Chapter Two
He's Definitely Not Just a Truck
--
The barn was quiet, for once.
Outside, Texas heat settled over the land like a smothering hand—thick and dry and oppressive. It baked the metal roof, scorched the dirt driveway, and turned the very air into something heavy enough to drag a man's thoughts down into his boots.
Inside, Cade Yeager stood with his hands on his hips, staring at what he swore was either the greatest discovery of his life… or the reason he was going to end up arrested. Or dead. Possibly both.
"Not a truck," he muttered.
The thing crouched before him was massive—a tangle of alien machinery half-melted and leaking coolant. Battle damage marked its once-pristine frame. Armor plates hung askew. The front grille was cracked like a busted jaw, and one of the headlights still sparked weakly like a twitching eyelid.
But it wasn't a vehicle. Not really.
It was a Transformer.
A Prime.
And Cade, against all reason and logic, had dragged it out of a ghost town, loaded it onto a flatbed, and hauled it home like a man on the edge of a nervous breakdown and a breakthrough.
Optimus Prime.
Cade didn't know what he was doing.
But it felt like something important.
Something right.
Which, naturally, was when Stiles Stilinski walked back into his life.
--
"I brought snacks," Stiles said, shoving open the barn door with his hip, arms loaded with a grocery bag and what appeared to be a car battery. "Also, question: did you know that every gas station within a fifty-mile radius either sells live bait, fake IDs, or anti-alien survival guides? Because that's a vibe."
Cade jumped. "Jesus—Bambi. You can't just sneak up on a man in his barn."
"I didn't sneak. You were monologuing. Also, I knocked. Twice. Your barn just doesn't care."
He dropped the bag on a workbench and took a long look at the massive shape under the tarp at the far end of the space. A slow, suspicious look. Not casual. Not oblivious.
Sharp. Too sharp.
"I know that shape," he said after a beat. "And that energy signature."
"You what?"
"I said I like your tarp. Is it… vintage alien tech under there, or just your standard government-evading war machine?"
Cade cursed under his breath and moved to block the view. "Look, you weren't supposed to—this is—he's—damn it."
Stiles raised both eyebrows, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I knew I felt an overcomplicated morality crisis in here."
--
Cade dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled hard. "Okay. Listen. This stays between us, alright? I didn't tell you. You didn't see anything. You're just some guy who came by to help me fix a generator."
"Sure," Stiles said, clearly lying.
"I mean it."
"So do I," Stiles replied, stepping closer to the tarp. "But also? You're really bad at hiding illegal alien robots."
He yanked the tarp halfway down before Cade could stop him.
And froze.
The burned and battered face of Optimus Prime glared back at him, optics dark, armor charred.
Stiles didn't flinch.
"That," he said, "is not just a truck."
"Yeah," Cade said hoarsely. "I figured that out around the time it bled on my driveway."
--
Stiles crouched, silent now, eyes scanning the damage. His fingers hovered over a cracked joint, where metal pulsed faintly beneath the surface.
"This one's different," he murmured. "He's not just another machine. He's… thinking."
Cade watched him. "How do you know that?"
"Because this damage?" Stiles pointed to the chestplate. "Isn't structural. It's strategic. He took a hit to shield something—or someone. This wasn't self-preservation. This was protection. He fought to keep others alive."
Cade blinked.
Stiles glanced up. "You dragged him home?"
"Yeah. From a theater. Wrecked place in Mexico. Found him in the shadows. Nearly killed me."
Stiles grinned. "Bet you deserved it."
"Maybe. But I couldn't leave him."
For a moment, the sarcasm faded from Stiles' face. He reached out, carefully brushing dirt away from a crushed panel.
"You did good, Yeager."
Cade didn't know why that mattered. But it did.
--
They spent the next hour working in quiet sync. Cade cleared debris, while Stiles adjusted wiring and rerouted a power feed from an old generator. He didn't ask how Stiles knew what he was doing. He'd given up trying to understand that particular chaos.
Stiles didn't offer details, either.
But his touch was confident. His mind? Fierce. The kind that burned fast and bright and left others trying to keep up.
"I can jumpstart his core," Stiles muttered. "Might fry my eyebrows off. Again."
"Again?"
"Long story. But if I can just jolt his system into rebooting—"
"Is that safe?"
Stiles looked at him. "If I wanted safe, I'd be a barista."
--
He did it.
Of course he did.
Hooked up wires. Adjusted current. Said something entirely inappropriate about sparks and afterglow. Then threw the switch.
The barn shuddered.
A burst of static exploded across the floor.
And Optimus Prime moved.
Just a little. One arm twitching. Optics flickering faintly.
Cade backed up.
Stiles didn't.
"Come on, Big Guy," he said softly. "Time to wake up. Your world's still burning."
--
The Autobot let out a ragged sound—something between a growl and a groan—and slowly, painfully, opened his eyes.
Blue.
Bright, electric blue. Glowing like a star behind battle-worn armor.
Cade felt his heart stop.
Stiles smiled.
"Hi. I'm the smartass who electrocuted you. You're welcome."
--