Round 'em up and roll 'em out
So I'm going to get this place going with a new fic, written for the
tf_bunny_farm August challenge.
Title: The buggy round up
Setting: G1
Rating: PG
Characters: Beachcomber, Jazz, Mirage, Human OC
Warning: Um possibly slightly crack?
Summary: This plot was adopted from this post on the
tf_bunny_farm:
42: This month, a nearby town is having a Dune Buggy show (a Buggy Round Up). Which confused me because we live no where near the coast. But anyway, I think Beachcomber deserves to win a prize in a Dune Buggy Show, don't you think? I almost typed Dune Bunny.
Nope, none of the recognisable characters belong to me. This is something their probably very grateful for!
Sunstreaker stood staring in the doorway to the washracks, not quiet believing his optics, beside him Tracks cycled his optics several times just to make sure they weren’t falsely reporting the scene in front of them.
Beachcomber continued to twist trying to paint the steel tubing that rose from his back oblivious to his stunned audience, muttering curses at the ‘pit bound creation of a retro rat’ who decided that an open roll cage was the best way to go when designing his alt mode.
Tracks curiosity finally convinced him to ask, “Why are you trying to repaint your roll cage?”
Beachcomber spun round at the sound looking rather sheepish at being discovered, “Oh uh, hi fellas. Didn’t hear you come in.”
Sunstreaker stalked round the minibot critically examining his paintwork, “You’ve dripped black over the blue and the scratches need buffing so the paint surface is flat.”
Beachcomber visibly drooped “Yeah, I figured I’d make a botched job of it. However, with everyone else out enjoying the sun or on patrol there‘s a lack of help,” he gave a deep sigh “and time.”
The two warriors shared a confused look before Sunstreaker pinned the geologist with a stare “Why is there a lack of time, and since when has looking good been something that’s bothered you?”
Shifting uncomfortably under the intense gaze Beachcomber replied softly “I have something very important to do later to day, and looks count for a lot where I’m going. A less than perfect paintjob could spell the end of the endeavour.”
Tracks joined Sunstreaker in closely looking over the deep blue paint, noting each raised area where a scratch had been painted over, the missed scratches and the drops of black paint.
He opened a private line to the yellow twin If looks count for so much he may as well not go.
Sunstreaker nodded and replied we have two choices, one of us takes his place or we fix this wreck. A loud he asked, “I suggest you let one of us take over the mission if looks are so important, frankly the way you look right now the whole things doomed from the start.”
Beachcomber sighed “If it weren’t for the fact that neither of you meet the legal qualifications I’d have suggested both of you as the better bots for the job.”
Option two then Tracks muttered over the comm. line.
Sunstreaker nodded again, still critically evaluating Beachcombers paintwork, it’s unsalvageable, the only way to fix it is to strip him down and start from scratch.
Beachcomber shifted nervously, the considering and measuring looking in the two pairs of optics that were silently boring into him was beginning to make him think about running.
Tracks finished his scrutiny; his mouth twisted up into a sneer of disapproval nothing else for it, Hoists workshop then? He stepped forward, grabbed Beachcomber by the scruff of his neck, and began to leave the racks.
Beachcomber squeaked as he was hoisted off the floor “Wh, what are you doing? Put me down!”
“No chance squirt” Sunstreaker said as he strolled along behind the corvette “If looks are that important to this then you’re not leaving this base until we, as officially the best looking mechs in the universe, are happy with the way you look.”
---
Beachcomber rolled down the track from the Ark to the main road, the couple of hours sanding, filling, polishing, undercoating and repainting had resulted in a flawless dark blue finish that caught the light over every sharp edge. Slowing carefully to avoid kicking up dust as per Sunstreaker’s explicit instructions, he came to a stop before his human contact.
The man cast an approving eye over Beachcombers new paintwork before asking earnestly “You sure you want ta go through with this?”
Beachcomber bounced on his tires “Yep, I’m sure. Let’s get this over with.”
“You’re not exactly street legal right now so uh.” The man gestured at the trailer and SUV combination parked on the roadside.
