After Atlantis, Part 21

[anon_decepticon]

Title: After Atlantis, Part 21
Author: anon_decepticon
Rating: M
Pairing or Character(s): Wheeljack, Ratchet, Optimus Prime, Hound, Mirage, Trailbreaker.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Transformers. Part 1 references scenes from the G1 Season 2 episode “Atlantis, Arise!” Part 4 references scenes from the next episode, “Day of the Machines.” Parts 5 and 6 reference scenes and quote some dialogue from ”Enter the Nightbird.” Part 9 references scenes from “Dinobot Island, Parts 1 & 2”. Part 11 references scenes from “The Master Builder” and “Auto Berserk.” Part 12 references scenes from “Microbots,” (as does Part 13, briefly) and gives minor nods to “Heavy Metal War” and “Prime Target.” Part 14 references scenes from the two-part episode “Megatron’s Master Plan,” and gives a teeny nod to “The Ultimate Doom.” Parts 16 and 17 reference scenes and quote dialogue from the two-part G1 cartoon episode “Desertion of the Dinobots.” Part 18 contains oblique references to “S.O.S. Dinobots,” “Traitor,” “The Ultimate Doom” (part one) and “City of Steel” (namely the bits w/Autobots on water skis.) Part 20 references scenes and quotes dialogue from “Blaster Blues.” Part 21 references “The Golden Lagoon.” These portions of the fic are not mine.
Warning(s): PTSD angst, references to rape, references to sex, sexual situations.
Summary: Raped by Starscream, Wheeljack struggles to cope.
Author's Note: If you've gotten this far, you already know the backstory. Original Kink Meme prompt. Previous installments: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18 (1/2), Part 18 (2/2), Part 19, Part 20. Also available on FFN. A lot of you will probably hate me for this chapter. Or maybe you saw it coming? I've been hinting for a while. I think this may be the angstiest chapter yet (and for this fic, that’s saying something!), but as the saying goes – when you’ve hit rock bottom, the only place to go is up. Many thanks as always to kookaburra1701 for her support and assistance, and to everyone else for their patience and feedback. Thanks for reading!



Wheeljack emerged from recharge as his cycle completed, slowly regaining awareness of his surroundings as his systems rebooted.

He checked his internal chronometer, and discovered he’d completed his recharge cycle ahead of schedule. His usual alert notification wasn’t set to rouse him for another half a joor.

He stretched his servos and settled into a more comfortable position, venting a contented sigh. He wasn’t assigned to duty today, which meant he could relax and take his time. Right now, he felt more like just lying here for a breem or two than getting up and refueling. He chuckled a bit at his own laziness.

Gradually he became aware of the soft hum of working systems other than his own and realized he wasn’t alone. A faint flush of warmth suffused his spark as he reached out to touch the mech recharging beside him.

He yanked his hand back in surprise when his fingers encountered the cool glass of a windshield instead of the smooth, sloping curve of warm metal he’d been expecting. He sat up quickly, onlining his optics.

Ratchet lay on the berth next to him, turned slightly on his side. Relief flooded Wheeljack’s systems as he recognized the familiar red-and-white form of his best friend. The previous night’s memory files returned to his cache, and he recalled where he was and how he’d come to be there.

They’d interfaced. Last night. Him and Ratchet.

It felt strange just thinking it. Him. And Ratchet.

Shaking his helm, he eased back down on the berth. Last night had been…okay. He’d gotten a little unnerved, sure, a little annoyed when Ratchet started treating him more like a patient than a berthmate, but overall it hadn’t been bad. He’d overloaded; so had Ratchet.

In a way, it seemed fitting. As close as they were, the fact that they’d gone so long without interfacing was more unusual than the fact that they finally had; a definite departure from the norm. Granted, they’d ‘faced once before, that night in Ratchet’s office, but that had been a spur-of-the-moment sort of thing, a freak occurrence neither of them had planned or expected. Last night had been different, the result of a deliberate, mutual decision.

A decision they might easily choose to repeat.

And that seemed okay, too. Ratchet was his best friend, after all. They’d known each other for vorns, and Ratchet had always stood by him. That counted for something. Good friends looked after one another, helped each other out.

Ratchet had never seemed to need Wheeljack in that context before; his friend had always had an abundance of partners to choose from, all of them quite willing and eager to satisfy his needs. Wheeljack had assumed that was how Ratchet had wanted it, until Ratchet had revealed he would’ve preferred to have Wheeljack all along – he’d just been hesitant to ask.

Wheeljack had been a poor friend in that respect, failing to recognize that Ratchet wanted – no, needed him. Ratchet had always been there for him, guarding his back, offering his unwavering support, but when Ratchet had finally asked something of him in return, Wheeljack’s circumstances had caused him to spurn his friend’s request.

He regretted that ungrateful reaction, even though he knew he couldn’t have given Ratchet what he really wanted. Starscream had made that impossible. But even so, there had to have been other opportunities prior to that, long before the Seeker’s shadow had fallen over him.

Opportunities Wheeljack had failed to recognize, let alone act upon.

He cycled a sigh. He should have broached the topic vorns ago, back when he’d first noticed his odd exclusion. There was no going back now; he couldn’t change the past. But he still owed Ratchet something, some measure of recognition for all that Ratchet had done for him. It was only fair.

He’d taken Ratchet’s friendship for granted for far too long.

The faint hiss of depressurizing hydraulics pulled him from his musings. Ratchet had come out of recharge. Wheeljack greeted him with his vocal indicators flashing brightly, “Hey, Ratch.”

Ratchet’s expression was pensive, reminding him unnervingly of Trailbreaker. “Morning, ‘Jack,” he replied, his tone subdued.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I should have said no,” Ratchet murmured, almost to himself. “Why didn’t I say no?”

“Ratch?” he inquired uncertainly, disturbed by his tone.

Ratchet met his gaze with saddened optics, shaking his helm. “I’m sorry, ‘Jack,” he said softly. “I wanted to be there for you. I didn’t have the spark to turn you down again. But last night…was a mistake.”

He sat up abruptly. “What?”

“It was a mistake,” Ratchet repeated quietly. “We shouldn’t have done it. I should have said no.”

This wasn’t happening. “If that’s a joke, Ratch, it isn’t funny,” he said reproachfully.

“It’s no joke,” Ratchet replied, his expression grave.

“I don’t understand,” he said, feeling hurt and bewildered. “I thought you – you said you wanted this!”

