squealed as he started to brake hard. 

“Dammit Tracks, watch what you’re doing!” screamed Sunstreaker.

Sparkplug patted the seat. “It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it.”

Tracks managed to regain his composure, but just barely. The last thing he needed was constant reminders. “S-s-sorry about that,” he stammered

“Are you kidding? I’ve been doing nothing but setting up for the expo for two weeks. I needed a little excitement,” Sparkplug reassured, while rubbing the back of his head, thankful the autobots had seatbelts. 

Beachcomber moved beside Tracks, but remained silent. He heard none of the conversation, but he guessed Sparkplug must have mentioned Raoul. 

Sunstreaker relaxed himself, recalling Optimus Prime’s asking him to be nice to Tracks. “It’s cool,” he said, “Just be careful. We can’t afford to get more banged before the show.” 

They arrived at the expo without any further incidents. Sparkplug directed Tracks where to go and have the others follow them. The expo was nearly as large as an Olympic compound. It was the largest of its kind in North America. It was made up of a large building surrounded by smaller buildings and outside vendors-each section divided up by industry. To Beachcomber’s joy, the car show was presented by none other than the Thayer Research Institute. A couple members of the security team waved Sparkplug in.

“Day-um,” one of them whistled at the Chevrolet Corvette C3 Stingray and Lamborghini Countach. “I heard you had to pick up some showstoppers, but I wasn’t expecting anything to the caliber of these babies. What about the beach buggy? Are you entering that too?”

“Nah,” said Sparkplug, “I’m having it detailed and taken to my trailer. They’re all mine.” He turned slightly to Beachcomber and winked. “The car show isn’t for several hours. Do you think Kota and Dyani can get them fixed up in time?”

The security nodded. “We’ll get them on it right away. You weren’t kidding about having connections. These beauties are in good hands.” He left to fetch the two interns on detailing duty.

Sparkplug patted the hoods of Tracks and Sunstreaker. “See you later, boys. Be careful not to blow your cover,” he whispered.  He left as two young adults approached. 

They were around nineteen years old. One was a slender-framed boy of Japanese descent with ice blue streaks in his wispy black hair. He was wearing a vintage, oversized graphic tee, and a pair of jeans filled with holes. The other was a girl of similar height, curvier figure. She had a slightly tannish skin, dark eyes, and wavy black hair in a ponytail, although her long bangs draped over one eye. She wore a black crop top and old school-style flared jeans. Both were college students interning with the institute, and both shared a passion for cars and anything retro-especially 80s pop culture. Kota was born in Yokosuka, Japan. His parents immigrated to the United States when his father took a job as chief engineer for Kagayaku Motors’s San Francisco headquarters. They were pioneers of developing  and converting engines to run off of hydrogen. 

Dyani grew up in south Los Angeles. Her father worked as a mechanic with a love for classic and muscle cars. Her mother was a member of the Lakota Nation of South Dakota, but later moved to California, wooed by the romance of the ocean and Hollywood. She had hoped to become an actress, but never made it past a few small roles. She married and started a family. Dyani was the youngest of three children. They lived in a rough working-class neighborhood until Dyani’s twelfth year when her father got hired on by Kota’s father to work for Kagayaku. She became very close to Kota and extremely protective when he was being bullied for being different. Kota in return helped Dyani improve her grades enough to be accepted to the University of Portland in Oregon. Both were into their sophomore year, interning part-time at the Thayer Institute, caring for the thylacines. The work was far from glamorous, mainly feeding and cleaning up scat messes, but they didn’t mind so much. 

“I call dibs on the corvette, Kota,” the Dyanal told her companion as she leaned over to admire its midnight sheen. 

The boy shrugged his shoulders. “You do you. I wanted the countach anyway. That gold color is pretty dope.” 

Dyani began working out the dings in the corvette’s hood. “You’re not wrong,” she said, “But I’m partial to this sic midnight blue. ” She continues her work. “Poor baby. We’re gonna fix you up good.” 

It took everything within his power for Tracks to remain still. The girl had a gentle touch, which he greatly appreciated. That meant she understood the care necessary for smoothing out his blemishes. However, there was something about the way she talked with her friend that made him uncomfortable. It reminded him a little of Raoul, but it wasn’t quite the same.  

Sunstreaker, on the other hand, was basking in all the attention he was getting. Being called dope stroked his ego. So the cute girl took a liking to Tracks. It was no skin off his aft. The boy, Kota, was just as adept in working out the dents and buffing the scratches. The kid made him look legit. 