Beachcomber obligingly loaded himself on to the trailer and settled down for the trip.
(The Ark about three hours later)
Groove meandered into the Ark’s rec room a slightly pensive frown on his face, “so what’d my fellow dude do to get carted off in chains?” he asked the room.
Prowl looked up from the game of risk he was not quiet currently losing to Smokescreen and Trailbreaker, “What has who done?”
“What did ‘Comber do that you had some human come and take him away in chains?” Groove clarified, “I was crusin’ down the 101 and comin’ the other way was Comber chained to a trailer behind some guy in a SUV.”
A uncomprehending silence blanketed the room, as mechs stared at each other is mild disbelief before Prowl said “As far as I’m aware he hasn’t broken any rules so I can only assume that this human has some how captured him.”
Cliffjumper came skidding round the door still in his alt mode “Tell me Beachcomber’s still on the base?” panic clear in his voice as he transformed.
“Why?” Smokescreen demanded as the three tactical experts left their game.
Cliffjumper waived an arm wildly in the direction of Portland, “Saw a sign in town; he’s not safe out there any more! The humans are rounding up all the dune buggies in the area and taking them to some place on the coast!”
“Exactly what did this sign say?” Prowl asked his mind already planning how to deal with the unfolding events.
“Dune Buggy round up. Today at Manzanita and a time reference.” Cliffjumper replied shifting from one foot to the other.
“Humans usually only round up criminals or,” Streetwise voice sunk to almost a whisper “cattle for slaughter.”
“Jazz, Mirage get out there and find Beachcomber, don’t let yourselves be seen and don’t go charging in unless it’s obvious he’s in imminent danger of termination.” Prowl order “I’ll contact Prime and we’ll see if we can get to the bottom of this” he sighed “this would have to happen when most of the government is away for this ‘thanksgiving’ celebration.”
Jazz and Mirage peeled out of the Ark at top speed, both silently hoping they weren’t already too late.
----
(An hour later, on the margin of the beach at Manzanita Oregon.)
~Any thing?~ Jazz asked over the com line he and Mirage had established before they split up to search for Beachcomber.
~I’m reading large numbers of people and vehicles on the other side of the dune, that’s got to be it.~ Mirage sent back as he engaged his disrupters and crept closer to the mass of humans and machines.
~Right I’m heading in from the other side I should be able to hide in the car park~ Jazz replied as his tyres spun in the loose sand.
Mirage transformed and crouched down just behind the dune ~This is the place but I can’t see Beachcomber in the crowd.~
Jazz pulled into a parking space on the edge of the lot and scanned the mass of buggies parked in rows on the sand ~There are some fancy paint jobs out there that’s fer sure.~
Mirage raised an optic ridge ~Tacky, I think is the word you’re looking for there Jazz. I don’t like the look of that.~
Jazz grinned to himself as he cast an optic over a burnished copper buggy with neon green flames down the side of it. Tacky just didn’t cover it, but he lost the smile at Mirages last comment ~don’t like what?~
Mirage slid over the dune to get a closer look ~There’s a small crowd of humans going round examining the buggies and filling in forms. Looks like some sort of selection process.~
~Frag! That doesn’t sound good. I’m gonna check with Prowl on progress his end.~ Jazz sent ~If you shift round the perimeter can you spot Beachcomber?~
~Can’t loose anything by trying.~ Mirage responded and began to carefully shift round the edges of the gathering.
Beachcomber sat quietly in the slot he’d been allocated when they’d arrived, he could clearly see Jazz in the corner of the parking area and his sensors picked up the faint vibrations of Mirage moving over the dunes. He hoped they wouldn’t break his cover, he’d been embarrassed enough by his fellow Autobots for one day. The whole reason he was here incognito because he didn’t want the judges to treat him differently because he was an Autobot. Fortunately the judges had come through his section before Jazz and Mirage had turned up, so they hadn’t heard the humans commenting on his ‘well maintained but uninspired’ paint scheme or seen them open his engine compartment to examine how well maintained he was. Ratchet had no need to be ashamed of his work as he had been adjudged the best maintained buggy ever seen in any show ever.
