So, here's the deal: two thousand dollars and three A's. Now, the grades aren't the trickiest part; it's the cash. Unfortunately, not many people are keen on hiring a 17-year-old, despite his work permit. Sam suspects they simply don't want him because he's young and immature– which, he can be responsible, but they have a right to deny him anyway, despite what he tells them. He knows he can't rake in two grand by merely mowing Mrs. Jacob's lawn every other week, so he opts to try his luck elsewhere.

He gives the burger joint a few blocks from his high school a shot, and the library on 23rd Street. Hell, he even asks his friend Miles if his dog-washing business could use an extra set of hands.

Nope.

Nada.

No thanks, bro.

So, in a last-ditch effort, he babbles to Mrs. Jacob, hoping she might consider raising his pay more. She does not. However, she does direct him to one of her friends, Jane Watson, who lives only a few miles away and swings by every Saturday for tea time. Sam brings her some of his mother's cookies as thanks and slips her a few extra ones, telling her to make him sound mature and professional.

In the next few days, he makes it a routine to pay a visit to Mrs. Jacob. It's only on a Friday afternoon he sees a sleek black Lambo cruise up to the light-pink two-story house, looking horribly out of place. He visibly gawks at the car while Mrs. Jacob continues to brush off her patio furniture, unfazed by the luxury car and the woman stepping out of it.

She's petite, almost miniature, but she gives off the aura of a well-seasoned no-nonsense boss. With tanned skin, short coiled black hair, a sharp black pantsuit, black heels to match, and green eyes so vivid they stand out against her shadow-like clothing. Who he assumes to be Jane Watson squeals, and waves both of her hands enthusiastically as she spots Mrs. Jacob, striding over to embrace her.

As she introduces herself, Sam picks up a slightly Southern accent. He's just as surprised when she walks over to hug him and begins to fuss over the dirt on his sleeves and pants. Instantly, she reminds him of his mother. The nicest woman you'll ever meet– just don't get on the wrong side of her metal bat.

Mrs. Jacobs then lands a heavy hand on his shoulder and pushes him forward.

"Happy with this one?" She asks, a knowing look in her eyes.

Jane practically beams. "Perfect. Where did you find this gem, Lola?"

Mrs. Jacob chuckles, sitting on the outdoor sofa, and patting the seat next to her as an invitation. "Just across the street, looking like a lost puppy."

Ouch.

Jane turns to him, her eyes crinkling as she smiles. "You're hired, hon."

Great. Fine and dandy. He's always open to more opportunities to make money. Despite not knowing the specifics of the job, he trusts Mrs. Jacob not to thrust him into some drug or human trafficking ring with an old lady as the ringleader.

Maybe.

Mrs. Jacob seems to hate kids with a passion.

Sam is then told to return next week, ready to roll up his sleeves and get his hands dirty. The job is simply cleaning, Jane tells him. Rides to and from work are covered, considering he lacks a car, and lunch is on her for the first few days.

Things are beginning to look up!

But why the hell is he looking at what seems to be an abandoned warehouse, with strange red liquid splotted over the door? He's tempted to make a run for it, but the walk back home is a far and long one. And the buses are fucking disgusting. He hears a clash of metal and jumps, hand reaching for the car door lock. He hopes this is the wrong place.

Jane mutters under her breath while tapping on her phone. Her phone rings out with a notification and a creepy grin stretches across her face. She ushers him out of the Rolls Royce as if she couldn't dare wait a second more. Sam hopes she won't eat him – he's not exactly on the menu, nor does he taste good.

Or so he thinks.

Not 20 minutes ago, he was fully on board with the idea. She offered to pay him by the hour and give him his check at the end of every day. And the schedule was based on when he was available. He knows he's fortunate to have snatched up this job when he could. The best part, however, was the pay. $40 an hour. 40! Do you understand? Sam knows damn well even his parents don't make that much without a bit of overtime.

In the back of his mind, he thinks it's some type of scam, but considering the luxury vehicles that were parked in Jane's garage and the obnoxiously enormous house he caught a glimpse of as they made a quick stop to pick up the warehouse keys, he's willing to turn a blind eye and see how it all plays out. So, he gathers what bit of confidence he has and decides to face the music.