“I did,” Ratchet admitted ruefully. “Primus help me, I did. But not like this, ‘Jack. It wasn’t – it’s not what I wanted. I thought it was…but it’s not.”

“Pit, Ratch,” he said peevishly. “You say you want me, practically throw me onto your desk trying to prove it, and then when I finally let you –!”

“That’s what I mean,” Ratchet interrupted. “You let me, ‘Jack. You let me because I’m your friend and you trust me. That’s why you came to me in the first place. You wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t needed me. And I…cared too much about you to say no.”

Wheeljack stared at him, his spark sinking, his processor reeling. Ratchet didn’t want him either?

“Oh, don’t you dare,” Ratchet warned, a hint of his usual gruff demeanor returning. “Don’t even go there, Wheeljack. I know what you’re thinking, and you can forget it, because I’m only going to say this once: This is not about you, or about what Starscream did to you. It’s about me.”

Ratchet sat up and laid a hand on his arm, his expression softening, a small, sad smile curving his lip components. “I still want you, ‘Jack,” he said. “I probably always will,” he admitted, a faint crackle of static creeping into his vocalizer. “But I can’t be with you, not like this. It’s not…you’re not there, ‘Jack. You’re just not there. I…need you to be there.”

“I’m here, Ratch,” he protested weakly, feeling as if he’d failed him somehow. “I’m right here.”

“No, you’re not,” Ratchet said sadly. “I know you would be if you could, ‘Jack, but I’m not what you want. I wish I was, but I’m not. I know you love me, but you’re not in love with me. You never have been.”

“Ratch…” he whispered, his spark clenching with remorse. He had failed him.

“And I’m…I’m not in love with you either, Wheeljack,” Ratchet said. “I thought I was, but…” He trailed off, shaking his helm. “I was just in love with the idea of it. The idea of being in love with you. Of you being in love with me.”

Wheeljack could only gaze at him in regret, his spark aching in sympathy for Ratchet’s pain, a pain he’d somehow failed to see.

“I don’t think we should do this again,” Ratchet said quietly. “At least…not for a while. It hurts too much to be with you, ‘Jack. I can’t do it.”

Wheeljack embraced him instinctively, seeking to comfort, and Ratchet curled gratefully into his arms, his hydraulics depressurizing as he rested his helm against Wheeljack’s chestplate.

“I’m sorry, Ratch,” he said helplessly. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay,” Ratchet whispered, stroking his backstrut comfortingly. “It’s not your fault, ‘Jack. If I’d spoken up sooner, maybe things would be different. But I didn’t, and this is how they turned out.”

“I never said anything either,” he said, wanting to share at least some of the blame. “I should’ve said something. I’d noticed you never – but I just assumed –”

“I know,” Ratchet said quietly. “I’ll be all right. I’m just…gonna need some time.”

He nodded against Ratchet’s shoulder-strut. “I understand,” he said. “I’m – I’m here for you, Ratch. If you need me, I’ll be there. I promise.”

“You need time too, ‘Jack,” Ratchet pointed out, lifting his helm to meet his optics. “You still have a lot of things to sort out, and I can’t help you like I should. I’m too close, and I shouldn’t have tried. You should talk to Hoist; he’s got some experience with this sort of thing. I can set something up with him if you’d like.”

He drew back from their embrace abruptly, circuits heating in affront. “You want me to tell Hoist now, too?” he demanded incredulously. “Frag, Ratch – that’s your solution for everything! Tell Optimus, tell Trailbreaker, tell Hoist – maybe I should just make a Ark-wide announcement!”

Ratchet smirked. “Well, the comm systems are working again,” he replied wryly.

Wheeljack kicked him off the berth.

**

“I have to go,” Ratchet said from the floor, his expression sobering abruptly. “I’m due in repair bay.”

Wheeljack eyed him reproachfully. After he’d booted him off the berth, Ratchet had collapsed into a fit of near-hysterical laughter, wheezing through his vents. Wheeljack had glared at him, but made no objection. He’d somehow sensed Ratchet needed to laugh, and Ratchet had, so hard Wheeljack thought he might break something.

“You’re off today, right?” Ratchet asked. “What are you gonna do? Got any plans?”

“I dunno,” he said, shrugging. “I’m not sure yet.”

“You can stay here if you want,” Ratchet offered. “But I gotta roll; I’m gonna be late.”

He got up, extending a hand to help Ratchet to his feet, pulling him upright when Ratchet accepted it. “I’ll seal the door when I leave,” he said. “Same code as last time?”

“Yeah,” Ratchet said. “Have a good day, ‘Jack. I’ll see you later.”

He sat back down on the berth after seeing Ratchet to the door, looking around at the familiar-yet-unfamiliar room. He didn’t feel uncomfortable, exactly – Ratchet’s quarters were reassuringly reminiscent of their owner, even in his absence – but in the wake of recent revelations, it felt a little strange being there.

He was still trying to absorb it all.

Finding out that Ratchet wanted him had been something of a shock, but only because Ratchet had gone to such lengths to conceal it. At the time Wheeljack had wondered why his friend had bothered. Ratchet was by no means shy about stating his desires openly. He never had been.

Now it all made sense. It wasn’t the idea of asking Wheeljack to ‘face him that had caused Ratchet to hesitate; it was about what lay behind that request, and what it might mean for them.

He glanced around the room again, trying to sort through the confusing tangle of his own emotions. His optics settled on an image capture displayed on Ratchet’s workstation, and he got to his feet, moving across the room for a closer look.

His spark warmed as he recognized the image, memory files rushing into his cache at the sight. It had been taken by Sparkplug over a cycle ago, shortly after they’d created Snarl and Swoop. Sparkplug had wanted to commemorate the occasion, joking that they ought to have a “family portrait.”

It had taken several tries to get it right. Wheeljack and Ratchet had posed obligingly in front of their creations, but the Dinobots, intractable as always, had had difficulty remaining in the positions Sparkplug wanted them in long enough for him to capture the image. In the end they’d managed it, and Sparkplug had gotten his “family portrait.”

But the image Ratchet had on his workstation wasn’t that image – it was one of the earlier attempts. In it, Grimlock and Slag were arguing – a dispute that had nearly come to blows – and Ratchet, who by then had lost nearly all patience, was attempting to cow them with threats, his arms raised in protest. Wheeljack was beside him, doubled over in laughter, his vocal indicators caught in mid-flash, clinging to the arm of a bemused Swoop for support while Snarl and Sludge looked on in confusion.

