After Atlantis, Part 6

[anon_decepticon]

Title: After Atlantis, Part 6
Author: anon_decepticon
Rating: M
Pairing or Character(s): Wheeljack, Ratchet, Trailbreaker, Ironhide, Optimus Prime, etc.
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.” These portions of the fic are not mine.
Warning(s): PTSD angst, references to rape, sexual situations (but still no actual sex!)
Summary: Raped by Starscream, Wheeljack struggles to cope.
Author's Note: Originally a kink meme prompt, this fic ended up going in a decidedly non-smutty direction. Parts 1 and 2 appear on the meme, concluding with a brief epilogue. Parts 3, 4, and 5 detail the scenes described in that epilogue. From here on out, we’re exploring uncharted territory, and the terrain’s a little rocky. Thanks to everyone for their comments, and special thanks to kookaburra1701 for her support and encouragement. I doubt I’d have gotten this far without her.



“Damage appears to be minor,” Wheeljack said, completing his brief examination of Prowl’s injuries. “Must have only been a glancing hit. Your regenerative systems should have you back to optimal in about a joor.”

Prowl nodded. “Thank you, Wheeljack.”

Ratchet had set up a kind of triage in Skyfire’s hold during the flight back from Japan, and together he and Wheeljack were working to ensure that each of the damaged mechs received a thorough examination. The most critical or potentially spark-threatening injuries would be addressed immediately with field patches and other stopgap emergency repairs, while less urgent or more complex repairs would be handled back at the base, where they had access to a fully equipped repair bay.

Wheeljack glanced over to where Ratchet was busy working on Bluestreak. The gunner had taken a direct hit from Megatron’s fusion cannon, and that was never a good thing. The Decepticon leader had gotten Prime, too, but the matrix-bearer could walk away unharmed from an attack that might extinguish the spark of another mech, and Optimus wouldn’t have allowed Ratchet to tend to him until he was certain Bluestreak was all right, anyway.

In fact Prime was hovering nearby, offering soft words of encouragement to the young mech while Ratchet worked. It was clear – to Wheeljack, anyway – that Ratchet was very concerned about whatever injuries he was dealing with, because he had no sharp reprimand to offer Optimus for still being on his feet.

He moved on to Brawn, inquiring about what hurt and where. The minibot had been unable to transform for the trip back to the airport where Skyfire awaited them, and had had to accept a lift from Ratchet. A quick examination confirmed what Wheeljack already suspected – Brawn’s transform relays were completely shot. The injury was in no way spark-threatening, but repairing transform circuitry was touchy work. It would have to wait until they got back to the Ark.

After another glance at Ratchet, he moved on to Ironhide. The security officer was a mess. It was a testament to Ironhide’s fortitude that he was still online and moving after having what amounted to an entire building fall on top of him. Like Brawn, most of the damage was not spark-threatening, but would require extensive, time-consuming repairs. Wheeljack clamped off a few torn energon lines and dampened Ironhide’s pain receptors to make him more comfortable. That was all he could do, for now.

Another check on Ratchet revealed that the medic had finally finished with Bluestreak and had moved on to Trailbreaker. Trailbreaker’s injuries must have been very serious; Wheeljack realized as he approached to offer his assistance that Ratchet was in the process of taking the defense strategist offline.

“Bad?” he asked quietly, a pang of worry shooting through his spark. True to his word, he’d come up with several workable ideas for modifications that would address Trailbreaker’s fuel consumption issues. He hated to think he might never get to implement them. When Wheeljack had offered to look into the problem, Trailbreaker had looked so…grateful.

“He’ll be all right,” Ratchet replied. “But he’s going to need some pretty delicate repair work on his communications array once we get back to the Ark. The explosion all but destroyed it.”

Wheeljack cocked his helm quizzically. “So why did you–”

“Take him offline?” Ratchet finished for him. “I know my patients. Trailbreaker’s the type who’ll dwell on this sort of thing if he’s given too much time to think about it. It’s better if he stays offline until I can take a closer look. Less misery for him, less aggravation for me.”

Recalling Trailbreaker’s insecurities about his usefulness, and the tone of self-loathing in which he had expressed them, Wheeljack nodded with understanding. Trailbreaker’s main contributions to the Autobot cause were his force field and his ability to track, transmit and jam communications. Of the two, only the latter required minimal resources to utilize. It was unlikely Trailbreaker would take the news of even the temporary loss of what he regarded as his only useful ability with his usual good humor.