They were calling the racers to the start lines now by their heats and he switched on his scanners to observe the course as the first wave of buggies roared off across the dunes, his human walked back and sat in the driving seat.
“Well we knew we wouldn’t win the looks contest, but you scored highly enough to make the cut into the races. Heat 6 is us; first two from each heat qualify by right plus two fastest losers.” The man muttered so softly the passing crowds couldn’t hear.
Beachcomber blinked his oil light on for a few seconds, their prearranged signal for ‘I understand.’ Most of his attention on the race where one buggy had slid down a dune and turned on its side and another had got bogged down in soft sand. This next part was all down to him, Tom was just for show, he’d be holding the wheel but that was all.
After the first five races he’d figured out the best route across the sand, surreptitiously he let out just a little more air from his tyres so he’d get better grip on the shifting sands of the beach. And finally their heat was called and as Tom reached out to where the ignition should be he started his engine and moved off slowly through the crowds of buggies and people towards the starting line.
~There he is!~ Mirage called out over the radio ~heading towards the dunes.~
~Got him, stay with him as far as you can I’m going to head down the beach on the road. There might be a rescue opportunity away from all these crowds.~ Jazz commanded as he pulled out.
Easier said than done Mirage though as he slid ungainly down the back face of the dune trying to find firmer ground to run on.
Beachcomber, floating over the sand engine roaring had no problems with the unstable conditions. He was aware of Mirage floundering along in the soft sand on the seaward side and soon the spy was left behind as the pack took a sharp left turn around the dunes and headed out along the wide flat stretch than ran parallel to the road where he could see Jazz weaving in an out of the traffic keeping pace with the racing pack. The finishing line came in sight and the buggies jostled for position as the racing line was squeezed into a single file between two dunes, he cut left across the front of a green buggy with silver stars over it and scrambled over the line in first place.
Tom, who'd spent most of the ride with his eyes shut behind the tinted visor of his helmet, felt the deceleration and cracked open an eye before pounding a fist gently on Beachcombers steering wheel in celebration. Beachcomber felt a surge of pride, his first ever race and he’d won; pulling over to the area where the finalists waited to run the course in reverse he felt Mirage come pounding along the firmer sand. As the losing buggies began to make their way back to the main group there was a tentative brush against his com line.
~Beachcomber?~ Mirage’s question came on a very thin line.
~Hey Mirage, what brings you and Jazz out here?~ Beachcomber asked over the same thin line.
~Saving your aft~ Jazz interjected ~How’d they get you?~
Beachcomber flooded the link with laughter ~You’re here to rescue me from a competition I entered into entirely voluntarily.~
~Hu?~ was all the response Jazz could come up with.
~But this is a round up~ Mirage protested ~what they do to criminals.~
~And what they call Dune Buggy shows~ Beachcomber soothed, ~Relax the only danger I’m in is sliding down a dune or sinking in the sand.~
Tom tapped his dashboard and Beachcomber saw that the finalists were gathering.
Rolling over to the start line he told the others ~This is the last bit, get back to the other end of the beach if you want to see the awards.~
Mirage joined Jazz on the roadway and they raced off down the coast road, Jazz radioed Prowl to let him know what was going on. They pulled up in the corner where Jazz had previously parked just in time to see the first four buggies crest the dunes Beachcomber in second place behind a blood red buggy, suddenly the dune face started to move, the buggies were sucked along the last one over turning and rolling down the dune. Beachcomber fought to stay pointed front end facing down the slope as he and the surviving buggies struggled not to collide with each other or be swamped by the tsunami of sand that boiled around them.
“Stay with it, stay with it.” Jazz hissed watching the drama unfold.
Somehow Beachcomber did just that and his engine roared as his tyres churned and scrabbled for purchase in the sand, suddenly he found it and shot forward half a length in front of the red buggy.
“Come on, come on.” Mirage muttered softly scanners glued to the two racing buggies as they got closer to the finishing line.
