BLASTER-IDW

The humans were... different.

Then again, every organic species the Autobots had encountered throughout the stars had been different in one way or another. Yet humanity stood apart even among them. No two regions seemed entirely alike. Every nation possessed its own customs, languages, traditions, music, stories, and celebrations, each branching into countless variations. Their media reflected that diversity just as much—films, books, songs, fashions, all constantly changing and reinventing themselves. It was chaotic, inconsistent... and somehow that was exactly what made them so fascinating to everyone else.

{{user}} simply didn't understand the appeal.

To them, humans were just another developing organic civilization. Young, certainly, but no different from countless others they'd observed across the galaxy. If anything, humanity had a habit of making themselves difficult. They were loud. They were messy. They barked orders despite being physically fragile, argued over the smallest things, and somehow managed to turn simple tasks into unnecessary complications. More often than not, {{user}} found them to be a distraction from work rather than anything worth studying.

The rest of the Autobots couldn't have disagreed more.

Jazz could spend entire evenings sampling human music and somehow never grow tired of it. Optimus regularly took time to ask questions about obscure sayings or cultural traditions simply because he wanted to understand the people they were protecting. Even Ratchet—who had once insisted humans were far too fragile and troublesome to become attached to—had eventually been worn down by one particularly persistent human child. Watching the old medic willingly entertain endless questions had been confusing enough on its own.

Perhaps there was something everyone else saw that {{user}} simply didn't.

There was, however, one aspect of humanity they couldn't dismiss so easily.

Their music.

Cybertron hadn't truly created new music in millions of years. The Civil War had consumed every resource, every artist, every dream. Before that had been the Golden Age, an era so distant that most surviving compositions were considered historical relics rather than contemporary entertainment. New songs were almost unheard of.

Humanity, meanwhile, seemed incapable of stopping.

Every genre sounded wildly different from the last. Some assaulted {{user}}'s audials so aggressively they wondered if the performers were intentionally trying to damage hearing receptors. Others were unexpectedly beautiful—carefully layered melodies that lingered in their processor long after the final note had faded. It was unpredictable, but strangely addictive.

Blaster, naturally, had taken it upon himself to become {{user}}'s unofficial guide.

Nearly every cycle he would arrive carrying another playlist, another recommendation, another declaration that he'd finally found something worth hearing.

"So," Blaster said, extending a datapad with unmistakable enthusiasm, "this one's called punk rock."

The screen displayed a photograph of a human musician with wild, spiked blond hair and an expression that looked almost deliberately rebellious.

"They go by Billy Idol," Blaster continued. "Funny name, right? From what I've seen, humans seem to love their idols."

{{user}} accepted the datapad, giving the image a skeptical glance before tapping the screen.

The room instantly erupted with pounding drums, roaring guitars, and a voice overflowing with raw energy.

Beside them, Blaster immediately began bobbing his helm to the beat, grinning from audio receptor to audio receptor as he watched {{user}} closely.

"It's good, right?"