Beachcomber was busy being waxed by another volunteer. He was thoroughly enjoying himself.  It was the equivalent of being massaged. He hadn’t realized what he was missing. No wonder both Tracks and Sunstreaker enjoyed it so much. 

It took two hours before the sports cars got their wax jobs. Their coats were touched up with fresh paint-quick drying that left a luxurious sparkle that would be enhanced by the wax. Sunstreaker felt amazing and even Tracks was able to relax. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. The girl-what was her name? Dyani? He had to admit, she had restored him to a work of art. His paint shimmered with the glossy, wet look of a freshly waxed car. Even her friend did an impeccable job on restoring Sunstreaker to a similar finish.  

Dyani stretched her arms. “Whew! I’m beat, but it was worth it. I don’t care if someone calls me weird for saying so, but that corvette is so damn sexy.”

“It’s not weird. Cars like these are top-shelf. They’ve got style inside and out.” added Kota. 

“Sometimes I prefer cars to people. At least we get each other.” she said.

Kota sat down on a crate of supplies. “When are they presenting Benni?”

“I think they said six,” answered Dyani, biting the nail of her right index finger, “But..I got one of those feelings I can’t shake.”

Kota whispered, “You think they’ll try to get past security?”

“I don’t know,” Dyani whispered back, “But between you and me, Benni, should be returned to the wild like they originally planned. She and the others are wild animals, not status symbols. I don’t care what they say. The sudden change of plans is sus as hell.”

“No shit,” Kota agreed, “and kind of wack. Anyway, we’d better tell Sparkplug the cars are good to go. We’ll need to get cleaned up before the show. You hungry?”

Dyani smirked. “You read my mind. My treat.”

When no one was around, Sunstreaker stretched his tires. “I hope the show starts soon. My public awaits. That kid really knew how to bring out my good side.”

Tracks scoffed. “There’s more to these things than being shiny. A show car must show off its poise and grace. That’s something you’re seriously lacking.”  

``Yeah, whatever, sexy. That chick was all over you.” teased Sunstreaker.

“You are absolutely the worst. She was just doing her job like her friend was with you.”

Sunstreaker admired himself. “Damn straight. That kid really brought out the ‘sun’ in Sunstreaker.”

“We’d better cool it,” whispered Tracks, “I hear voices coming this way.”

Moments later, Spike and Sparkplug approached the two autobots. A whistle came from Spike’s puckered lips as he inspected both cars. “You both look awesome. That eco-friendly wax is pretty good stuff.”

“It’s astonishing,” Tracks agreed.

Sunstreaker revved his engine. “I’m getting impatient. When are we going to get some action around here?”

“In about twenty minutes,” Sparkplug replied, looking at his watch. “We’ll guide you where to go.”

Tracks and Sunstreaker were driven a short distance to an open area where many cars were lined up in rows. They were placed in their designated spots. Tracks was placed in close proximity to a large amphitheater, next to a series of corvettes while Sunstreaker was further back, sandwiched between two ferraris. There were cars of different shapes, sizes, and vintage, and each divided up into its own designated category. next to the amphitheater were the trailers of staff of the expo and the institute. Sparkplug’s own winnebago was close enough to get a decent view from the side of the stage. Beachcomber was overjoyed when he was parked next to the camper. 

People or all sorts came flooding into the area a short time later. each took checking out the magnificent display of sleek metal bodies on wheels. The constant attention stroked Sunstreaker’s ego. He was especially popular with the younger male demographic with disposable incomes. One even asked if he was up for sale. Sunstreaker nearly answered no himself  but thought better of it. The security made the point clear that the countach was not for sale and all offers were non-negotiable. 

Tracks caught the attention of the older and his share of the younger crowd. Even many women admired  the dark blue of his paint that seemed to sparkle. There were two men and a woman that observed him with uttermost scrutiny. It was no mystery they were the judges. Tracks held their gaze for a long time. Their reverence for the corvette made him feel like himself again in the moment. When they left, a girl approached him. It was the same girl who pampered him hours ago. She had changed clothes. She was wearing a purple bell-sleeved blouse, another pair of flared jeans with purple flowers cascading down one of the legs, and flip flops. She leaned so far over Tracks’ hood that he could see the top of her cleavage.

Sunstreaker’s words from earlier came back to haunt Tracks. What the deuce? He thought, becoming flustered with dangling assets in full view of his optic sensors. He was fond of being close to humans, but this was a little too close. Moreover, he was confused. 

