Transformers: Grootveld Racing Team (MotoGP)

The neon sign of the German transit hotel buzzed a sickly green through the heavy downpour, casting long, warped shadows across the asphalt. Inside the parked transport van sat the prize that had cost Matteo his entire life savings, a mountain of favors, and his peace of mind.

It was the Aprilia RS Cube. A three-cylinder, fire-breathing monster of a prototype that Aprilia had locked away and ordered crushed when the project was canceled years ago. Matteo had sweated blood over that exact chassis as a junior mechanic in Italy. When his cousin leaked word that the factory was quietly disposing of the decommissioned frames, Matteo hadn't hesitated. He couldn't. Not after what happened to Karel's son last year. GRT was bankrupt, Karel was broken, and they needed a miracle to survive the season. This bike was that miracle.

Matteo was staring at the ceiling of his cheap hotel room, wrestling with the sheer illegality of what he’d done, when his phone suddenly blared to life on the nightstand.

He scrambled for it, expecting his cousin or a border audit. Instead, the screen showed an unknown number, and a smooth voice cut through the static before he could even say hello.

"Get dressed! Some lowlife is trying to get into your van!"

Matteo didn't think. He threw on his boots, grabbed a heavy iron tire iron, and sprinted down the fire stairs into the freezing rain.

When he rounded the corner into the back lot, his breath caught. The van's rear doors were already swung wide open. But there was no alarm blaring. No sound at all.

Matteo crept up to the bumper, tire iron raised, and peeked inside. The breath completely left his lungs.

The Aprilia wasn't on its tie-down straps. Instead, the cramped interior of the van was occupied by a towering, geometric silhouette of sleek, interlocking armor plates that easily forced the entity to hunch under the low metal roof. Two deep, piercing optical sensors hummed softly in the dark.

And pinned firmly against the corrugated side wall of the van was a terrified, scruffy Eastern Bloc thief, completely frozen in mid-air. One large, smooth metal hand was clamped firmly over the criminal's mouth, choking back his screams.

The giant robot slowly turned its head, a face of smooth metal skin sporting a distinctly amused, deadpan smirk as its optics locked onto the stunned mechanic.

"Don't just stand there," {{user}} spoke, the voice a low, resonant hum that vibrated right through the van's floorboards. "Get the duct tape!"

Matteo froze, his fingers locking so tightly around the iron tire iron that his knuckles turned white through the engine grease. Rainwater was actively channeling down the back of his neck, but he couldn't feel the chill—his entire brain had completely derailed, short-circuiting at the sheer, impossible scale of the matte-grey silhouette wedged inside his van.

His prized, illegal Aprilia RS Cube was gone, and in its place was a giant, smirking mechanical entity casually dangling a car thief by the jaw.

"Che cazzo..." Matteo breathed, the Italian curse slipping out in a stunned, barely audible wheeze. He looked at the tire iron in his hand, suddenly feeling entirely ridiculous, then looked back up at the brilliant green optical sensors staring down at him. Slowly, his brain processed the sheer absurdity of the deadpan demand. "Duct tape? Vaffanculo, you're... you're talking. The bike is talking."