After Atlantis, Part 11

[anon_decepticon]

Title: After Atlantis, Part 11
Author: anon_decepticon
Rating: M
Pairing or Character(s): Wheeljack, Ratchet, Trailbreaker, Optimus Prime, various others
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.” These portions of the fic are not mine.
Warning(s): PTSD angst, references to rape, references to sex
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. Also available on FFN. I had a hard time with this installment due to RL being very uncooperative. I’m hoping the next part goes more smoothly. Endless thanks to kookaburra1701 for patiently enduring my increasingly stressed-out emails and remaining kind and supportive throughout. I shudder to think what this fic might have ended up looking like without her invaluable input.



Upon completion of its recharge cycle, Wheeljack’s CPU initiated a reboot, bringing his slumbering systems back online.

The first sight to meet his bleary optics as he roused was a pale green blob barely an arm’s length away from his faceplate. When he refreshed them, the blob came into focus, resolving itself into a tiny, round cactus housed in a gaily-colored pot.

Wheeljack didn’t own any Earth plants. Where was he? Whose quarters, whose berth was he in?

Quickly delving into his cache, he located and accessed his most recent memory files, and the events of the night before came flooding back to him.

Ratchet. Trailbreaker. His complete and utter breakdown.

He offlined his optics, suppressing a groan.

Behind him, Trailbreaker stirred. The defense strategist’s arms were still wrapped around his waist components in a loose embrace. Wheeljack half-turned to face him, reactivating his optics a scant astrosecond before Trailbreaker onlined his own.

“Hi there,” Trailbreaker said softly.

“Hey,” he replied, vocal indicators barely flickering.

A faint smile curved Trailbreaker’s lip components. “This is nice.”

“Coming online?” Wheeljack asked bemusedly.

“Coming online…seeing you,” Trailbreaker replied, his optics emitting a faint glow.

“Oh,” he said, a flush of embarrassment heating his circuits.

“Feeling better this morning?” Trailbreaker asked.

Wheeljack considered that for a moment. “…I think so.”

“You seemed pretty upset last night,” Trailbreaker commented, his tone asking the question his words politely avoided.

“Yeah,” he replied uncomfortably. He couldn’t very well deny it, and he had to offer some explanation. “I, uh…”

Trailbreaker made an encouraging noise, shifting a hand from the Wheeljack’s waist components to his upper arm, rubbing gently.

“I…sorta had an argument with Ratchet,” he admitted reluctantly.

He figured it was safe to reveal that much. It was hardly a secret; several ‘Bots had seen them in the corridor last night on their way to the repair bay. Even without knowing the details, it would have been obvious Ratchet was wound up about something, and that that something involved Wheeljack.

Trailbreaker looked puzzled, his expression clearly stating, That’s all? without him uttering a word. “Must’ve been some argument,” he said. “You an’ Ratchet always seemed so tight; I figured you were really good friends.”

“Yeah,” Wheeljack replied bitterly. “So did I.”

“Oh,” Trailbreaker said, drawing out the sound. “It was that kinda fight.”

Wheeljack nodded miserably.

“No wonder it got to you, listening to me talk about Hound,” Trailbreaker mused.

He half shrugged, chagrined by the reminder of his lapse in self-control.

“You’ll work it out,” Trailbreaker said reassuringly. “Even the best of friends fight sometimes; doesn’t mean you’re not friends anymore.”

“What if it does?” he asked bleakly.

Seemingly compelled by his tone, Trailbreaker slipped his arms back around Wheeljack's waist components, drawing him close. “Was he right?” he asked.

“Right..?”

“About whatever it was you argued about,” Trailbreaker clarified. “Was he right?”

“He thinks he is,” Wheeljack responded dejectedly. “But he…he doesn’t understand. And I don't...”

“Don't what?” Trailbreaker encouraged.

I don’t know if I trust him anymore.

Wheeljack shook his helm. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” he muttered.

“Maybe you both just need some time to cool off,” Trailbreaker suggested, his hand drifting down to stroke Wheeljack’s hip plate.

“Yeah,” he murmured, distracted by the stroking. He probably wants to interface now, he thought resignedly. Guess I owe it to him, after last night. He shifted his nearer leg slightly, granting Trailbreaker greater access to his more sensitive components.

“Feel like getting some energon?” Trailbreaker asked.