“Brawn’s transform relays need some serious attention, and Ironhide’s going to need major repairs, but neither one of them is in any danger of deactivation,” Wheeljack reported. “What about Bluestreak?”

“Better than I expected,” Ratchet responded. “Some critical circuit pathways got fried, but once I had that under control, I took a look at the rest of the damage, and it’s not too bad. He should be up and around in no time. He’d better not push it, though, or he’ll answer to me.”

He nodded, “And Prime?”

“My next stop,” Ratchet replied wearily. “Now that everyone else has been attended to, maybe he’ll finally let me take a look at him.”

Wheeljack nodded again, “Good luck.” He started to turn away, intending to take a seat and power down for the remainder of the trip to conserve his energy for the repair job that awaited them upon their return to the Ark, but Ratchet’s hand on his arm halted him.

“How are you holding up?” Ratchet asked quietly.

The soft words hit him like a blow.

He’d hoped no one had noticed the way he’d frozen up during the battle when Starscream appeared, but evidently Ratchet had. With all the injured mechs to occupy his attention, Wheeljack hadn’t had time to analyze his reaction, but he couldn’t deny that he’d had one. Hearing that shrill, smug, hateful voice again had shaken him to the core.

“I’m fine,” he said.

Ratchet gave him a dubious look, one with a healthy dose of “we’ll talk about this later” implicit in it, but made no further comment, opting instead to square his shoulders and tackle the challenge of pinning down Optimus Prime long enough to assess his condition. Based on Ratchet’s determined expression, Wheeljack surmised that Prime would soon be undergoing a very thorough exam, even if Ratchet had to sit on him to get it.

Cycling a sigh through his intakes, he found an unoccupied seat in the shuttle and settled into it, powering down his systems.

**

He was jolted back to full awareness by Skyfire’s voice echoing through the cabin.

“We’re nearly home, guys! I just caught a glimpse of the California coastline,” the shuttle announced cheerfully.

Wheeljack slowly eased back into his seat, trying to will the tension out of his servos and ignore the frantic pulsing of his spark. Did Skyfire have to sound so slagging chipper? Normally he liked the quiet, placid scientist, but right now he wanted to throttle him.

I guess he’s not always cheerful, Wheeljack thought. I remember him being very depressed back when he first joined us. Trying to come to terms with everything that had changed while he’d been in stasis, everything he’d lost – Cybertron, his career, his part–

Starscream.

Skyfire’s partner, back when he’d been an explorer, had been Starscream.

They’d been colleagues. No, not colleagues, they’d been friends.

Maybe more than friends.

The energon in Wheeljack’s tanks gave an uncomfortable lurch at the realization: He was currently sitting inside the hold of a mech who’d been friends, possibly even interfaced, with Starscream.

Unlike him, Skyfire had probably been willing. He’d probably even enjoyed it.

You enjoyed it too.

Primus, he was going to purge again. Not now, he thought desperately. Not here, not now, not in front of everyone! We’re almost there, just hang on...

Clenching his fists and offlining his optics, he poured every ounce of his will into staying in control, holding perfectly still, and keeping his processor utterly blank.

He remained that way until they finally touched down outside the Ark.

**

He managed to disembark from the shuttle with some semblance of calm indifference.

From there it was straight to repair bay, even though he would have preferred to flee to the shelter of his personal quarters or his lab. In the bustle and confusion of getting all the injured ‘Bots inside and situated onto repair berths, he was able to slip into one of the private rooms – ostensibly to retrieve some tools – and collect himself somewhat.

No longer being on board Skyfire helped. Being in the familiar surroundings of the repair bay helped, too. After a few kliks, he emerged to find Ratchet had already released Prowl and Prime – Prowl had left with Spike, but Optimus was still hanging around – and was finishing up the remaining repairs on Bluestreak.

Brawn was next on Ratchet’s list, so he went to check on Trailbreaker and Ironhide.

“Take care of him first, I can wait,” Ironhide told him as he approached.

“Forget it, Ironhide,” Trailbreaker argued good-naturedly. “You’re next, no trying to get out of it. You look like the bottom half of a twelve-car pileup.”

Trailbreaker had been brought back online so that he could walk to the repair bay under his own power rather than being carried. For the moment he seemed to be in a fairly jovial mood. Wheeljack concluded that Trailbreaker had either not been told the extent of his injuries, or as Ratchet had predicted, hadn’t had time to dwell on them.