The cloud of loose sand that was kicked up by the buggies obscured the two Autobots’ view of the line and from the cheering that erupted from the watching crowd it was impossible to tell who had won.
~Beachcomber? Did ya win?~ Jazz asked still trying to make out the details through the dusty haze.
There was a spluttering sound of a mech trying to clear his intakes ~Don’t know.~ Beachcomber wheezed ~too much sand in the air to see.~
The last few buggies straggled over the sand and across the line as Beachcomber finished clearing his intakes, Tom had climbed out and having wiped the sand from his face he walked round to Beachcombers bonnet and popped it open grimacing at the amount of sand that clogged the space.
“Ideas about how to clear this?” he asked quietly his head under the bonnet.
“As soon as we’re alone I’ll transform and take a sea bath.” Beachcomber replied just as quietly “That should clear it.”
“Right. Time to find out how we did.” Tom withdrew his head and shut Beachcombers’ bonnet, patting the blue paintwork he walked over to the tables where the judges were crowded round a television set scrutinising the images to determine places.
After a delay of fifteen minutes the organiser began to list the winners of the various classes. A deep metallic green convertible won the best looking prize, while an outlandish burnt orange buggy with an enormous engine, three exhausts and a sound system to rival Jazzes took the best customization. That just left the racing and the overall prizes to be announced, all three Autobots were waiting impatiently for the race results.
“The overall prize is awarded to Lewis Durrell.” The organiser announced and the man who’d driven the buggy Beachcomber had raced to line stepped up on to the platform to accept his prize.
When the cheering had died away the organiser continued “Which just leaves the racing prize. In all the years we’ve run this show I don’t think we ever had such a hard call on who won as we’ve had today. The first three places were separated by less than two seconds and all the drivers showed outstanding skill and courage on a tough and challenging course. But we do have a worthy winner, Tom Halifax!”
Tom stepped up to take the cup amid cheers and whistles from two Autobots and a crowd of humans.
----
An hour later Tom pulled of the road on to the beach in a deserted strip and let Beachcomber roll off the trailer, the geologist transformed immediately, sand pouring out of seams and joints.
“I’m gong to take that bath, don’t worry those two wouldn’t squash you.” Beachcomber told the tired and dirty human as he waived a hand at the Porsche and Liger that were pulling onto the beach.
Tom took one look at the approaching Autobots and began to strip off his overalls “I think I’m due a bath as well.” He muttered racing into the surf just ahead of Beachcomber.
Beachcomber laughed and submerged opening panels to allow the sea to wash out the last of the sand, Jazz and Mirage sat on the beach wall and waited for the two to emerge from the waves. Eventually Beachcomber decided he’d cleaned out all the sand he could with out recourse to the high powered wash racks back at the Ark and the pair walked out of the water. Beachcomber hopped up to sit beside Jazz on the wall as Tom dressed in his non racing clothes.
“I can’t believe you thought I was in need of rescuing.” Beachcomber chuckled.
“Yeah, well” Jazz looked more than a little embarrassed “chalk it up to a cultural misunderstanding. But why didn’t ya tell anyone?”
“I didn’t want you lot turning up to cheer me on and make it obvious I wasn’t a normal buggy,” Beachcomber explained “didn’t want any special treatment ‘cause of what I am.”
Tom walked over to the three mechs, carrying the racing trophy “Which is where I come in, I can’t drive a buggy to save my life but I provide just enough camouflage for BC here to do his own driving.” He held up the cup “So rightfully this belongs to you.”
Beachcomber reached out a carefully took the cup, smiling at his human friend “Thank you.”
Mirage suddenly began to laugh, earning him three sets of quizzical looks.
“Just wait until the twins or Smokescreen find out that you’re the first Autobot to win a human race trophy!” Mirage got out between giggles “Prowl and Prime are going to have to find a way to enter them in legal races so they can get a shot at glory before they explode with jealousy.”
Jazz started to laugh as well, but Beachcomber simple shook his head and looked back down at his fairly won prize as it glinted in the late afternoon sun.
tf_bunny_farm August challenge.