Wheeljack looked up, meeting his optics in surprise. “Yeah,” he said after a startled moment, confused yet relieved. “Yeah, okay.”

Trailbreaker released him and rose, stretching his servos, then turned and offered him a hand. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a cube,” he chuckled. “You may have made me more efficient, but I feel like I’m running on fumes."

The proposal appealed to Wheeljack a lot more than the one he’d been expecting, so he accepted the proffered hand readily, letting Trailbreaker pull him to his feet. “I wouldn’t say no to some energon,” he assented, vocal indicators flashing agreeably.

“Great,” Trailbreaker said. “Let’s go.”

**

The common room was nearly empty when Wheeljack and Trailbreaker arrived. Most of the ‘Bots assigned to earlier shifts had already refueled and departed, and the ‘Bots with later shifts wouldn’t begin arriving for at least another joor. The two mechs acquired their rations and settled at an empty table to consume them.

“So what’s on the agenda for today?” Trailbreaker asked conversationally, taking a sip of energon from his cube.

“A weapon,” Wheeljack replied. “The humans want something they can use to protect themselves from the Decepticons.”

“We do that,” Trailbreaker said, frowning. “What do they need a weapon for?”

“For when we’re too busy, or too far away to get there in time, I guess,” Wheeljack said. “I don’t know the details; Optimus and Ironhide handled the negotiations. I’m just supposed to invent it.”

“Any ideas yet?” Trailbreaker asked.

“A few,” he replied, taking a sip from his cube. “I’ll think of something.”

“I’m sure you will,” Trailbreaker said encouragingly, reaching across the table to take Wheeljack’s hand in his own. “And whatever you come up with, I know it’ll be amazing.”

Wheeljack stared at the hand covering his own, feeling flustered. Trailbreaker’s words were kind, flattering even, but his touch made him feel vaguely uneasy.

Trailbreaker, it seemed, was a very tactile sort of mech. He seemed to want to touch Wheeljack constantly, in all manner of circumstances. The other day in the washracks, last night in his quarters, this morning in the berth. He’d even laid a hand against Wheeljack’s backstrut, right between the sensor winglets – a highly sensitive area – as they made their way to the common room.

And now he was holding his hand again.

Wheeljack wasn’t in the habit of touching other mechs so freely. He’d been designed to engineer and repair complex mechanical devices, and had far more sensors in his hands than the average mech. Not as many as a medic, of course, but enough to make excessive touching potentially very…personal.

He probably doesn’t even realize, he thought. Aloud he said, “Thanks.”

“I’ve got to get going,” Trailbreaker said, downing the last of his energon. “Sunstreaker’s escorting me today, and he gets testy if you keep him waiting.”

He nodded, “I can believe it.” Sunstreaker had a notoriously short temper.

Trailbreaker got to his feet, retaining Wheeljack’s hand long enough to give it an extra squeeze before letting go. “I’ll see you later, okay? Good luck with the inventing!”

“Later,” he echoed, giving a weak wave as Trailbreaker departed.

Maybe he does know, Wheeljack speculated, resuming his previous train of thought. He was certain Trailbreaker hadn’t touched him so frequently prior to their interface. In fact up until that point, he couldn’t remember Trailbreaker touching him at all. Every instance in recent recollection had taken place after that night.

Which wasn’t so odd, in and of itself. Since Wheeljack had accepted his request for an interface once, Trailbreaker had every reason to believe he might do so again. If Trailbreaker had been actively pursing that goal, all the touching would have been perfectly understandable.

What made the behavior strange was how often Trailbreaker touched him when interfacing was clearly not his primary goal.

Wheeljack didn’t know what to make of it. He felt continually on edge when they were alone together, endlessly awaiting a request that always seemed imminent, but never actually arrived. It was confusing, distracting, and mildly unnerving.

But as perplexing as the near-constant touching was, it was also…kind of nice. Each touch was like a small reassurance, comforting in a way Wheeljack wasn’t accustomed to being comforted. Every little stroke and caress seemed to transmit an unspoken message – I’m here for you. I’ve got your back.

The effect was…strangely soothing.

Subspacing the remainder of his cube, Wheeljack got to his feet and headed for Command.

**

The atmosphere in the Ark’s command center was unusually light-sparked that morning.

Optimus Prime was there, as was Spike. The human boy was teaching the Autobot leader about an Earth game called “basketball,” and Optimus appeared to be enjoying the lesson immensely.