He started in on the repairs, beginning with Ironhide in spite of his protests.

As he’d predicted during his initial assessment, the necessary repairs took a great deal of time, but at least they kept his processor occupied. Bored, the two patients started chatting over his helm while he worked.

The first topic of discussion, naturally, was the ninja-bot. Wheeljack stubbornly tuned out the admiring comments praising Dr. Fujiama’s creation.

Eventually they moved on to rehashing the battle. Wheeljack paid careful attention to their discussion, tension building up in his servos – had they noticed his reaction, the way Ratchet had? Were they going to question him about it? What excuse would he give?

“Ouch! Watch it, Wheeljack!” Ironhide protested.

“Sorry,” he replied sheepishly. In his distraction, he’d moved on to a new section without dampening the sensor nodes first. He made the necessary adjustment and resumed his work, circuits heating with embarrassment.

To his profound relief, no mention was made of his role in the battle. The main topic of interest seemed to be the way Optimus had decked Megatron mere astroseconds after the Decepticon leader had shot him. Wheeljack had to admit, that had been pretty impressive.

From there the conversation took on a more humorous note, the two ‘Bots cheerfully swapping jokes and observations about their longtime foes.

“How come the ‘Cons are always bustin’ through walls? Don’t they know what doors are for?”

“I know, right? It’s like they’re afraid of them or something!”

“I think they just like blowin’ stuff up.”

“Megatron needs to work on his villain banter,” Trailbreaker said. “I mean, ‘Time to disappear, Mirage’? That’s real original. I’m sure ‘Raj has never heard that one before.”

Wheeljack couldn’t help but chuckle at that, even though Ironhide’s laughter was making it slightly more difficult to work on him. He hadn’t realized Trailbreaker was such a funny mech.

“And did you hear what Starscream called us?” Trailbreaker continued. “‘Autoboobs!’ I’d have fallen over laughing if I hadn’t been on the floor already! He must be trying out some new Earth insults.”

“That’s nothin’,” Ironhide scoffed, “I remember one time Screamer called me ‘Rustypants.’”

Trailbreaker frowned, cocking his helm in confusion. “…we don’t wear pants.”

“I know!” Ironhide replied, and both mechs roared with laughter.

Wheeljack wasn’t laughing. At the mention of Starscream’s name he’d stiffened, his tension level skyrocketing. He knew he should make an effort to laugh along with them, but he was too busy trying to keep his hands from shaking long enough to complete Ironhide’s repairs to muster a convincing response.

“All right you two jokers, pipe down,” Ratchet called over grouchily. “This is a repair bay, not a comedy club.”

Ironhide and Trailbreaker quieted, exchanging guilty looks. Ratchet turned back to Brawn, resuming his work on the minibot. Optimus spoke to Brawn reassuringly, telling him that Ratchet was almost finished. Wheeljack cycled a long draft of air through his intakes and tried to calm his pulsing spark.

That was when the lights went out.

Half a klik later, the alarm sounded.

**

There was an intruder in the Autobot base.

Prime and Bluestreak left the repair bay to investigate with Ratchet’s nod of approval, leaving them behind to complete repairs on the remaining ‘Bots. They’d barely gotten started when the others returned with the startling news that the intruder was in fact Fujiama’s ninja robot, and that she had successfully eluded capture and fled the Ark.

The mechs who were able left to pursue and retrieve the scientist’s wayward experiment. By then Ratchet had released Brawn, so the minibot went with them. Only Ironhide and Trailbreaker remained.

Ratchet left to check the status of Teletraan-1 and perform any necessary repairs. Ironhide went with him, overriding Wheeljack’s protests that he wasn’t finished with a gruff, “You can pound out the rest o’ my dents later.”

Since Ratchet didn’t object, Wheeljack let him go without further argument.

After the two ‘Bots departed, Wheeljack looked to Trailbreaker. “I guess you can go too, if you want. I can’t do your repairs in the dark, and there’s no sense hanging around here waiting for Ratchet to get Teletraan-1 up and running again. Who knows how long that’ll take?”

“I don’t mind waiting,” Trailbreaker replied agreeably. “It’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to be.”

“Suit yourself,” he responded, turning away to gather up the tools he’d used on Ironhide. “No chrome off my chassis.”

A part of him really wanted Trailbreaker to leave. Another part was very uneasy about being left alone in the dark. He wished Ratchet would come back. Somehow that would be better.