Sam is not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The building is oddly large, too big for how he's never noticed it while biking on this side of town. It seems brand new, but not a person is batting their eyes as they pass it.

Janes smiles at him and swings the door open to the warehouse, flicking on the lights and illuminating the space. They're in a large lounge area with various sofas, tables, and a kitchenette tucked into the corner. Hanging on the wall sits myriads of keys, each in different colors and sizes, accompanied by name tags.

She turns to him, plucking a key from the wall before handing them over.

"This is just a simple break room, it's a bit cold out there, so make sure to rest when you need it."

Jane walks over to the second door, unlocks it, and steps to the side.

Sam shuffles by her and the lights instantly flicker on. He's certain his jaw drops to the floor, and he instinctively tightens his grip on the car key. In sheer awe, his eyes land on the bright and pristine silver Pontiac Solstice and then on the other luxury brands scattered across the lot. A Mercendes-Bens, Lamborghini, and a bright red Aston Martin are parked on a lifted platform. Talk about a dream car showcase.

Beyond the rows of luxury vehicles, he's almost positive he spots a fighter jet. A surge of excitement bubbles up within him, and if he gets to work with these, he doesn't mind getting his hands dirty. Not at all.

The other cars, even if they aren't expensive luxury brands, are equally impressive, if not more so. To the right is a towering Western Star in blue adorned with red flames along the sides and a sleek black GMC Topkick his dad had fawned over just two days ago.

Jane signals for him to follow her, kicking him out of his drooling state. They walk to the other side of the warehouse that's separated from the main building by frosted glass walls, large windows, and a decorative rock path.

Front and center is a vibrant yellow 1970s Camaro with faded racing stripes, but next to it is quite possibly the dirtiest piece of crap Sam has ever seen. Excluding the Pontiac Solstice he saw before, he notices that all the other cars and jets are grimy and filthy. A couple of washes and a fresh coat of paint would return them to their former glory, but this particular car was in a league of its own. Horrendous, if he had to name it.

It must have been red once upon a time, but the sun damage had caused the paint to peel off. The back tires were deflated, and a large crack ran down the middle of the windshield. Compared to the other cars, this one had it the worst. And that was without mentioning the chunks of mud and dirt caked and smeared over its surface. Sam even notices trash spilling out of the car and covering the ground. Candy wrappers and cigarette butts littered the dashboard, alongside a row of cheesy, yet endearing, Spider-Man and Deadpool bobbleheads. The car was well-lived in but not well taken care of.

Jane wrinkles her nose in disgust, adjusting her shades as if they could shield her from the filthy mess. She points a sharply manicured finger at the car.

"1970s Dodge Challenger, first gen. He's a beauty, alright, but dirtier than a pack of pigs in a swamp," she remarks, as though merely discussing the car is causing her physical pain, "found him under the 'care' of some guy who couldn't care less about his car. Look, hon, I need you to clean him up– exterior and interior. The repaint and tires come later. He's got some serious work under the hood before he's up and running anyway."

Turning toward him, she gives him a once-over. If Sam didn't feel out of place in his old jeans, graphic tee, jacket, and high-top Vans before, he sure does now. He idly wonders if he should have appeared in a hazmat suit. It would be appreciated right now.

After a moment, Jane nods and excuses herself to pick up some supplies and gloves. Sam takes a few steps over to the Dodge and runs his hand over the top of the hood, wiping dust and dirt to the ground. Amidst the twigs and straw, he uncovers a pair of decorational horns sitting just on the nose of the hood. Sam thinks it's cute, and if he's feeling bold, badass.

Unintentionally, he voices his thoughts aloud, and he swears the car inches forward ever so slightly to lightly bump his hand. He swiftly pulls his hand away, taking a step backward, blinking a few times before staring hard at the vehicle.

Is he already tweaking on his first day?

Jane hurries back with a bag full of cleaning supplies and a massive trash bag. She sets them down and then points to the hose and buckets. "Everything you need not in the bag is over here, hon. I've got something to take care of, and then I'll be back with lunch. He should be squeaky clean in a few hours, yes?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Her stern expression softens, and she smiles. Old ladies are always a sucker for polite kids. "Anything you're allergic to?"

Sam can't help but return a smile of his own. "Nope."

Jane nodes. "Then I'll leave you to it. Best of luck!"