His spark swelled in its chamber as he picked up the framed image, understanding immediately why Ratchet had chosen to display it over the stiff, formal one.

It had more spark.

He couldn’t imagine life without Ratchet. Their brief estrangement had been agonizing, almost unbearable, like losing a vital piece of himself. Virtually every memory file he treasured had Ratchet in it somewhere.

Ratchet. His best friend.

He set the capture down again, and noticed a second, smaller one behind it. Unlike the glossy, human-made image Sparkplug had taken, this one was Cybertronian, captured just after the war began.

He and Ratchet, standing arm in arm, flaunting their freshly-applied Autobot insignias. Ratchet was beaming, looking happier than Wheeljack had seen in a long time, his optics lit with hope and pride.

But there were other things hidden within that cheerful image, things only someone who’d actually been there would know. Ratchet’s grip on his shoulder-strut that day had been almost painfully tight, a testament to the anxiety that accompanied their commitment, the grim knowledge of the danger they’d agreed to face for the sake of the Autobot cause.

His mood sobered as he looked at it, studying Ratchet’s frozen expression as if the image might somehow come to life and speak to him. Had Ratchet loved him even back then? Was that the reason he’d clung to Wheeljack so tightly? Because he feared he might lose him to the war before he found the courage to reveal his true feelings?

How long had Ratchet suffered, hiding the truth?

He did love Ratchet; he always had. But he’d never wanted more, never longed for their friendship to become closer than it already was. He tried to picture it, to envision them together, imagining them interacting the way Grapple and Hoist or even Hound and Mirage did – inseparable, utterly focused on one another, wanting to spend every functioning moment in each other’s company. Planning leisure activities together, trading endearments instead of insults –

He shook his helm regretfully. He just couldn’t see it.

His spark contracted painfully. It hurt, to know Ratchet had suffered for so long, waiting for him, hoping – but he couldn’t make himself feel the way Ratchet felt, the way Ratchet wanted him to feel. He didn’t really understand why, beyond the vague sense that a Ratchet he could love like that just…wouldn’t be Ratchet.

The last thing he wanted was to make things worse. He’d given Ratchet what he could, but being so close and yet so far from what he truly desired had proven too painful for Ratchet to bear. Wheeljack would gladly have ‘faced with his friend if that was what Ratchet wanted, but he couldn’t do it knowing he was only hurting him more.

In that moment, Wheeljack knew he would never ask again.

Maybe someday, Ratchet would come to him. If he did, Wheeljack would welcome him. But it would have to be Ratchet’s decision, not his. That was the way it had to be.

He wouldn’t treat Ratchet any differently otherwise. He wouldn’t avoid him, or try to maintain an artificial distance between them. He needed Ratchet, and he knew Ratchet needed him. No one else understood Ratchet the way Wheeljack did, accepting him for who he really was. Pretending not to care as much as he did would be just as cruel as pretending to care more, and Ratchet would hate him for it.

He set the image capture down again, arranging it carefully alongside the first. Suddenly the room seemed too close, too confining; he craved space, freedom to move.

He left Ratchet’s quarters, keying in the locking code, and transformed, departing the Ark.

**

He spent the next joor tearing across the open desert, pushing his engine to the limit, performing increasingly elaborate stunts for an unappreciative audience of rocks and brush. He did his best to focus solely on what he was doing, and tried not to think.

It worked for a while, even though he knew eventually he’d have to confront all the things he’d been avoiding. Sooner or later, something would have to give. He was running out of diversions.

Surprisingly, it was Mirage that ended up providing one. The spy commed an open distress call from a region not far way, near where Omega Supreme was stationed, requesting reinforcements.

Wheeljack hastened to his position.

He arrived before Mirage himself did, finding Bluestreak, Sunstreaker, Brawn, Hound, and Beachcomber already at the scene. They quickly apprised each other of the situation while they awaited Mirage’s return. Bluestreak and Sunstreaker had been on patrol together when they got the comm. Hound had come to the aid of his lover, and Brawn, bored and eager for a fight, had tagged along. Beachcomber had been with Perceptor and Seaspray on a research outing to the shore, accompanied by Powerglide and Warpath. The scientists had been attacked by the Coneheads and Blitzwing, and in the course of the battle Perceptor and Seaspray had been captured. The remaining ‘Bots had regrouped and gone to rescue them, aided by Smokescreen and Mirage. Beachcomber, the only remaining scientist, had stayed behind.

When Mirage arrived, they learned the rest of the story. The ‘Cons had attacked the group of rescuers, and had proved strangely difficult to defeat. Powerglide had been shot down, Warpath disabled. Mirage had gone back for help while Smokescreen created a diversion to cover his retreat. What had happened to him after that, Mirage didn’t know.

The thought of facing the Decepticons in battle sent a shiver of apprehension up Wheeljack’s backstrut, but he couldn’t refuse to help, not with so many mechs damaged and in need of repair. He reminded himself that only yesterday he’d been convinced Optimus Prime had been wrong to restrict him from combat, and squared his shoulder-struts in determination.

He could do this.

They transformed and rolled out, returning to the battlefield. They soon discovered Mirage had been right; their weapons had little effect on the ‘Cons. Wheeljack stood and returned fire along with the rest, holding his ground in spite of the terror pulsing in his spark. His aim was poor due to the renewed tremors in his hands, but it hardly mattered; the Decepticons seemed impervious to their attacks.

Panic welled up within him, his systems threatening to lock up entirely, but then Mirage, who’d been standing beside him, went down, struck by a direct hit from Megatron’s fusion cannon. Wheeljack didn’t think; he simply reacted, seizing the injured spy and dragging him to cover behind a cluster of rocks. Once there, he immediately began performing field repairs on the damaged mech, oblivious to the battle raging around them.

It wasn’t until Mirage was no longer at risk of imminent deactivation that Wheeljack looked up and realized the Decepticons were gone. The battle was over, and he had no idea which side had won.

He suspected it hadn’t been them.

“Mirage!”

Wheeljack turned toward the cry, and saw Hound running toward them, his own plating scorched and dented, trailing wisps of smoke. Hound dropped to his knees as he reached them, grabbing one of Mirage’s hands in both of his own.

“He’s gonna be all right,” he assured him. “I was able to stabilize his spark.”

Hound glanced at him, his expression oddly conflicted. It seemed like he was about to say something, but then Mirage onlined, whispering his lover’s name, and relief swept in to take its place.