Title: The buggy round up
Setting: G1
Rating: PG
Characters: Beachcomber, Jazz, Mirage, Human OC
Warning: Um possibly slightly crack?
Summary: This plot was adopted from this post on the
tf_bunny_farm:
42: This month, a nearby town is having a Dune Buggy show (a Buggy Round Up). Which confused me because we live no where near the coast. But anyway, I think Beachcomber deserves to win a prize in a Dune Buggy Show, don't you think? I almost typed Dune Bunny.
Nope, none of the recognisable characters belong to me. This is something their probably very grateful for!
Sunstreaker stood staring in the doorway to the washracks, not quiet believing his optics, beside him Tracks cycled his optics several times just to make sure they weren’t falsely reporting the scene in front of them.
Beachcomber continued to twist trying to paint the steel tubing that rose from his back oblivious to his stunned audience, muttering curses at the ‘pit bound creation of a retro rat’ who decided that an open roll cage was the best way to go when designing his alt mode.
Tracks curiosity finally convinced him to ask, “Why are you trying to repaint your roll cage?”
Beachcomber spun round at the sound looking rather sheepish at being discovered, “Oh uh, hi fellas. Didn’t hear you come in.”
Sunstreaker stalked round the minibot critically examining his paintwork, “You’ve dripped black over the blue and the scratches need buffing so the paint surface is flat.”
Beachcomber visibly drooped “Yeah, I figured I’d make a botched job of it. However, with everyone else out enjoying the sun or on patrol there‘s a lack of help,” he gave a deep sigh “and time.”
The two warriors shared a confused look before Sunstreaker pinned the geologist with a stare “Why is there a lack of time, and since when has looking good been something that’s bothered you?”
Shifting uncomfortably under the intense gaze Beachcomber replied softly “I have something very important to do later to day, and looks count for a lot where I’m going. A less than perfect paintjob could spell the end of the endeavour.”
Tracks joined Sunstreaker in closely looking over the deep blue paint, noting each raised area where a scratch had been painted over, the missed scratches and the drops of black paint.
He opened a private line to the yellow twin If looks count for so much he may as well not go.
Sunstreaker nodded and replied we have two choices, one of us takes his place or we fix this wreck. A loud he asked, “I suggest you let one of us take over the mission if looks are so important, frankly the way you look right now the whole things doomed from the start.”
Beachcomber sighed “If it weren’t for the fact that neither of you meet the legal qualifications I’d have suggested both of you as the better bots for the job.”
Option two then Tracks muttered over the comm. line.
Sunstreaker nodded again, still critically evaluating Beachcombers paintwork, it’s unsalvageable, the only way to fix it is to strip him down and start from scratch.
Beachcomber shifted nervously, the considering and measuring looking in the two pairs of optics that were silently boring into him was beginning to make him think about running.
Tracks finished his scrutiny; his mouth twisted up into a sneer of disapproval nothing else for it, Hoists workshop then? He stepped forward, grabbed Beachcomber by the scruff of his neck, and began to leave the racks.
Beachcomber squeaked as he was hoisted off the floor “Wh, what are you doing? Put me down!”
“No chance squirt” Sunstreaker said as he strolled along behind the corvette “If looks are that important to this then you’re not leaving this base until we, as officially the best looking mechs in the universe, are happy with the way you look.”
---
Beachcomber rolled down the track from the Ark to the main road, the couple of hours sanding, filling, polishing, undercoating and repainting had resulted in a flawless dark blue finish that caught the light over every sharp edge. Slowing carefully to avoid kicking up dust as per Sunstreaker’s explicit instructions, he came to a stop before his human contact.
The man cast an approving eye over Beachcombers new paintwork before asking earnestly “You sure you want ta go through with this?”
Beachcomber bounced on his tires “Yep, I’m sure. Let’s get this over with.”
“You’re not exactly street legal right now so uh.” The man gestured at the trailer and SUV combination parked on the roadside.