“I’m glad our wax worked wonders on you,” she told the car, “Kota worked all last summer semester trying to get it right. He must have, based on the way you enchanted those judges. I hope you win.” She had a few tears in her eyes as she continued, “They want to send Benni and the rest to private collectors. They were supposed to be released into the wild in Tasmania, but they’ll make more money treating them like some freak show. This is why sometimes I prefer cars. People suck.” Dyani stood up, wiped her eyes, and walked away.     

Phew, what a relief. I shouldn’t let Sunstreaker get into my head like that. Speaking of winning, when will those judges reach their decision? 

It took three more hours before Tracks got his answer. The judges took their time examining each vehicle that had been entered. When the time came to announce the winners, a throng of people gathered around the stage. Tracks struggled to see, but the crowd was too congested to get a clear view of anything other than their backsides. The thought of transforming into his full fifteen feet height crossed Tracks’ mind, but he reminded himself to stay incognito. Still being able to listen in to the announcements was more important.  

Sunstreaker was strained to hear. He resented that he hadn’t been placed closer to the stage. He scoffed at his ferrari companions. The judges had given him more than the lion’s share of the attention-or so according to him. They were just not announcing the winners. They were divided into many categories: antique, classic, hot rod, muscle, foreign, custom, modern, etc. The most coveted of all was best in show. When they finally came to the category of foreign cars, a certain gold lamborghini countach took first place. It pleased Sunstreaker, but to also win best in show would be icing on the cake. 

The corvettes had their own designated category. There were twenty in all, but it was the midnight blue C3 Stingray who came out on top. The suspense had been nerve wracking for Tracks. Not that he doubted his own looks, but automobile judges could be fickle. You never could be certain about what they looked for in a car. He saw Sparkplug had accepted the trophy on his behalf, and then Spike did the same for Sunstreaker. It seemed an eternity until the moment of truth-best in show. The main judge-a heavyset older gentlemen in a black suit, with a receding hairline, gave a long-winded speech. He went on about thanking the Thayer Research Institute for sponsoring the event and the generous donation for their chosen charity. The judge then talked about how in his eyes all the cars were all winners in his eyes, but only one could be one best in show. 

“By unanimous decision, Best in Show goes to the stunning C3 Stingray belonging to Sparkplug Witwicky.”

Sparkplug accepted a handsomely carved plaque plated with 24 karat gold. A blue ribbon made of silk was draped over Tracks as bystanders and photographers surrounded him. He appreciated the adulation, but fretted that they would ruin his wax job. Fortunately, Sparkplug diverted some attention to himself to answer questions in regards to the corvette.

Shit! A brooding Sunstreaker thought. Tracks got best in show? Come on! I deserved it just as much if not more than he did. His mood was soured. Even the photographs and compliments weren’t enough to mend his bruised ego. He was jealous of Tracks. He was relieved to see Spike come to pick him up. The teenage boy was carrying a large trophy. He got inside of Sunstreaker and had him drive away from the madhouse to Spark Plug’s trailer. No one was around, save for Beachcomber. The little dune buggy was happy to see them.

“How did it go?” he inquired.

Sunstreaker grumbled. “Got first in the foreign cars.” 

Beachcomber was confused. “That’s good, right?”

Spike got out, “It’s awesome, Sunstreaker’s just butthurt he didn’t win best in show.”

“That’s too bad. Who won?”

“Tracks, that little bitch,” huffed the lamborghini, “He also won first in the corvettes. I’m just as deserving to win best in show.”

Beachcomber pulled up beside Sunstreaker. “You’re both stunning cars, but Tracks went through a lot. Let him have his moment in the sun. Is that your trophy? It’s beautiful.”

With a sigh, Sunstreaker said, “Okay, fine.”

Spike opened a cooler and opened a can of soda. “Tracks needed this. There’ll be other car shows.” His father had filled him in earlier about what was going on with the corvette. 

Beachcomber tried to be his usual supportive self. “Maybe you’ll win best in show next time.”

“Whatever. Tracks was the reason for my rough look this morning,” added Sunstreaker.

“Did you guys get into it?,” asked Spike. 

Sunstreaker sighed. “Yeah. I might have poked the bear a little. Maybe I said something along the lines of: just get over it, it was just a human.” 

The lamborghini recalled  the other day when he made that remark so nonchalantly at Tracks. The corvette flipped out and started whaling on his chassis. Naturally, Sunstreaker reciprocated blows. They went back and forth at each other in robot and alt-mode until Wheeljack and Sideswipe had separated them long enough to force them into the infirmary. Things only escalated from thereon. Ratchet had tried to calm both of them down, only succeeding in both Autobots exchanging cuss words at one another and Tracks’ rage reaching the boiling point after Sunstreaker had egged him on. Tracks had fled outside with him calling the corvette a ‘little pussy’ and chased after him. That was when they both went into alt-mode and nearly crashed into each other… Sunstreaker was jolted out of his thoughts by a foot stomping down on his front bumper.