Wheeljack got to his feet, politely tuning out the two lovers as they reassured one another in quiet whispers. The remaining Autobots were regrouping, gathering around them. Most were damaged, but a quick scan of their injuries revealed none as severe as Mirage’s.

“Everyone functional?” he asked. A chorus of affirmations returned from all sides.

He was the ranking officer here, so he took command, comming Optimus Prime to inform him of the situation. Prime ordered them to send Omega Supreme to deal with the Decepticons while Teletraan-1 worked on determining the source of their apparent invulnerability. Smokescreen agreed to go and fetch Omega, and the rest of the ‘Bots returned to the Ark.

The drive back with Hound and Mirage was fraught with tension. Apart from a quiet thank you from Mirage, none of them spoke. Wheeljack could sense the comm signals passing back and forth between the two lovers, but was loath to intrude on their conversation, and opted to remain silent.

It had been a close call.

Wheeljack mused on that as he drove. He’d had some difficulty facing the ‘Cons in battle; that much he could admit. He’d come perilously close to freezing up again, just as Ratchet had predicted he would. Ratchet had probably warned Prime about that, which had in turn spurred Optimus to exclude Wheeljack from combat.

But when Mirage had been hit, his paralysis had vanished. Repairing Mirage and getting him to safety had become Wheeljack’s primary goal, to the exclusion of all others. There’d been no room for doubt or fear.

Had he stayed behind, or not answered Mirage’s distress comm, there would have been no one on hand to intervene, no one present to ensure that the soft-spoken noblemech wasn’t damaged further – or worse, deactivated. If Optimus and Ratchet had had their way, things might have turned out far worse for Mirage.

That was an important distinction, one worthy of consideration. Which posed the greater threat to his comrades – an ally who was less effective in battle, or one that wasn’t there at all?

More than one Autobot preferred to avoid conflict when possible, only fighting out of necessity – Skyfire, Beachcomber, and Mirage himself among them – but when the need arose, they fought, and Optimus Prime allowed it.

Why should he be any different from them?

The answer, of course, was that he shouldn’t. It was patently unfair, to ask more of the mechs serving under him than Wheeljack was required to give. He resolved to request a meeting with Optimus immediately upon their return.

It was time for him to speak up.

**

“What was it you wanted to talk about?” Optimus asked. “Did you have an idea for an invention you think might work on the Decepticons?”

After Mirage and the others had been safely ensconced in repair bay under the care of Ratchet and Hoist, Wheeljack had commed Optimus Prime, asking to speak with him. Prime had agreed to meet him in his office, but now that they were here, Wheeljack suddenly found himself at a loss for words.

“Uh…no,” he replied, cursing inwardly. Why hadn’t he planned this better, worked out what he wanted to say beforehand? Stupid –

“You weren’t going to suggest I send the Dinobots, were you?” Prime asked. “As powerful as they are, I think Omega Supreme is the better choice. Enough damage has been incurred already.”

“No,” he agreed. “You’re right; Omega’s definitely the way to go. He’ll handle it.”

Optimus nodded, regarding him expectantly. Wheeljack fidgeted under that steady gaze, unable to meet Prime’s optics for more than a handful of astroseconds at a time.

“I, uh, didn’t ask to meet with you to talk about the Decepticons,” he said finally.

“Oh?” Optimus asked.

“No – well, not really. Not about this fight,” he clarified. “Not specifically.”

“I see,” Optimus said.

"It’s just, um…I’d noticed you – that is, it seems like I've been assigned a lot of…monitor duty lately..?” he ventured haltingly.

Optimus cocked his helm slightly. “Is that a problem?” he asked.

“Well, no,” he admitted. “I don’t mind that, it's just, I usually get more...active duty..?”

Optimus nodded, “And?”

Prime’s polite confusion only made it more difficult to vocalize his request, to level what amounted to an accusation against his commander. Wheeljack already regretted requesting this meeting, but he knew he couldn’t back down. Optimus had agreed to meet with him, granting Wheeljack his valuable time in spite of everything that was going on. He couldn’t very well leave without saying what was on his processor.

“A-and I was wondering if you were, um, you know – doing it on purpose?” he asked hesitantly.

“Yes,” Optimus replied.

Wheeljack stared at him, startled by his unapologetic affirmation. “You’ve been keeping me out of combat deliberately?” he repeated, wondering if Optimus had misunderstood the question.

“I have,” Optimus confirmed.

For a moment he was too stunned to respond. He’d suspected as much, but it was a shock to hear Optimus admit it so openly.

“Did…did Ratchet tell you to do that?” he asked.

“No,” Optimus said with a shake of his helm. “But I’m confident he would support my decision.”

“Then…why?” he asked.

Now it was Optimus Prime’s turn to look surprised – an expression that quickly shifted to one of concern.

“Wheeljack,” Prime said, his tone frank but gentle, “You were assaulted.”

He stiffened, his servos tensing, his hydraulics pressurizing abruptly.

“Starscream forced an uplink on you,” Optimus persisted, “and made you overload against your will.”

A sensation of icy cold swept through his circuitry, chilling his spark, freezing him in place. Not even Ratchet had spoken so matter-of-factly about what Starscream had done, or stated it so…unflinchingly. “Yes, but –” he began, but got no further.

“That is an extremely personal attack,” Optimus said.

“I know that!” he blurted out, not wanting him to say any more. “But he didn’t – I’m not damaged,” he insisted. “Ratchet scanned me, and I’m – I’m fine now.”

“Physical injuries are quickly put behind us,” Optimus agreed. “But injuries of this nature have far more lasting effects.”

A hot flash of anger heated his frozen circuits. “What are you saying?” he demanded. “That I’m useless now?”

Optimus stepped closer, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder-strut. Wheeljack flinched at the touch and instantly hated himself for it.

“I’m saying you need time to recover,” Optimus said gently. “There’s no shame in that, Wheeljack. I would no more expect you to go into battle than I would a mech who’d been severely damaged in any other manner. In combat, physical capability is only half of the equation.”

“We don’t have time!” he argued. “Today Mirage nearly – if I hadn’t been there – you need me!”

Optimus’ hand on his shoulder-strut gave a gentle squeeze. “I do,” he agreed. “And that is precisely why I can't risk sending you into battle before you're ready.”

“So who decides when I’m ready?” he asked resentfully.

“I have the final say in all duty assignments,” Optimus replied. “But ultimately…you do.”

“Well, then…I am,” he said.

Optimus said nothing, merely regarding him with concerned optics.

“What?” he asked defensively. “You just said I get to decide, now you’re gonna try and talk me out of it?”