Beachcomber obligingly loaded himself on to the trailer and settled down for the trip.
(The Ark about three hours later)
Groove meandered into the Ark’s rec room a slightly pensive frown on his face, “so what’d my fellow dude do to get carted off in chains?” he asked the room.
Prowl looked up from the game of risk he was not quiet currently losing to Smokescreen and Trailbreaker, “What has who done?”
“What did ‘Comber do that you had some human come and take him away in chains?” Groove clarified, “I was crusin’ down the 101 and comin’ the other way was Comber chained to a trailer behind some guy in a SUV.”
A uncomprehending silence blanketed the room, as mechs stared at each other is mild disbelief before Prowl said “As far as I’m aware he hasn’t broken any rules so I can only assume that this human has some how captured him.”
Cliffjumper came skidding round the door still in his alt mode “Tell me Beachcomber’s still on the base?” panic clear in his voice as he transformed.
“Why?” Smokescreen demanded as the three tactical experts left their game.
Cliffjumper waived an arm wildly in the direction of Portland, “Saw a sign in town; he’s not safe out there any more! The humans are rounding up all the dune buggies in the area and taking them to some place on the coast!”
“Exactly what did this sign say?” Prowl asked his mind already planning how to deal with the unfolding events.
“Dune Buggy round up. Today at Manzanita and a time reference.” Cliffjumper replied shifting from one foot to the other.
“Humans usually only round up criminals or,” Streetwise voice sunk to almost a whisper “cattle for slaughter.”
“Jazz, Mirage get out there and find Beachcomber, don’t let yourselves be seen and don’t go charging in unless it’s obvious he’s in imminent danger of termination.” Prowl order “I’ll contact Prime and we’ll see if we can get to the bottom of this” he sighed “this would have to happen when most of the government is away for this ‘thanksgiving’ celebration.”
Jazz and Mirage peeled out of the Ark at top speed, both silently hoping they weren’t already too late.
----
(An hour later, on the margin of the beach at Manzanita Oregon.)
~Any thing?~ Jazz asked over the com line he and Mirage had established before they split up to search for Beachcomber.
~I’m reading large numbers of people and vehicles on the other side of the dune, that’s got to be it.~ Mirage sent back as he engaged his disrupters and crept closer to the mass of humans and machines.
~Right I’m heading in from the other side I should be able to hide in the car park~ Jazz replied as his tyres spun in the loose sand.
Mirage transformed and crouched down just behind the dune ~This is the place but I can’t see Beachcomber in the crowd.~
Jazz pulled into a parking space on the edge of the lot and scanned the mass of buggies parked in rows on the sand ~There are some fancy paint jobs out there that’s fer sure.~
Mirage raised an optic ridge ~Tacky, I think is the word you’re looking for there Jazz. I don’t like the look of that.~
Jazz grinned to himself as he cast an optic over a burnished copper buggy with neon green flames down the side of it. Tacky just didn’t cover it, but he lost the smile at Mirages last comment ~don’t like what?~
Mirage slid over the dune to get a closer look ~There’s a small crowd of humans going round examining the buggies and filling in forms. Looks like some sort of selection process.~
~Frag! That doesn’t sound good. I’m gonna check with Prowl on progress his end.~ Jazz sent ~If you shift round the perimeter can you spot Beachcomber?~
~Can’t loose anything by trying.~ Mirage responded and began to carefully shift round the edges of the gathering.
Beachcomber sat quietly in the slot he’d been allocated when they’d arrived, he could clearly see Jazz in the corner of the parking area and his sensors picked up the faint vibrations of Mirage moving over the dunes. He hoped they wouldn’t break his cover, he’d been embarrassed enough by his fellow Autobots for one day. The whole reason he was here incognito because he didn’t want the judges to treat him differently because he was an Autobot. Fortunately the judges had come through his section before Jazz and Mirage had turned up, so they hadn’t heard the humans commenting on his ‘well maintained but uninspired’ paint scheme or seen them open his engine compartment to examine how well maintained he was. Ratchet had no need to be ashamed of his work as he had been adjudged the best maintained buggy ever seen in any show ever.