Hearing the Prime laugh was a rare pleasure, and the sound warmed Wheeljack’s spark. The burden of leadership was a heavy one, but Optimus had borne it without complaint for countless vorns. If anyone deserved a few joors off to enjoy a playful diversion, it was Optimus Prime.

The sound of their game provided a cheerful backdrop as Wheeljack worked, reviewing the specifications the humans had requested for their new weapon. It had to be powerful, mobile, and operable by both manual and remote control. Beyond that, Wheeljack was limited only by his own imagination.

He’d just begun to ponder the various possibilities when Grapple and Hoist arrived, pushing a cart laden with what Wheeljack surmised was a scale model of Grapple’s latest design. The brief glimpse he was afforded looked quite impressive, so he said as much as they passed him on their way to present it to Optimus.

Wheeljack decided his first impression had been accurate when he overheard the pair explaining what the model was – a solar power tower – and how much energy a full-sized version would produce. Back on Cybertron, Grapple would have been hailed as a genius for his creation.

Unfortunately, this was Earth, and Wheeljack immediately picked up on the potential complication Grapple and Hoist had failed to take into account: such an abundant source of energy would be irresistible to the Decepticons. Building Grapple’s tower would be like waving an energon goodie in front of a sparkling. The possibility had evidently occurred to Optimus as well; while acknowledging the brilliance of the design, Prime denied Grapple’s request to construct it.

Grapple accepted the decision meekly, looking crestfallen. Whether Hoist – the more assertive and vocal of the two – would have argued, Wheeljack never found out, because at that moment Teletraan-1 announced that Powerglide had been shot down by Decepticons while on patrol.

His first thought was for Trailbreaker, who was also presently out on patrol. Wheeljack hoped Trailbreaker’s route proved safer than the one Powerglide had chosen.

An astrosecond later, he chided himself for worrying – Trailbreaker had a powerful force field to shield himself with, and Sunstreaker was with him besides. Powerglide had been patrolling alone.

Hoist promptly volunteered himself and Grapple to go and assist the downed Autobot plane. Much to Wheeljack’s surprise, Optimus allowed it. Grapple occasionally helped out in the repair bay, and Hoist was invaluable when it came to maintenance, but both ‘Bots lacked the experience that Ratchet or even Wheeljack had in performing field repairs.

After the pair had departed, Wheeljack made his way over to Prime, asking, “Are you sure you don’t want me to go, Optimus?”

“No, Wheeljack,” Prime replied. “I need you working on that weapon for the humans. Grapple and Hoist can take care of Powerglide.”

“What about Ratchet?” he asked.

“Ratchet’s on leave,” Optimus explained. “He put in a request for time off last night; I approved it this morning.”

“Oh,” he said. Ratchet wasn’t on duty?

“I assumed you knew,” Prime said, a hint of concern coloring his vocalizer. “Didn’t he tell you he was planning to take a few cycles off?”

“He probably mentioned it when I wasn’t paying attention,” Wheeljack said dismissively, his processor racing. “It’s all right, I can cover for him.”

“No, I want you working on that weapon,” Optimus insisted. “We need it as soon as possible. Grapple, Hoist, and Perceptor can cover for Ratchet.”

“Yes sir,” he said. “I’ll get right on it.”

There was nothing more to discuss. Wheeljack left Command and headed for his lab.

He had work to do.

**

Two joors later, Wheeljack threw down his datapad in disgust.

He couldn’t concentrate. He’d been staring at the same schematic for over a breem, and hadn’t made a single notation. He was too distracted by the guilt and anger waging a war within his spark.

Ratchet was on leave.

Ratchet may have been a firm believer in making the most of his off-duty joors, but he rarely took additional leave. This would be the first time he’d done so since they’d crash-landed on Earth. The fact that Ratchet’s uncharacteristic and seemingly spontaneous decision to take a vacation just happened to coincide with their…falling out wasn’t lost on Wheeljack.

An inquiry to Teletraan-1 revealed that Ratchet was presently in his quarters, and had been since the night before. The memory of Ratchet’s stricken expression and desperate pleas arose unbidden in Wheeljack’s CPU, and for an astrosecond he nearly opened a comm link to the medic. The thought of his best friend sitting there, alone in the dark, devastated and distraught, tugged at Wheeljack’s spark.

He slouched lower in his seat, his helm bowing as guilt surged forth to claim its victory.