As she strides away, Sam doesn't wait for the sound of her heels to fade away into the distance before jumping right into work, turning the key over in his hand. This key is decorated in red, which presumably is color-coded to match the car he's to be cleaning.

"Cliffjumper…?" he mumbles with a short chuckle. It certainly looked like this car had done its fair share of cliff-jumping, judging by the various dents and dirt covering it.

He slides the key into the slot and opens the door, only to be greeted by a mountain of trash tumbling down, covering his feet. He grimaced and began to inch away. The car didn't smell terrible, but it could use a bit of scented freshener, preferably all over, including the tires.

After plugging in his earbuds, Sam puts on gloves, tosses his jacket to a nearby chair, grabs a garbage bag, and gets to work.

He spends the next few hours clearing the junk out from the inside and on top of the car, wiping away as much dirt as he can from the console and flicking crumbs off the seats. Fortunately, there are no floor mats, saving him from dealing with years-old sticky candy or cigarette ash buildup.

There's a piece of trash stuck between the passenger door that he can't reach, and trying to open said door leaves him jiggling with the handle for a few minutes. When he moves to the other side, he hears the passenger door unlock, but as soon as he walks over, the door locks itself with a sharp click. It goes on for a while, but eventually, he gets irritated enough to start talking to the damn thing.

"It would be nice if you opened so I could clean you, maybe then you wouldn't smell like a bunch of dog piss–"

The car door flings open and hits him square in the stomach.

Sam barely saves himself from falling to the ground and snatches the trash that fell out, stuffing it into the nearly full trash bag.

Even after throwing the garbage away and removing chunks of mud from the car's exterior, he's still working, determined to make it through. His dad's near obsession with cleanliness has rubbed off on him because he barely notices Jane returning with a bag of fast food, which she sets on the table nearby. When Jane clears her throat, he nearly jumps a foot in the air, hitting his head on the car's hood. Sam expresses his thanks, eats a burger, and then turns right back to the stubborn Dodge, washing out the last bits of grime.

His father is exceedingly particular about the cleanliness of his cars, and even more so about the house. Over the years, it's passed down to his wife, and even Sam is not exempt from the lectures on various cleaning tools and their uses. Packed in his brain is information about the smallest of crevice tools, the five types of drill brushes and 15 detail brushes his dad owns, steam cleaners, and pressure washer undercarriage cleaners. Needless to say, even his dogs could clean a car better than most people.

The Dodge isn't as clean as he would have liked, and he could have used a smaller detail brush around the grill and rims, but he's satisfied with how nice it is now. As he glances up, it's near evening, the sun is setting and casting hues of purple and blue across the sky. Turning back, he notices Jane standing nearby with an ever-present smile. She uncrosses her arms and glides her fingers over the hood, feeling for dust. Pleased with his work, she nods.

"I would have been paying more for a professional to come over, but you've done amazing. I'll make sure the rest is cleaned up in a few days, and by the time you return the paint and tires will be fixed, along with that darn busted windshield."

Sam runs his hands across the smooth horns on the hood, watching them gleam in the fading daylight filtering through the glass walls. His lips curl upward, and he looks back at his work, happy and content with the results. "Thanks, Ms. Watson. I think there's an issue with the passenger door handle. I had to yank it a few times to get it open."

Jane laughs. "Stubborn little thing, isn't he? I'll be sure to take care of it."

As Sam removes his gloves Jane hands him the bag of food he had long forgotten and gives his back a friendly pat.

"Let's get you home."

They're in the car within two minutes, with Jane at the wheel already pulling out of the lot. As exhaustion settles in, deep in his bones, and his hands begin to ache, he's thankful Jane refrains from striking up a conversation. That's the price he pays for taking a mediocre break. It's a good ache though, and he hopes that the guy who owned Cliffjumper before Jane is now walking instead of wreaking havoc on another vehicle. There was no reason that the car should have been that dirty.

As they arrive at his house, Jane fishes out some money from her purse and hands it to him. He's met with Benjamin Franklin and two other identical bills, leaving Sam in disbelief. Even if he were to get paid $40 for each hour worked, it still wouldn't add up to the $300 Jane is pushing into his hands.

Sam raises an eyebrow. "I can't take this."