“Are you okay?”

Wheeljack flinched internally. He’d come to dread that particular question. “Sure,” he replied as blithely as he could manage. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You seem kind of down,” Trailbreaker said.

“I’m fine. I just need some recharge.” Easier said than done.

“You don’t have to stick around on my account. Go and get some rest. The doc can patch me up when he gets back.”

Wheeljack thought about it.

“Yeah, all right,” he said, putting his tools away. He started to leave, but stopped halfway to the door. “Stop by my lab later, when you have some time free,” he invited. “I’ve got some ideas on modifications we can make to increase your efficiency.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “If you still want to.”

“Absolutely,” Trailbreaker said, brightening noticeably. “I’ll definitely do that. Thanks, Wheeljack.”

He shrugged. “No problem.”

**

“I can’t function like this,” he muttered to the ceiling.

Why did it have to keep happening?

He’d tried again, really tried. He’d tried to just lie back, power down, and slip into recharge like he had any of an infinite number of times over the span of countless vorns, but sure enough, within a few joors he’d jerked back online, his processor reeling with echoes, his internal fans cycling merrily away.

He was utterly disgusted with himself.

And he was tired.

Primus, he was so, so tired. What little recharge he’d gotten felt like none at all.

At least he hadn’t purged his tanks this time.

After half a breem his cooling fans finally cut off, but his circuits still hummed with a lingering charge. It would be easy enough to take care of. All he had to do was –

No, he thought fiercely. I’m not doing that.

“I need an inhibitor,” he declared to the empty room. “Ratchet be damned, I need one.”

He checked his internal chronometer. It was late, well into the small hours of the Earth night. If there was ever a good time to sneak into the repair bay to steal restricted equipment, it was now.

He rose from his berth and left his quarters quickly, before he could talk himself out of it.

**

The repair bay was dark and deserted.

Wheeljack couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Was he really going to do this? If he got caught, he’d be so slagged. Even if he didn’t, it was wrong. He couldn’t plead ignorance; he was intimately associated with the workings of the repair bay. He knew the rules. He knew those rules had been made for a reason.

Hand on the drawer that housed the device he coveted, he hesitated, a war waging within him between duty and desperation. The hand gripping the handle shook. Desperation was winning.

“‘Jack?”

Oh, slag.

It took an astrosecond to pry his hand free, it was clenched so tightly, but he managed it, and turned to face the puzzled medic standing silhouetted in the doorway.

“Hey, Ratch,” he greeted him sheepishly.

“Thought you’d be deep in recharge by now,” Ratchet said, still looking puzzled, but now with a dash of worry thrown in. “Trailbreaker said you looked wiped out. Everything okay?”

“Sure,” he replied with a shrug. “Everything’s fine.”

“Was there something you needed?” Ratchet asked, coming further into the darkened room.

Wheeljack fidgeted uncomfortably, rubbing his neck cables in an obvious show of nerves. “Nah. Not really,” he muttered.

Ratchet drew closer, pinning him with a long, probing look. Wheeljack fidgeted some more under the intense scrutiny.

“Did you come to see me, ‘Jack?” Ratchet asked quietly.

Wheeljack stiffened, startled. His processor whirled. What should he say? If he said no, Ratchet would ask what the real reason was. If he confessed, Ratchet might give him the inhibitor out of pity.

…or he might start yelling and throwing things.

“Yeah,” he whispered, vocal indicators barely flickering in the dimness. “I…I guess I did.”

Ratchet smiled. It was soft, sad, fond sort of smile, both like and unlike Ratchet. “You could have come sooner, you know,” he said. “Primus, you can be so stubborn sometimes.”

The complaint was an old one, the tone it was spoken in familiar and reassuring. “But that's why you love me, right Ratch?” he asked teasingly.

Ratchet stared at him for another long moment, his expression unreadable. “C’mon,” he said finally. “We can talk in my office. I’ve got some high-grade stashed in my desk. For strictly medical purposes, of course.”

“Right,” Wheeljack chuckled. Then his processor caught up with the rest of him. “Wait, talk?” A sudden flash of panic gripped him. “Talk about what?”

Ratchet’s easy smile faltered. “You know what,” he said. “Isn’t that why you came?”

“I – I don’t know,” he stammered. Had it been? Had it really been just the desire for the inhibitor that brought him here, or had he come secretly hoping to run into Ratchet? Was that why’d he’d hesitated when he could have just taken it and run? Or was he just a liar and a thief?