“I’m not trying to convince you of anything, Wheeljack,” Optimus replied.

“No, you just don’t believe me,” he retorted angrily.

“Such a rapid recovery does seem improbable,” Optimus said. “And while you may say you’re ready, I can’t help but notice you appear to be communicating otherwise.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“You’re shaking,” Optimus pointed out quietly.

Wheeljack shrugged off his hand with a sharp jerk of his shoulder-strut, clenching his traitorously trembling hands into fists. “I’m fine,” he said tightly.

“You also seem very angry,” Optimus observed. “That kind of anger has no place on the battlefield.”

“You’re not going to put me back on active duty,” he concluded sullenly.

“I think it would be unwise,” Optimus agreed.

He felt cheated, outmaneuvered. Optimus had said it was his decision, but he was using Wheeljack’s own reactions against him. He couldn’t get angry, couldn’t argue that Prime’s treatment was unfair – Optimus would interpret anything he said or did as proof that his decision was justified.

“I'm not defective,” he muttered resentfully. “There's nothing wrong with me."

“I know that,” Optimus replied gently. “But do you?”

He looked up at him sharply. “Of course I know that!” he snapped. “I told you I was fine! You’re the one who thinks I’m not!”

“Wheeljack –” Optimus began, shaking his helm.

“Let me prove it to you,” he said, interrupting him. “Send me into battle, and I’ll show you. Put me back on active duty. I'll be fine, you'll see that I'm fine.”

“What if you’re wrong?” Optimus asked.

“If I'm not, then take me off again,” he said. “If I can't handle it, I'll stay behind, I won't complain. But at least let me try.”

Optimus considered his request, studying him thoughtfully. Wheeljack drew himself up to his full height, meeting his leader’s gaze with defiant optics.

“Very well,” Optimus relented. “I will allow it.”

Wheeljack activated his vocalizer to thank him, but before he could speak, Prime added, “But it goes against my better judgment.”

His spark sank. He lowered his gaze, unable to savor his victory in the face of those worried optics.

“I want you to promise you will tell me immediately if you change your mind,” Optimus said. “Please understand, Wheeljack, I hold you in the highest esteem. That will not change, no matter what you decide. But if I see you having difficulty, I will not hesitate to remove you from active duty again.”

Wheeljack winced, stung by his reproving tone. “So if I screw up, you’ll just haul me off the battlefield in front of everyone, is that it?”

“This is not a punishment, Wheeljack,” Optimus said chidingly.

“It feels like one,” he replied bitterly.

Prime laid a hand on his shoulder-strut again. This time Wheeljack didn’t flinch. He raised his helm, meeting his commander’s troubled gaze.

Optimus seemed about to speak, but then tensed abruptly. “I’m needed in Command,” he said.

Wheeljack nodded. “I’ll tell you,” he agreed reluctantly. “You have my word.”

Optimus gave his shoulder-strut another squeeze, and turned toward the door.

Wheeljack followed him out in silence.

**

“I guess…we won,” Beachcomber commented, sounding less than enthused.

“Yeah,” Wheeljack replied, his tone similarly subdued.

A little over a joor ago, he’d returned to Command with Optimus and learned the troubling news of Omega Supreme’s defeat at the hands of the Decepticons. Shortly after that, Teletraan-1 had determined the source of their foes’ newfound invulnerability: electrum. Optimus had immediately sent out survey teams to discover the source, but it was Powerglide, returning to the Ark, who had spotted the ‘Cons and ended up following them to it.

They’d hastened to Powerglide’s location, pausing only long enough to set up decoys to delay the Decepticons and ensure the Autobots reached the electrum first. True to his word, Optimus Prime allowed Wheeljack to accompany them, even though he wasn’t assigned to duty that day.

Upon their arrival at the hidden glade, not far from the location of the first attack, they encountered Perceptor, Seaspray and Beachcomber, recently escaped from the Decepticon brig. Beachcomber had been the first to try the electrum, but the other Autobots were quick to join him, eager to level the playing field against the ‘Cons.

Wheeljack had dived in along with them, relieved at the prospect of gaining the same invulnerability to attack that their enemies currently enjoyed. For the first time in cycles, he actually looked forward to facing the ‘Cons, secure in the knowledge that nothing could harm him.

The battle that followed was fierce and brutal, but ultimately one-sided – the effects of the electrum wore off the Decepticons first, ensuring their defeat. His advantage lost, Megatron had destroyed the electrum lagoon and retreated, leaving the Autobots to claim victory.

It wasn’t until they’d transformed to return to the Ark that Wheeljack realized his mistake. Today’s battle had been his test, his chance to prove to Optimus Prime that he could function in combat without faltering – and he’d cheated.

“Where will the poor animals live now?” Beachcomber wondered morosely. “We destroyed their homes.”

Wheeljack scanned him in surprise, noting that like him, the geologist had fallen behind the others, driving with his chassis sunk low on his tires.

He hadn’t even considered the damage they’d caused to the glade in the course of their battle. It seemed a trivial concern, compared to his own difficulties.

Hound would care, he sneered inwardly, recalling how distressed the scout had become when he’d learned the fate of the salmon. Hound would probably consider the destruction of the glade equally tragic. Stupid thing to get upset over, he thought uncharitably. So we burned up a few trees, so what? There are billions of them!

But thinking about Hound reminded him of Trailbreaker, and that sobered his mood considerably. When the Autobots left the Ark to fight the ‘Cons, Trailbreaker hadn’t been among them. Wheeljack supposed he’d opted to stay behind with Hound, who was no doubt still hovering over Mirage in repair bay, waiting for the spy to recover from his injuries.

Which meant Trailbreaker was effectively alone.

Wheeljack’s spark twisted in its chamber at the thought. Trailbreaker would have been as distressed to witness the destruction of the glade as Beachcomber was, perhaps even more so, given the abundance of Earth plant life in his quarters – but Wheeljack knew he’d hate being overlooked and forgotten by his best friend even more.

Maybe I should try to talk to him, he thought. Even if Trailbreaker didn’t want him anymore, he might still prefer Wheeljack’s company over being ignored entirely.

The thought sent an odd surge of hope through his spark. Trailbreaker had helped to lift his spirits on more than one occasion. It seemed only right that he return the favor.

He owed him that much.

But in spite of his decision to seek out Trailbreaker, by the time they’d arrived back at the Ark, his confidence had begun to waver. Wanting to do it was one thing; actually doing it was another.