Of course, he can take it, but he's trying to be nice.

Jane firmly pushes the cash into his hands. "Yes, you can. And you will. The extra is hush money. Don't tell everyone that you know that some old lady is paying you to wash luxury vehicles people would drool over."

Ah.

So she just might be a drug or human trafficker, or something else equally as shady.

Nice.

Sam does feel a bit strange accepting such a large amount of money for only cleaning a car, but he nods anyway. Jane seems satisfied and unlocks the car doors, waiting until Sam is safely inside his house before speeding off, definitely breaking the speed limit in their neighborhood. Sam hopes she hits little Jimmy across the street. He's super fucking annoying.

And so, Sam now officially has a job and has officially been paid for it. When he walks into the house, he's just in time for dinner but decides to eat the lunch Jane paid for that he never finished. His mother is sniffling and crying, weeping about how her boy has gotten his first job, and his father looks as proud as can be. Sam knows he's also hiding tears.

Jesus. He wonders how they'll cope when he goes off to college. Or God forbid, what they'd do if he tried to move out of the state, hell, the damn country. A shiver travels down his spine just thinking about it, so he lets it go and makes his way upstairs, collapsing into bed.

With what he's earned today and saved up before, he's got a total of $556 and $1,444 to go. At the rate he's going, he'll raise enough money before school is out in June. An entire summer with his car.

Sam is ready to hit the road.

He has an uneventful sleep and spends his Sunday lazing about, asking his father for iron remover and ceramic spray coating for work. He can hear his mother start crying again while his dad dives headfirst into a rant Sam honestly didn't want to hear. He asked a simple question, so an essay was not required.

Monday and Tuesday unfold the same without much excitement. Now that it's Wednesday, he's got a history test in the afternoon that he's been eager to get over ever since the lesson was first introduced. He heads to school that morning and watches as his ex-crush, Mikaela Banes, leans all over the resident douchebag, Trent DeMarco. Trent, of course, ignored her and flaunted his stupid jock face and stupid football muscles to another gaggle of girls nearby. Airhead alert!

He thinks DeMarco is a waste with Mikaela, but to each their own.

After pushing through his test and powering through the line of idiots trying to make their way out of class, Miles comes bounding over just as the school bell rings. He slings an arm around Sam's shoulders, teasingly ruffling his brown locks between his hands.

Sam bats the offending hand away but is overpowered by the taller of the two, who leans most of his body weight on him. Sam huffs and lets Miles slouch on him.

"Okay, you overgrown golden retriever, what's up your sleeves this time?"

Miles fakes a genuinely hurt look and guides a hand to his chest. "I literally came to say hi, dude."

He then cheekily flicks Sam on the nose before scampering a few feet away as the brunette attempts to grab him. Sam continues to make his way out of the school, brushing past people on their phones while Miles walks backward in front of him, seemingly uncaring of the people he's bumping into.

Miles' blue eyes flicker from Sam to elsewhere, and he knows Miles is about to ask something stupid.

"So…"

Sam snorts. "So?"

Miles waves his hands in the air, seemingly exasperated. "So how'd the job go, dude?"

Sam really wants to strangle his best friend, but then he'd probably never let go and end up suffocating him to death. Decisions, decisions. Yet, Sam only rolls his eyes in mild irritation. When is he going to stop being the brains and brawns of their duo schtick?

"I told you yesterday, Miles. And the day before that. Are you really turning into a dumb blonde? You should at least be a himbo; this idiotic skinny surfer boy look isn't going to work out. Trust me."

Miles looks sheepish before he gasps, offended. "One of the worst stereotypes you could have pushed on me. Can't believe you– well, okay, I might be dumb, but I'm not stupid."

Sam stops suddenly and smiles. "We'll get you the help you need soon."

Miles' face resembles a confused puppy, right down to the head tilt. "Sure…?"

Sam likes his puppy though, so he's not going to strangle it.

Not yet, at least.

On the walk home, they launch into a conversation about the newest DC movie that hit theaters last Tuesday and make a plan to go see it. Just as they stop at Miles' house and he invites him in, Sam's phone rings. He quickly picks up, the caller ID catching his attention immediately. He puts a finger over his mouth, making a shushing motion to the blonde.

"Yes. Ms. Watson?"