He cycled his vents in a harsh sigh, turning away from his friend. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore,” he said, his vocalizer crackling with frustration. “I just – I just want everything to be normal again! Primus, is that so much to ask?!”

The gentle hand Ratchet laid on his shoulder-strut was surprisingly comforting. “You just need time,” he said soothingly. “Give it time, ‘Jack.”

Maybe it was because he was so utterly exhausted, or due to the stubborn charge still clinging to his circuits, or perhaps some bizarre a combination of both, but to Wheeljack that light, simple touch felt…good. Better than it should have.

A lot better.

He suddenly found himself thinking about Ratchet in a way he never had before, or at least in a way he never had before Ratchet’s sensor-ghost had started paying nightly visits to his CPU. He realized with a jolt that following the scan, Ratchet’s sensor-echo had actually replaced Starscream’s, leaving only the memory of the Seeker’s voice and touch behind to plague his recharge.

…what if he could replace them, too?

He had, in part, blamed his own…prudishness, for lack of a better term – for what had happened to him. If he’d been more like Ratchet, more willing to treat interfacing like it was no big deal, he wouldn’t have been such easy prey for Starscream, been so readily taken advantage of. He might have been able to remain in control of himself, in spite of the Decepticon’s efforts.

And to be honest, if he had to pick someone on the Ark to uplink with, Ratchet was a pretty good choice. He knew Ratchet, trusted him. Pit, they’d all but interfaced once already, anyway. It wasn’t like there would be any nasty surprises.

Not to mention a decent overload might actually be enough to knock him offline for a few joors.

There were more reasons to go ahead and do it than there were not to.

The rapid flurry of thoughts raced through his processor in the course of mere astroseconds. Ratchet was still standing behind him, his hand on Wheeljack’s shoulder-strut, completely unaware of the unexpected detour they’d taken.

He took a moment to collect himself, to gather his thoughts together. For a moment he hesitated, uncertain. Should he really be contemplating this?

To the Pit with it.

He half-turned toward Ratchet, away from the hand on his shoulder-strut, so that the arm it was attached to ended up wrapped around him in a semi-embrace.

Then he extended his energy field.

As field flares went, it wasn’t anything that could be classified as brash or presumptuous, but neither was it tentative. Not a demand, but a solid, inquiring push.

A clear, unmistakable invitation.

Ratchet’s intakes hitched in surprise. “What are you doing, ‘Jack?” he asked quietly.

“What’s it feel like I’m doing?” he responded in a low, suggestive tone, emitting a second, more insistent pulse and grabbing Ratchet’s free hand to run his fingers over the highly tuned sensors lining the palm.

Ratchet backed away, releasing his shoulder-strut and tugging his captive hand free from Wheeljack’s grip. “I mean why are you doing it?” he asked.

Wheeljack turned to face him. “Isn’t it obvious? C’mon, Ratch, what’s the deal? It’s not like you haven’t done this before.”

“Not with you,” Ratchet replied gravely. “Not like this.”

“What difference does it make?” He reached for his hand again, but Ratchet flinched back, once more stepping out of his reach. “Slaggit, Ratchet–!”

“No, ‘Jack,” Ratchet said firmly. “I’m not letting you do this. Not to me, not to yourself.”

Wheeljack couldn’t believe his audials. Had his best friend just turned him down?

“What is this?” he asked, vocal indicators strobing in the darkness. “Some kind of sick joke?”

“No,” Ratchet said quietly. “It’s not.”

“Well then wh – what the frag, Ratchet? I can’t believe you – I thought you were my friend!”

“I am,” Ratchet replied sadly. “That’s why I can’t let you do this.”

“Why the Pit not?” he demanded.

“Because I know it’s not what you really want.”

“Don’t patronize me, Ratchet, I’m not some stupid sparkling!” Wheeljack retorted heatedly. “I do want this! I need this, and you’re telling me ‘no’?” He huffed in exasperation. “Since when did you get so choosy? You never needed an excuse to swap paint before; why are you stalling now?”

A chilling revelation overtook him, one that sucked all the heat out of his anger, interrupting his tirade, defusing his temper, deflating his ire.

“It’s because it’s me, isn’t it?” he whispered.

“‘Jack –” Ratchet began gently.