They were calling the racers to the start lines now by their heats and he switched on his scanners to observe the course as the first wave of buggies roared off across the dunes, his human walked back and sat in the driving seat.
“Well we knew we wouldn’t win the looks contest, but you scored highly enough to make the cut into the races. Heat 6 is us; first two from each heat qualify by right plus two fastest losers.” The man muttered so softly the passing crowds couldn’t hear.
Beachcomber blinked his oil light on for a few seconds, their prearranged signal for ‘I understand.’ Most of his attention on the race where one buggy had slid down a dune and turned on its side and another had got bogged down in soft sand. This next part was all down to him, Tom was just for show, he’d be holding the wheel but that was all.
After the first five races he’d figured out the best route across the sand, surreptitiously he let out just a little more air from his tyres so he’d get better grip on the shifting sands of the beach. And finally their heat was called and as Tom reached out to where the ignition should be he started his engine and moved off slowly through the crowds of buggies and people towards the starting line.
~There he is!~ Mirage called out over the radio ~heading towards the dunes.~
~Got him, stay with him as far as you can I’m going to head down the beach on the road. There might be a rescue opportunity away from all these crowds.~ Jazz commanded as he pulled out.
Easier said than done Mirage though as he slid ungainly down the back face of the dune trying to find firmer ground to run on.
Beachcomber, floating over the sand engine roaring had no problems with the unstable conditions. He was aware of Mirage floundering along in the soft sand on the seaward side and soon the spy was left behind as the pack took a sharp left turn around the dunes and headed out along the wide flat stretch than ran parallel to the road where he could see Jazz weaving in an out of the traffic keeping pace with the racing pack. The finishing line came in sight and the buggies jostled for position as the racing line was squeezed into a single file between two dunes, he cut left across the front of a green buggy with silver stars over it and scrambled over the line in first place.
Tom, who'd spent most of the ride with his eyes shut behind the tinted visor of his helmet, felt the deceleration and cracked open an eye before pounding a fist gently on Beachcombers steering wheel in celebration. Beachcomber felt a surge of pride, his first ever race and he’d won; pulling over to the area where the finalists waited to run the course in reverse he felt Mirage come pounding along the firmer sand. As the losing buggies began to make their way back to the main group there was a tentative brush against his com line.
~Beachcomber?~ Mirage’s question came on a very thin line.
~Hey Mirage, what brings you and Jazz out here?~ Beachcomber asked over the same thin line.
~Saving your aft~ Jazz interjected ~How’d they get you?~
Beachcomber flooded the link with laughter ~You’re here to rescue me from a competition I entered into entirely voluntarily.~
~Hu?~ was all the response Jazz could come up with.
~But this is a round up~ Mirage protested ~what they do to criminals.~
~And what they call Dune Buggy shows~ Beachcomber soothed, ~Relax the only danger I’m in is sliding down a dune or sinking in the sand.~
Tom tapped his dashboard and Beachcomber saw that the finalists were gathering.
Rolling over to the start line he told the others ~This is the last bit, get back to the other end of the beach if you want to see the awards.~
Mirage joined Jazz on the roadway and they raced off down the coast road, Jazz radioed Prowl to let him know what was going on. They pulled up in the corner where Jazz had previously parked just in time to see the first four buggies crest the dunes Beachcomber in second place behind a blood red buggy, suddenly the dune face started to move, the buggies were sucked along the last one over turning and rolling down the dune. Beachcomber fought to stay pointed front end facing down the slope as he and the surviving buggies struggled not to collide with each other or be swamped by the tsunami of sand that boiled around them.
“Stay with it, stay with it.” Jazz hissed watching the drama unfold.
Somehow Beachcomber did just that and his engine roared as his tyres churned and scrabbled for purchase in the sand, suddenly he found it and shot forward half a length in front of the red buggy.
“Come on, come on.” Mirage muttered softly scanners glued to the two racing buggies as they got closer to the finishing line.
