The campsite was littered with trash and blackened, burnt-out firepits, but it was empty. The blue and red Datsun turned into the parking lot with a quiet sigh, its tires crunching on gravel the moment they pulled off the freeway.
Empty. Not a camper in sight. Nothing but picnic tables and chained-up barbeques. Thank Primus. Alone at last.
Grasshoppers whirred in the silence as he shut down his engine and sank wearily over his tires. All four windows rolled down, while a click of the radio put an end to Wayne Newton's scratchy crooning. A red sunset glowed against his windshield as the sun crept below the ridge of a distant range, throwing long shadows over the Mojave. Dust hung in the warm, drowsy air.
Twenty-five hundred miles. Twenty-five hundred miles. That was how much road he had put behind him since arriving on Earth. Was there any tread left on his tires at all? It didn't feel like it. His paint was a roadmap of dust and scratches, tracing his journey across the American midwest. Las Vegas was hot, dazzling, and full of crazies. He wished he was there for the casinos. His orders, however, had steered him into the city for other reasons. Official reasons. Encrypted reasons.
The coast was clear. He had to stand up. He craved the opportunity to stretch his legs. It had been days since he had left his alternate mode. Again. Reasons.
With a grinding of road-weary gears, he transformed. There was a quiet pop, and a trickle of broken glass. Something wet dribbled down the inside of his leg.
The robot sighed. Oh. So that's where that bottle had ended up. He had wondered about that, every since the tipsy young lady he had given a ride to outside of the Strip had staggered out of his cab carrying her glittery purse and nothing else. Never a good sign.
Now the scent of stale alcohol lingered in the evening air as well.
Primus. He stared mournfully into the sunset. What an assignment. At this rate he could imagine what his next conversation with Optimus Prime would be like. "Hello, Smokescreen. It's good to see you. Is that a puddle of Wild Turkey on my floor?" "Yes, sir. I'm sorry. I swear it belonged to that prostitute."
Not originally written as a story, but maybe it kind of works as one. I have a big soft spot for Smokescreen. The thought of him hitting up Vegas on a solo mission makes me laugh.