That was when he saw the paint scrape.

It was on the inside of his thigh, a bold streak of vibrant crimson marring the muted grey. The sight of it made his circuits burn with mortification. Paint scrapes typically came in two varieties: those acquired in battle, and those acquired during extremely enthusiastic interfacing. The location of this particular scrape made it painfully obvious how Wheeljack had come by it; its color significantly narrowed the list of possible mechs who might have given it to him.

And he’d been walking around with it since last night.

His spark quailed at the thought. Had Trailbreaker seen it? Had Optimus Prime?

Wheeljack fervently hoped not. He hadn’t noticed it himself until now, but he’d been pretty distracted lately. He got to his feet quickly, peering down at himself worriedly in an effort to determine if the scrape was still visible when he was standing upright.

As far as he could tell, it wasn’t.

He cycled a sigh of relief. Maybe no one had noticed.

Wheeljack was fairly certain Optimus wouldn’t have commented even if he had – it wasn’t his style – but his interaction with Prime that morning had been relatively brief, and he hadn’t been seated at the time.

Trailbreaker was another story. Wheeljack wasn’t sure if he’d seen the scrape or not. They’d spent far more time in each other’s company, and Wheeljack hadn’t been vertical for all of it.

After a moment’s thought, he shook his helm. Given Trailbreaker’s penchant for directness and the current status of their relationship – if you could call it that – he was sure Trailbreaker would have gotten angry and demanded an explanation if he'd spotted such obvious evidence that Wheeljack had recently interfaced with someone else.

…unless he was trying to be tactful about a delicate subject.

Feeling a renewed burst of guilt, this time for deceiving Trailbreaker, Wheeljack rummaged around until he found a polishing cloth and some solvent, and set about removing the unwanted paint from his thigh plate. As he scrubbed, his guilt began to shift into anger.

This was all Ratchet’s fault.

Wheeljack had only turned to Trailbreaker in the first place because Ratchet had rejected him. If Ratchet had accepted his advances, he wouldn’t have been forced to maintain this elaborate charade of a relationship.

But Ratchet had refused him, and Wheeljack had ended up trapped in his own web of lies.

His cleansing strokes became harder, almost vicious. Ratchet had told a few lies of his own.

Ratchet had insisted he was Wheeljack’s friend, that he could be trusted, but what Ratchet had really wanted – well, that much was obvious. Ratchet had wanted to frag him, probably from the very beginning.

Wheeljack would have been okay with that if Ratchet had just come out and said so. But no, Ratchet had lied, feigned disinterest, ‘faced with any other ‘Bot that took his fancy – all the while relying on Wheeljack’s own reserved nature to ensure that no one else got what Ratchet had decided was his and his alone.

At least until Starscream came along.

Wheeljack glanced down and discovered that the swath of scarlet was long gone. He was on the verge of scouring his own paint off, clear down to the base metal.

He tossed the rag aside with far more force than necessary, recalling with growing resentment how Ratchet had insisted on plugging into him to perform the scan – reclaiming his territory? – how he’d pressed Wheeljack for details about what had happened – enjoying them vicariously? – and how angry – jealous? – he’d become when he suspected Wheeljack might be ‘facing with someone else.

He remembered how Ratchet had threatened to reveal the contents of his confidential medical file to Trailbreaker – no doubt hoping Trailbreaker would be so disgusted by the revelation that he never ventured near Wheeljack again.

He thought about how Ratchet had touched him that night in his office; how greedily, how possessively. He thought about how forcefully Ratchet had shoved his field into him, like he was staking a claim. He thought about how Ratchet had tried to jack into him.

Wheeljack had truly believed his best friend would show more restraint, more compassion than the unwitting Trailbreaker had, but no, Ratchet had shown less.

A hot current of anger simmered through his circuits. That was the worst part of all. He’d trusted Ratchet, and Ratchet had repaid his trust by betraying him in the worst way imaginable. Ratchet had known perfectly well what Starscream had done to him, how Wheeljack felt about it, and he’d still tried to –

Fuel churning in his tanks, Wheeljack forced the thought aside, shoving it deep into the furthest recesses of his processor. Incensed, he swept an arm across the surface of the cluttered worktable, sending tools and datapads crashing to the floor.

No more, he thought, fighting back the wave of despair that threatened to swallow up his rage, to beat him down and consume him completely.

No more.