For one thing, he didn’t know where Trailbreaker was. Neither he nor Hound were in repair bay. That had been the first place he’d checked. Hound had been there, but Hoist informed him that he’d completed Mirage’s repairs while they were out fighting the ‘Cons, and the two lovers had left together when Mirage was released. Hoist didn’t mention whether Trailbreaker had been with them or not, and Wheeljack hadn’t asked.

He didn’t want to place another inquiry with Teletraan. Comming Trailbreaker to ask where he was seemed like an equally bad idea. If Trailbreaker was angry with him, he might refuse to answer his hails.

Wheeljack wasn’t sure what he’d say to him, anyway. Apologize, maybe? Offer to talk more? Say he still wanted to be friends? All of those options sounded lame and pathetic. Trailbreaker would probably laugh right in his faceplate.

He shook his helm in resignation, deciding to go and refuel instead.

Maybe the answer would come to him.

**

The common room was packed, crammed nearly wall-to-wall with the usual post-battle mob. The air was thick with comm signals and chatter, none of which the weary inventor felt inclined to participate in. He wasn’t in the mood for gossip.

It took nearly a breem to reach the energon dispenser and dispense his ration. Cube in hand, Wheeljack turned and began weaving through the crowd, intent on finding an unclaimed table.

He was about to give it up as a loss and simply return to his quarters when he saw him.

Trailbreaker was sitting alone, hunched over in his chair, his shoulder-struts slumped, staring down at his empty hands with a defeated expression. For such a large mech, he looked small and crumpled, as if crushed by the weight of his own despair.

Wheeljack’s spark twisted in its chamber at the sight, at the dejected look on Trailbreaker’s faceplate. He was halfway to his table before he realized his feet were moving, the energon cube in his hand forgotten.

He drew up short when Hound stepped into his path, his brisk stride faltering with the effort to avoid a collision. His gyrostabilizers spun rapidly at the sudden halt in his forward momentum, striving to restore his equilibrium.

“Hey, Wheeljack,” Hound greeted him cheerfully. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” he replied distractedly. He didn’t have time to chat; Trailbreaker had evidently finished refueling, which meant he was probably about to leave. If Wheeljack wasn’t quick enough, he’d –

“Heard you guys won the battle,” Hound said conversationally. “Congratulations.”

“Yeah,” he said, trying to peer past him to see if Trailbreaker was still seated. “We did okay.”

“Wanted to thank you for what you did for Mirage,” Hound continued. “Hoist said it was a good thing you were there – it was a bad hit.”

“No problem,” he said. “I’m glad he’s okay.”

He sensed the brief flicker of a comm signal from the scout as Hound nodded, smiling amiably.

Probably telling Mirage what I said, he thought, but then his audials picked up the scrape of a chair sliding across the deckplating, the subtle sound of shifting metal, and he caught a glimpse of Trailbreaker rising to his feet over Hound’s shoulder-strut.

Trailbreaker was leaving. “I gotta go,” he said to Hound, turning to follow. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Hound stepped in front of him again, once more blocking his path.

Wheeljack met his optics in surprise.

Hound was no longer smiling. “Leave him alone,” he said coldly.

That was when he noticed Hound was holding two energon cubes.

“I just wanna talk to him,” he said, cowed by the scout’s forbidding glare.

“That’s not a good idea,” Hound replied stonily, anger flashing in his optics. “Leave him alone; you’ve hurt him enough.”

His own temper flared in response. Who was Hound, to accuse him of hurting Trailbreaker? Hound was the one who’d been ignoring him, casting him aside in favor of –

“I’m surprised to see you here, Hound,” he said, his vocal indicators flashing tersely. “Is Mirage back on duty already?”

Hound stiffened, clearly stung by his words. Behind him, Wheeljack saw Trailbreaker slip between Smokescreen and Tracks, his dark form swiftly swallowed up by the crowd. He could just make out Trailbreaker’s communications array over the helms of the gathered mechs, marking his progress as he made his way towards the exit.

Trailbreaker was gone. Hound’s interference had cost Wheeljack his chance.

Optics narrowing, he twisted the knife. “Oh, that’s right,” he said venomously, “I forgot – Mirage just got out of repair bay. He probably wanted to go back to his quarters to recharge. Alone.”

Hound’s lip components compressed into a thin line, a look of hurt and guilt flashing across his faceplate. If not for his mask, Wheeljack would have smirked at his expression.

“Frag you,” Hound retorted bluntly. “How could you do that to him?” he demanded. “What did he ever do to you?”

Wheeljack’s vocal indicators flickered in surprise. What had he done? Trailbreaker had been the one who wanted to end it –!

“I thought you were a decent mech,” Hound said bitterly, shaking his helm in disgust. “When you let yourself get captured that day so that we could escape, I actually thought you were a lot like Optimus Prime! But you’re not – you’re just another selfish slagger. I wish I’d never told him to go after you.”

Hound’s words jolted him to the core, freezing him in place. Before he could react, Hound shouldered past him roughly, sloshing the energon in his cubes. Wheeljack’s optics tracked him numbly as the scout made his way to the door and departed – no doubt to find his friend.

He was dimly aware that their altercation had been noted by the crowd; the steady buzz of conversation dropped off as Hound stormed out, and then promptly picked back up again. Every mech in the common room was looking at him, but Wheeljack couldn’t move – Hound’s statement was still echoing in his CPU.

– when you let yourself get captured that day –

He glanced down at himself, at the energon cube he was still holding. The shimmering liquid within rippled, echoing the tremors besieging his hands. He felt horribly exposed, as if all of his armor had been stripped away, his spark chamber laid bare. Everyone was staring –

He shuddered, abruptly regaining control of his servos.

He immediately put them to good use, and fled the room in shame.

**

He wasn’t sure how he’d ended up in the washracks.

He had the vague recollection of moving blindly through corridors, making turns at random, but nothing resembling a conscious decision toward a destination. His only thought had been to get away, to try and escape the unwelcome spotlight he’d been unwillingly thrust into.

The ‘racks were empty, at least. The few ‘Bots that hadn’t been in the common room were most likely on duty or had already retired for the night. As for those who had –

They’d probably be there a good while longer. He’d given them lots to talk about. Pit, they were probably still talking about him – his hasty departure would have only made the topic all the more intriguing, providing the Ark’s gossips with enough fodder to occupy them for days.