 Spike narrowed his eyes. “What if something happened to me, my dad, or Carly?  What about Chip? Would you say we were just humans?”

“Of course not. You guys are great for humans,” confessed the lamborghini, “Don’t ruin my fresh wax job!”

 “So was Tracks’ friend, whoever they were. You autobots are living beings just like us. You experience the same range of emotions like we do. Friendship transcends being just a human or a robot. I’ve seen it from you-like that time you congratulated Chip after he saved your butts?” Spike removed his foot. 

Sunstreaker felt remorseful for both the fight and his bigoted remarks. “I guess I might care...just a little.”

Spike laughed. “I know. Just chill with us for a while. They’re going to reveal the thylacine soon.” 

“Oh good. That’s the reason I’m here,” said Beachcomber. 

The teenager set up a lawn chair between both vehicles. He plopped down in it to relax and hang with his friends. Carly was with Chip. They were busy listening to a discussion panel with Dr. Hayate Shimizu of Kagayaku Motors about their new hydrogen engine. Spike took out his phone and played some tunes. The autobots enjoyed the music and downtime with their friend.  They were all in a content mood. Even Sunstreaker was over it when Tracks drove up, still wearing the silk blue ribbon. He had three passengers. Spike was behind the wheel and the other two were the same kids who fixed up the autobots before the car show. Sparkplug had promised them they could get photos of the cars for their social media. 

“Hey, dad,” said Spike as he turned off the music. 

Sparkplug exited Tracks, followed by Kota and Dyani. “This is my son, Spike. Spike, this is Kota Shimizu and Dyani Swiftwater. They were the ones who detailed the cars for me.”

“You mean Sunstreaker and Tracks?” Spike asked without thinking.

Sparkplug didn’t even flinch. “Yeah, I like to name my cars,” he explained.

“That’s dope!” exclaimed Kota, even more impressed with the lamborghini, “Sunstreaker is a kick ass name. But why Tracks for the corvette?”

“Well…,” Sparkplug rubbed his head. “It’s a fast car and back in the day young hotshots would challenge me to street races and I’d always leave ‘em in the dust.” He knew it was all bullshit, but what the kids didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. 

Dyani smirked. “I’ve heard worse names for a car. My dad had to fix this 1968 Dodge Challenger the owner nicknamed Mildred. What kind of a name is that for a muscle car?”

Spike laughed. “Maybe he named it after an old girlfriend or something?”

“Who knows?” Dyani replied with a shrug, “That little buggy is cute. Does it have a name too?”

“Beachcomber,” said Sparkplug, “I brought it to get detailed. It’s not a show car.”

I never saw myself as cute. thought Beachcomber. Well, maybe I am? Their wax is plant-based with a bit of beeswax mixed in. There’s another ingredient but I can’t quite make out what it is. Whatever it is, it’s got some protective qualities. I wish I could transform into robot mode and ask them.

Dyani and Kota took their photos with each car respectively. They thanked the Witwicky’s and told them they had to go feed the thylacine before it made its debut to the world. 

“Can I take a peek at it?” asked Spike.

Dyani shook her head. “I’d like to, but security’s too tight. We’re only allowed to be with it under strict supervision. The institute only brought one-she was the first to be cloned and the one chose to be the ambassador of her species.”

Spike frowned. “Aww, man. That sucks.”

“You’ll see it soon enough,” said Sparkplug.

Kota looked at his watch. “Dyani, we’d better get going. Thanks for letting us check out the sweet cars. We’ll hopefully see you guys later.”

When they left, Sparkplug turned to the autobots. “Good work today, guys. Do’ya think you can put up with your alt-mode a little longer?”

“But of course,” said Tracks, “You know how much I love being in my alt-mode.”

Sunstreaker stretched his tires. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just take a power nap while Beachcomber waits for his thing to begin.”

“I’ll join you,” said Sparkplug while folding out a lounge chair beside the Lamborghini, “Wake me when it’s showtime.”

“I think I’ll track down Chip and Carly,” said Spike. He patted Beachcomber. “They’ll probably want to watch.”

Beachcomber beamed, “I can’t wait.”

Tracks settled down beside Beachcomber. He was feeling his oats and praised Optimus Prime for his suggestion for taking a spa day. He decided to power down for a little while, but remembered what Prime had told him. “If anything happens, wake us at once if you can, Beachcomber.”