The cloud of loose sand that was kicked up by the buggies obscured the two Autobots’ view of the line and from the cheering that erupted from the watching crowd it was impossible to tell who had won.
~Beachcomber? Did ya win?~ Jazz asked still trying to make out the details through the dusty haze.
There was a spluttering sound of a mech trying to clear his intakes ~Don’t know.~ Beachcomber wheezed ~too much sand in the air to see.~
The last few buggies straggled over the sand and across the line as Beachcomber finished clearing his intakes, Tom had climbed out and having wiped the sand from his face he walked round to Beachcombers bonnet and popped it open grimacing at the amount of sand that clogged the space.
“Ideas about how to clear this?” he asked quietly his head under the bonnet.
“As soon as we’re alone I’ll transform and take a sea bath.” Beachcomber replied just as quietly “That should clear it.”
“Right. Time to find out how we did.” Tom withdrew his head and shut Beachcombers’ bonnet, patting the blue paintwork he walked over to the tables where the judges were crowded round a television set scrutinising the images to determine places.
After a delay of fifteen minutes the organiser began to list the winners of the various classes. A deep metallic green convertible won the best looking prize, while an outlandish burnt orange buggy with an enormous engine, three exhausts and a sound system to rival Jazzes took the best customization. That just left the racing and the overall prizes to be announced, all three Autobots were waiting impatiently for the race results.
“The overall prize is awarded to Lewis Durrell.” The organiser announced and the man who’d driven the buggy Beachcomber had raced to line stepped up on to the platform to accept his prize.
When the cheering had died away the organiser continued “Which just leaves the racing prize. In all the years we’ve run this show I don’t think we ever had such a hard call on who won as we’ve had today. The first three places were separated by less than two seconds and all the drivers showed outstanding skill and courage on a tough and challenging course. But we do have a worthy winner, Tom Halifax!”
Tom stepped up to take the cup amid cheers and whistles from two Autobots and a crowd of humans.
----
An hour later Tom pulled of the road on to the beach in a deserted strip and let Beachcomber roll off the trailer, the geologist transformed immediately, sand pouring out of seams and joints.
“I’m gong to take that bath, don’t worry those two wouldn’t squash you.” Beachcomber told the tired and dirty human as he waived a hand at the Porsche and Liger that were pulling onto the beach.
Tom took one look at the approaching Autobots and began to strip off his overalls “I think I’m due a bath as well.” He muttered racing into the surf just ahead of Beachcomber.
Beachcomber laughed and submerged opening panels to allow the sea to wash out the last of the sand, Jazz and Mirage sat on the beach wall and waited for the two to emerge from the waves. Eventually Beachcomber decided he’d cleaned out all the sand he could with out recourse to the high powered wash racks back at the Ark and the pair walked out of the water. Beachcomber hopped up to sit beside Jazz on the wall as Tom dressed in his non racing clothes.
“I can’t believe you thought I was in need of rescuing.” Beachcomber chuckled.
“Yeah, well” Jazz looked more than a little embarrassed “chalk it up to a cultural misunderstanding. But why didn’t ya tell anyone?”
“I didn’t want you lot turning up to cheer me on and make it obvious I wasn’t a normal buggy,” Beachcomber explained “didn’t want any special treatment ‘cause of what I am.”
Tom walked over to the three mechs, carrying the racing trophy “Which is where I come in, I can’t drive a buggy to save my life but I provide just enough camouflage for BC here to do his own driving.” He held up the cup “So rightfully this belongs to you.”
Beachcomber reached out a carefully took the cup, smiling at his human friend “Thank you.”
Mirage suddenly began to laugh, earning him three sets of quizzical looks.
“Just wait until the twins or Smokescreen find out that you’re the first Autobot to win a human race trophy!” Mirage got out between giggles “Prowl and Prime are going to have to find a way to enter them in legal races so they can get a shot at glory before they explode with jealousy.”
Jazz started to laugh as well, but Beachcomber simple shook his head and looked back down at his fairly won prize as it glinted in the late afternoon sun.