Venting a sigh of resignation, he made his way across the room to the far wall and switched on the sprayer. A good cleansing would be ideal, just the thing to help him relax. The solvent would feel warm and soothing, even if he didn’t actually need –

He stared down at himself in surprise. He did need it. Badly.

He was filthy, his plating scorched by the handful of glancing hits he’d taken in the day’s battle, his white paint dulled by a heavy layer of dust and grime gained during his impromptu tour of the desert. The dip in the electrum lagoon hadn’t helped matters; lingering traces of it glinted gaudily from the seams in his plating, serving only to highlight the poor state of his neglected condition.

He grabbed a brush from the rack and started scrubbing, his circuits burning with humiliation.

They’d all been looking at him, and he’d looked like this. It was like a bad joke – he’d made an utter fool of himself in front of practically every ‘Bot on the Ark.

Worse, Trailbreaker had seen him like this. Wheeljack had been about to approach him, to try and persuade Trailbreaker to talk to him, looking as scruffy and unkempt as an overworked mining drone.

It was no wonder Trailbreaker had left just to avoid him.

And right now Trailbreaker was probably with Hound, getting an audial-full of all the nasty things Wheeljack had said. What had he been thinking? Hound was Trailbreaker’s best friend, and he’d lashed out at him ruthlessly, leveling the cruelest and most hurtful accusations he could think of out of sheer spite.

If he’d ever had any hope of mollifying Trailbreaker, it was well and truly gone now, blown up in his faceplate like some ill-conceived invention.

He scrubbed harder, scouring his plating with fierce, angry strokes. He’d been so stupid –

He wasn’t vain, but he had his pride. He’d fought hard to earn the respect of his peers, the esteem of his commander. Some mechs thought he was crazy, but even that had ultimately worked in his favor, causing them to view him with a kind of awe. Even the Decepticons feared the weapons he engineered.

Now all that was gone, washed down the drain like the dirt he’d scrubbed off his plating.

Optimus Prime would never publicly humiliate himself like that, lobbing crude insults like a petulant sparkling when he didn’t get his way. None of the other officers allowed their emotions to run away with them so completely, the way Wheeljack just had. He’d never seen Prowl or Jazz lose control, and Ratchet – Ratchet might make a show of getting angry, but everyone knew it was just bluster, a way for the CMO to vent the unrelieved tension that came with the heavy burden of being responsible for the lives of so many mechs.

Ratchet was a healer, first and foremost. Even at his worst, he never flung his barbs with the intent to wound. Unlike Wheeljack, Ratchet had never insulted Hound – a mech universally regarded as one of the nicest in the Autobot ranks – or threatened Bumblebee, a ‘Bot so innocuous he even put the humans at ease. Ratchet had never mouthed off to Optimus Prime, questioning his leader’s command decisions –

But Wheeljack had done all those things. And for what? To hide the truth. To keep everyone from finding out just how contemptible he really was.

He slumped against the wall, the brush slipping from his hand and skittering across the floor. He felt drained, exhausted, overcome by a core-deep weariness that left his limbs weak and trembling.

He was just so tired. Tired of the lies, tired of fighting to hold himself together when all he felt like doing was falling apart. He didn’t have the strength to feel angry or embarrassed anymore. It was just too hard, being angry all the time.

Especially when he knew, deep down, he had no right to be. The truth was he deserved it all. He deserved to be humiliated, to be hated and reviled by everyone who knew him. Their disdain was well earned.

– when you let yourself be captured –

A wave of disgust and self-loathing swept over him, so towering and intense it felt liable to crush him to atoms. Optimus didn’t think he could handle himself in battle. Trailbreaker didn’t want him. Hound probably hated him. Even Ratchet, his best friend, couldn’t bear to be around him.

It’s what you deserve.

He wrapped his arms around himself, hugging his chassis in an effort to ward off the cold, gnawing ache in his spark. He felt desolate, hollowed out, an empty shell filled with a black, echoing void.

Trailbreaker had filled that void. He’d lightened his spark, given him hope. He’d helped him to regain his lost courage, made him feel safe and wanted. The last time they’d been here, Trailbreaker had held him close, pressed tight against his chestplate, his strong arms supporting him, his presence warm and reassuring.

He wanted Trailbreaker to hold him like that again.

I want him back, he thought wretchedly. I need him.

But the pain in his spark only intensified. Trailbreaker didn’t want him. The void inside him would never go away. The thought made him hug himself tighter, huddling against the wall, heedless of the solvent dripping steadily off his plating. He choked back a low, disconsolate keen of despair.

“Wheeljack?”

He straightened hastily, resetting his vocalizer. For a moment he’d forgotten just how public the ‘racks really were. He switched off the sprayer to buy a few precious astroseconds to collect himself, and turned to face the mech that had spoken.

Mirage was standing in the doorway, regarding him with a faintly troubled expression.

“Hey, Mirage,” he greeted him. To his relief, he sounded almost normal.

“Is everything all right?” Mirage asked, stepping further into the room.

“Fine,” he said, shrugging dismissively. “Everything’s fine.”

Mirage frowned faintly, a look of concern flickering across his finely-tooled features.

“I was just leaving,” he said before Mirage decided to question him further, putting words to action and making his way towards the door.

As he passed him, Mirage said tentatively, “Wheeljack…”

Wheeljack paused, but didn’t turn, his spark clenching in apprehension. “Yeah?” he replied warily.

He heard Mirage turn to face him, but the spy didn’t speak immediately. He waited, fighting to contain his rising anxiety.

After a brief pause, Mirage said, “…thank you for helping me today.”

His shoulder-struts sagged with relief. “No problem,” he replied, “Anytime.”

“Also, I…” Mirage began hesitantly, “I wanted to tell you…I consider you a friend.”

Now Wheeljack did turn around, to stare at him in surprise. Mirage’s quiet admission was the last thing he’d expected to hear. Questions, yes, inquiries about his condition or the state Mirage had found him in – but not that.

Mirage looked abashed. “I…don’t have many,” he confessed, a rueful smile curving his lip components. “But I enjoyed talking with you the other day. If you’re willing…I’d like to do it again sometime.”

His vocal indicators flickered wordlessly as he recalled his thoughts from the previous day, his desire to talk to Mirage about the Towers engineers and their inventions. “Sure,” he said. “Yeah, okay.”

Mirage smiled shyly. “Thank you.”

“See you around,” he said. Mirage nodded.

He left the washracks feeling bemused.

Maybe there was still one mech left on the Ark who didn’t hate him.

**

He was annoyed to discover that his quarters still felt…wrong.