“No,” he said, raising a hand to cut off the apology. “No, it’s all right. I get it. You don’t want some ‘Con’s leftovers.” He laughed, low and bitter. “It’s okay; I wouldn’t either.”

He turned to leave, shoulders slumped in defeat.

A hand on his arm halted him. “’Jack, listen to me–” Ratchet began.

“Don’t,” he interrupted him, not turning around. His vocalizer made the word come out like a plea. “Just…don’t. I’m going.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “I’m sorry for – I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.”

The grip on his arm tightened, and he was spun violently around. Ratchet’s optics burned incandescently in the dimness, blazing with some intense emotion Wheeljack couldn’t readily identify, but which seemed to be at least two parts anger.

“Listen to me, you little glitch,” Ratchet hissed at him fiercely. “This has nothing to do with fragging Starscream! This has to do with you and me. Don’t you dare walk out of here thinking otherwise!”

He stared at him for a long time before he finally spoke. “So it is because it’s me.”

“Dammit, Wheeljack!” Ratchet exclaimed, shoving him back roughly. “You stupid, clueless – do you know how long I’ve – Slaggit!” he turned abruptly and stalked to the opposite end of the repair bay, ranting and muttering the whole way. “Fragging – of all the – can’t believe – ever get my hands on Starscream – take him apart – piece by piece–!”

Wheeljack picked himself up from where he’d fallen after stumbling from Ratchet’s shove. Ratchet was still busy venting his anger, and had worked up quite a head of steam. Soon the tools would start flying.

He opted to slip out quietly before that happened.

**

Wheeljack made his way back to his lab, moving briskly down the corridor with an increasingly angry, ground-eating stride.

Ratchet had turned him down.

He couldn’t believe it. His best friend had turned him down!

He’d never really seriously considered interfacing with Ratchet before tonight, but he’d always sort of assumed that if he ever did make an overture, Ratchet would welcome it. Ratchet had never been terribly uptight about that sort of thing. As long as the timing wasn’t wholly inappropriate – say, in a repair bay full of severely damaged mechs, or on a battlefield – Ratchet was the sort to seize the moment. He always had been.

Except with Wheeljack.

He’d never taken offense to his exclusion, even after he’d noticed it. Ratchet was his friend. That was good enough for Wheeljack. If Ratchet wasn’t interested in ‘facing with him, Wheeljack was fine with that. If Ratchet was, he was fine with that, too. If Ratchet had asked, he wouldn’t have turned him down, told him ‘no.’ It was Ratchet, after all.

He’d just assumed Ratchet felt the same way. The possibility that his advances might be rejected hadn’t even occurred to him.

He realized now that it should have.

Obviously it wasn’t a simple lack of interest that had kept Ratchet away for so long. It was something more than that, some larger reason why Wheeljack didn’t just rank low on Ratchet’s list of possible partners, but had in fact been crossed off entirely.

His first thought was that it had to be because of Starscream, but Ratchet had said it wasn’t.

Which meant it was him. Something about Wheeljack, something he’d done, maybe, long before Starscream ever entered the picture, had made him anathema to Ratchet. Ratchet had all but admitted it.

Which made his exclusion much more…personal.

Frag him, Wheeljack thought bitterly.

It probably was because of Starscream, and Ratchet just didn’t want to admit it. Ratchet hadn’t been shy about jacking into him to run the scan, so why hesitate now? That hadn’t been an interface technically, but in terms of the mechanics, it amounted to the same thing.

And anyway, he’d come up clean. Whatever was stopping Ratchet, it wasn’t the fear of picking up some Decepticon virus from Wheeljack’s CPU. That, he could have forgiven. An aversion to foreign code was precisely why he himself avoided uplinking with mechs he didn’t know well; he could hardly blame Ratchet for sharing that attitude. But that clearly wasn’t what Ratchet was afraid of.

What else was there? What was it about an uplink with Wheeljack – a real one – that was different from anything they’d already done? Apart from the lack of an overload, of course.

The answer struck him like a thunderbolt. A true uplink goes both ways.

It wasn’t that Ratchet didn’t want to access Wheeljack’s CPU. It was that he didn’t want Wheeljack accessing his.

Didn’t want him to learn what Ratchet really thought of him.

He halted in midstride, nearly in sight of the door to his lab, his shoulder-struts drooping. “Frag, Ratch…” he sighed reproachfully.

For the second time in as many days, Wheeljack felt like he’d lost his best friend.


*Part 7 is here*