Miles attempts to get closer to hear the phone call, but since he doesn't have it on speaker, Miles only inches closer and closer, nearly toppling over him.

Sam reminds himself that animal abuse and cruelty are jailable offenses.

He pushes Miles away into his house as Jane and him make up a plan for him to work Saturday morning and Sunday afternoon. As he hangs up the phone, he takes one good look at Miles and his stupid dumb face and decides that you're only a criminal so long as you get caught.

And then he lunges.

Sam spends the rest of his week tormenting Miles, daydreaming about having a girlfriend and pondering the type of car he wants to buy.

Saturday morning, he's up before his alarm goes off, rushing out of the house just as Jane pulls up. When they step into the warehouse, he notices that some of the vehicles are missing, particularly the jets. They seem to have been replaced by a gigantic tank– Sam has no idea why Jane has a tank, but he's not about to ask.

His eyes swivel to the Dodge, fully repaired and dazzling in the overhead lights. Sam walks around the car, noticing all signs of damage gone. Whoever Jane hires to repair her cars, they sure are professional. He can't even recognize that this was the same car from a week ago.

Jane chuckles and lightly taps the hood. "He's a beauty now, isn't he? Stubborn as hell, didn't want to get clean or let anybody touch him, I'm honestly surprised he even let you. The last three I hired quit the same day; can't imagine why, though."

Sam blissfully ignores her choice of words, as if the car had conscious thought and control over actions, and instead focuses on the yellow Camaro next to him. The other name he read comes back to him.

"Bumblebee, isn't it? The Camaro?"

Jane nods and hands him the yellow keys. "I attempted to clean this one the other day, but you know how it can be. Knees and everything. So, I'll let you take care of Bumblebee."

Something tells him that it's not simply her knees that prevent her from cleaning a car. Perhaps all the money went to her head, which could explain why she thinks the cars are alive.

"Yeah, uh, I'll make sure he's nice and clean, Ms. Watson," he says while turning the key into the slot.

Jane hums, "But before you get to him, I have one in serious need of a quick wash."

Sam brushes away the slight disappointment that washes over him and follows as she beckons him to a separate area, further down the enclosed space. The black Topkick he saw the other day is now covered in mud and dirt, with smears of an iridescent rainbow-colored liquid. Sam hopes that goop is not infectious. Did she go off-roading or something?

Sam is taking a shower as soon as he gets home. Maybe two, because how did it get this dirty within one week?

Despite his reluctance to go anywhere near the once-grand truck, he puts on his gloves and grabs a trash bag.

"Right on it, Ms. Watson," he mumbles, already planning nine ways to avoid touching the goop with his gloves. He wonders if she has an extension cleaning brush around here somewhere.

Jane seems content with his answer and turns to leave.

Sam starts with cleaning the mud and goop off first, fortunately finding all the tools he needs, before he hears a horrible grinding sound emanating from inside the warehouse. He's far back enough to where he can't see inside the main building, he'd have to walk around the corner to even make it to the door. Sam wants to say that noise isn't his problem, but he knows Jane is gone, and whatever is out there most likely shouldn't be.

A soft curse tumbles out of his mouth before he sets the towel he had down and takes off his gloves. For a second, Sam thinks he sees the truck move, and quickly decides that he's losing his mind. Sam doesn't look back before he sets a brisk pace to the inside of the warehouse.

He thinks he hears gears shifting, but he knows there's no machine capable of that sound anywhere inside the building. He hopes nobody broke in and is trying to take the cars– it could be coming out of his paycheck. With how much he's relying on this job, he can't afford a robbery happening on his watch, not today.

As he rounds the corner, he's shocked still by what seems to be a 16-foot-tall metal giant looming over him. Bright yellow with car doors as wings that twitch and flutter with every movement the metal beast makes. It's pointing a finger at the Dodge, bursts of static shooting rapid fire from its mouth. At least, he thinks it's a mouth. The giant could step on him in a heartbeat, and that cold gripping realization has Sam unable to suppress the weak and drawn-out yelp that escapes his mouth.

"W-what the fuck?"

The robot abruptly stops speaking and turns toward him, bright blue eyes staring straight into his soul.