He sat down on the berth with a huff, flexing his shoulder-struts restlessly. He glanced around the room, searching for a distraction, but that only served to remind him that he was alone.

Get used to it, Wheeljack, he thought gloomily. This is how it’s gonna be.

Shaking his helm, he lay back on the berth, but half a klik later he was on his feet again, pacing. He was tired, but too keyed-up to recharge.

He paced the length of the room, fidgeting uneasily, picking up random objects and putting them down again, feeling unsettled. His thoughts were distracted, refusing to focus.

Something nagged at the back of his processor. He’d felt like this before, restless and out of sorts, unable to concentrate. Lately he’d been feeling that way a lot, but the feeling itself wasn’t new.

He sat back down on the berth again, sifting through his memory files, searching for the solution. What was it? How had he dealt with it before?

He compiled all the data, matching up the circumstances with his recollections of how he’d felt and what he’d done about it. Slowly a pattern began to emerge.

No, he thought in dismay. It can’t be that.

He ran an internal diagnostic of his systems, just to be sure. The results were conclusive.

In hindsight, it wasn’t all that surprising. He really should have noticed it sooner; the charge had been building in his circuits all day.

Building in anticipation of the overload they’d come to expect.

Tension gripped his servos, his spark thrumming with anxiety. Panic welled up in him, but he forced it back down, willing himself to stay calm. What’s the big deal? he thought dismissively. Just take care of it.

It had never bothered him before. It was perfectly normal, nothing to get wound up over. A little self-service never hurt anyone, he thought.

But that didn’t stop his fuel tank from giving an uncomfortable lurch as he lay back down on the berth.

He cycled air through his intakes, trying to relax. Just get it over with, he told himself. Do it and get it done; then you can recharge.

He offlined his optics and reached up, tentatively tracing the edge of his windshield. His intakes hitched as the sensor nodes registered the gentle stimulation, the touch triggering a brief flash of pleasure accompanied by a conflicting undercurrent of revulsion.

He cycled air and tried again, pressing more firmly.

The results were the same.

He huffed in frustration. Why was this so hard? Quit messing around, Wheeljack, he thought impatiently. You know what you have to do; just do it!

He grumbled irritably, shifting on the berth, bending his knees and drawing his feet up. Sometimes his inner voice sounded suspiciously like Ratchet.

The thought of his friend made him wonder where Ratchet was right now. Maybe he could – no. He’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t ask Ratchet again. He couldn’t do that to his best friend.

Stop being an idiot, he chided himself. You don’t need Ratchet. You can handle this all by yourself.

Steeling himself, he reached for the gaps at his hips that his newly-adjusted position afforded him, dipping his fingers in to stroke the sensitive wires and cables. The resulting burst of pleasure made him gasp through his intakes, a rush of warmth suffusing his circuitry. Close on its heels came a surge of self-loathing and disgust, making him feel sick and weak.

I don’t want this, he told himself firmly. I just need it, that’s all. It’s nothing.

He stubbornly persisted, rubbing harder, rolling the cables between his fingertips and tugging gently. A low groan escaped his vocalizer as pleasure shot through his systems, making his core temperature spike. His cooling fans kicked on, humming gently. There, he thought with satisfaction. I can do this. Just a little more –

That’s it, the echo of Starscream hissed malevolently. Just a little more…

He jerked his hand back sharply, onlining his optics with a jolt at the memory file that had risen up unbidden into his cache. He sat up, venting hard, fighting the urge to eject the meager contents of his churning fuel tank.

After a klik or two the worst of it passed, and he flopped back on the berth with a clank. Now he felt really unsettled, his core temperature uncomfortably high, his fans cycling away, his circuits tingling with a heavy charge.

He felt utterly pathetic.

He couldn’t fight, couldn’t invent, couldn’t keep his temper – he couldn’t even overload himself, for Primus’ sake. Most mechs did it without thinking, and why should they? It was easy. It was convenient, even for those who had a lover if that lover happened to be unavailable. Trailbreaker had mentioned doing it offhandedly, casually, because it was no big deal.

The thought of Trailbreaker self-servicing made his overheated systems hum in approval. The mental image of Trailbreaker touching himself caused the charge flooding his circuits to spark in anticipation.

He offlined his optics in resignation, his hand drifting down to his hip plate again. His fingers slipped into the seam, teasing the wires within. He imagined Trailbreaker’s hands moving over him, eagerly stroking his plating, and shuddered as his fans cycled up another notch.

Pressing his other hand flat against his chestplate, he revved his engine, and cried out softly as the vibrations triggered the sensitive nodes lining his palm, lighting up his sensor grid with pleasure. He writhed on the berth, memory files flickering through his processor, recalling the sound of Trailbreaker’s deep voice groaning, whispering his name, his hands clenching as he inched steadily closer to the brink.

It felt good, but not perfect. Something was missing. He craved the sensation of Trailbreaker’s weight above him, the ardent pulse and throb of his energy field, the radiating heat of his systems. His own energy field extended outward instinctively as the building charge neared its peak, reaching out, longing, seeking –

Nothing greeted it but cold, empty air.

His cry of release as he tipped over the edge swiftly turned into raw, keening bursts of static and shrill, crackling whines of feedback, wrenching sobs shaking his frame even as the fading echoes of stolen pleasure shivered through his circuitry. The black void in his spark yawned wide, threatening to engulf him in despair.

He curled in on himself, whimpering in grief. He felt defective, broken and defeated. What little remained of his pride lay in ruins, crushed to powder by the touch of his own hands. He’d been too weak to resist the siren call of his desire, and had paid the ultimate price. He’d sacrificed his own self-worth in exchange for a single brief moment of pleasure.

…just like he had that day.

– when you let yourself be captured –

Hound had reminded him. Hound had known it was his fault, sensed the truth of just how weak Wheeljack really was. Somehow Starscream had known too, seizing upon that weakness and exploiting it, as Decepticons were wont to do.

He’d managed to fool Trailbreaker for a while, tricking him into thinking Wheeljack was actually worth something, but in the end Trailbreaker had discovered the truth, or at least detected the presence of the lie.

The only one who’d been truly deluded was himself. He’d fallen into his own trap, seduced by the illusions he’d fabricated. Unlike Trailbreaker, Wheeljack had embraced the lie, had sincerely begun to believe he was what he’d pretended to be.

Because he was weak.

Now he was alone, with nothing left to console him but the tattered remains of the lies he’d woven.

Alone. Forever.

*Part 22 is here*