He swears his ass is in his throat, and his soul has left his body. He begins to shake, before bolting, scurrying to the door of the warehouse with thundering steps echoing behind him. He is not about to die because some old lady thinks it's funny to toy around with real-life Gundam toys.

He makes the worst mistake of turning around just then and sees the yellow robot right next to him, not a few feet behind, reaching a hand outwards.

Sam's shriek pierces the air as he desperately moves his body to duck underneath the hand, only to land flat on his ass. Another hand strikes out to snatch him, but he manages to roll under the robot's giant legs and scrambles in the opposite direction.

Sam knows for a fact he's supremely fucked when he sees the same red Dodge he cleaned a week ago has started to shift before his very eyes.

Thin spidery lines appear on the vehicle as various parts unlock and break away. The same gear grinding and metallic whirring he heard earlier is louder, coming right from the being in front of him. Sam can only crawl away on his shaking arms, eyes wide with disbelief. Limbs, torso, and a head materialize, crowned with a set of horns. The bipedal machine sports red armor, complete with a matching helmet.

The metallic creature holds out two hands, attempting to seem non-threatening. Fuck, as if!

Sam slowly shakes his head, his breathing picking up, now frantic. "Oh my god, please don't kill me–"

The robot tilts its head in confusion. "Kill you?"

Oh my god, it's going to kill him.

It then begins to laugh, sounding eerily human.

"I'm not going to kill you, relax man. If anything, I want to thank you. Beautiful job on my horns, by the way. Every time I scrub them I either scratch them or can't get all the dirt! Everyone else is too rough with them."

And then it clicks for Sam.

"Cliffjumper?"

The giant, Cliffjumper, grins. "The one and only baby. Say my name all you want, promise you won't wear it out."

Sam glances at the door, and before he can even get on his knees, a metal hand clasps him tightly in its grip. Panic fills his body once more as he's lifted higher and higher until he's face-to-face with the yellow robot that chased him down before.

Bumblebee.

Sam knows he's not on drugs– maybe the eggs from this morning were expired? Do expired eggs even cause hallucinations? Hell, maybe?

Bumblebee gives a few clicks and static bursts before a bunch of radio clips begin to play.

"Don't be afraid– I won't hurt you– Sam."

It's a conjoined, messy string of media sound clips from its chest, and he can barely make out the sentence Bumblebee is attempting to form. The hand carefully fattens out, leaving only the fingers to stand up, creating makeshift walls to keep him from falling. He desperately clings to one of the digits. Death by falling is not on his bucket list, and he's not crossing it off anytime soon. Preferably not at all.

Cliffjumper walks over, which is only two steps and bends down, peering at Sam with wide blue eyes.

"You're a tiny one, aren't ya? Well, all of you humans are tiny, but you're younger. Bee, look at him, doesn't he look younger?"

Bee makes a soft sound, foreign and alien, turning his palm around and staring at Sam with such great intensity that he thinks he's about to get eaten.

Eventually, Bumblebee nods and gently lands a digit on Sam's head, brushing the hair back and poking at his cheek and shoulders. It's warm, and not at all cold metal like he expected. His breathing is under control by a small fraction, but Sam is trying his best not to pass out.

Cliffjumper seems to finally notice his fear and steps back. "Hey, we're not going to hurt you, honest. You weren't even supposed to know about us until this slaghead decided to make himself known."

Sam guesses that slaghead is an insult because as soon as Cliffjumper says it, Bumblebee is righteously spitting harsh static. Cliffjumper visibly cringes at some of the word choice, and Sam knows whatever Bumblebee is saying is far worse.

Sam wonders if he can climb down while they're reprimanding each other and make a swift getaway. He takes a quick look down and decides that being a hand pet is the better option. He swallows his saliva, as if it'll help his current dry mouth, and wipes the sweat off his brow. He wishes he took rock climbing lessons when he was 12.

Sam's voice is surprisingly calm as he speaks up, but internally, he is freaking out so hard he can't remember his name.

"So," he began as he peeked up at the two giants, whose attention immediately zeroed in on him. "Are you guys robots or something? Gundam?"

Bumblebee gave a quick chirp, to which Cliffjumper laughed. "No, we're aliens. Cool toy line, by the way, but we're not piloted by humans, nor are we man-made. Primus-made though!"

Who the fuck is Primus?