**

When he received Prime’s comm a couple breems later, Wheeljack planted a hand on the floor to brace himself and forced his feet back under him, rising from where he’d sunk to his knees amid the chaos of scattered and broken equipment.

*Yes?* he asked shakily, hoping the strain in his vocalizer didn’t betray him.

*Wheeljack, I need a status report,* Optimus replied, cutting right to the chase. *What progress have you made on the humans’ weapon? How soon will it be ready?*

Shame flickered through his circuits. He’d barely made any progress at all. *It’s, uh...it's going to be a while longer, Optimus,* he confessed reluctantly. *I’m...I’ve hit a bit of a snag.*

*If you need assistance to get it constructed on schedule, I can send someone to help you,* Prime offered reasonably. *Grapple and Hoist should have returned from repairing Powerglide by now – *

*No, that’s not – that won’t be necessary, sir,* Wheeljack replied quickly, not wanting to admit that he hadn’t even come up with a workable schematic yet, let alone begun assembling a prototype. *I can do it; everything’s fine.*

There was a pause. When Prime’s reply came back over the link, his tone of polite command had been replaced by one far more gentle and hesitant. *…is everything all right, Wheeljack?*

He winced, realizing that the quaver of desperation in his vocalizer must have carried through to Optimus. *I’m fine,* he insisted stubbornly. *It’s just taking a little longer than I thought it would. I’ll have it ready in time, I promise.*

*If you find you need assistance…* Optimus began.

*I’ll let you know, sir,* he replied quickly. *Wheeljack out.* He closed the link, his spark clenching in self-disgust. Now he was lying to Optimus, too.

He shook his helm in denial. No, it wasn’t a lie, not if he made it the truth. He couldn’t – wouldn’t – let Optimus down. Prime and the humans were counting on him. Everyone was counting on him.

He turned back to his workstation with renewed determination, retrieving the discarded datapad. He proceeded to pour every ounce of concentration he possessed into the task, his own tangled emotions fueling his endeavor.

His firm resolve to live up to his leader’s expectations, to convince Optimus that he was still a valued member of the team, not one that needed to be coddled or handled with delicacy, kept Wheeljack working tirelessly throughout the night, pausing only long enough to down the remainder of the energon cube he’d subspaced that morning.

Trailbreaker’s open admiration and unwavering confidence in his abilities inspired him to innovate, to experiment with new ideas he’d never before considered.

And his anger at Ratchet’s betrayal spurred him to look beyond mere damage or defense, drove him to explore the darker avenues of destruction that would lead to the invention of a weapon whose sole purpose was the complete and utter obliteration of its target.

Just after dawn, Wheeljack set down his datapad, drained and exhausted but secure in his success. At long last he’d finalized the plans for the human’s new weapon, and was ready to begin constructing the prototype.

Putting the weapon together took another full day, not including the few kliks he spent hastily refueling and the handful of joors he lost to forced recharge when his overtaxed systems finally shut down. But it was worth it. He finished the weapon right on schedule.

It was a truly devastating creation, more vicious than anything Wheeljack had ever before conceived. Not a mere weapon, but a superweapon. With it, not only would the Autobots and their human allies be able to keep the Decepticon forces at bay, they would be able to eliminate them entirely, removing them as a threat and thereby ending the war.

He called it the Negavator.

**

Wheeljack jerked online with a ragged cry of alarm, sitting up in his berth.

His optics glowed faintly in the dimness as he cast about, trying to remember where he was. As the familiar features of his quarters met his questing gaze, the tension in his servos eased marginally, but his spark continued to pulse frantically.

Another sensor echo.

This one had been worse than usual. For that, Wheeljack blamed the events of the day – and himself.

The first field test of the Negavator had been a resounding success. The humans had been more than satisfied with Wheeljack’s creation, and the admiring comments he’d received from his fellow Autobots had made his spark swell with pride.

Then Soundwave had shown up with his cassettes, and soon afterward Wheeljack’s pride had dissolved into terror and despair.

It wasn’t surprising the Decepticons wanted the Negavator for themselves – any weapon would have interested them, let alone one as powerful as the one Wheeljack had created. The real question was, how had they known about it?

Laserbeak had successfully infiltrated the Ark before, spying on the Autobots and recording their activities. Had the Recordicon managed to get inside Wheeljack’s lab? Had Laserbeak been spying on him, recording his actions all this time?

The thought of Soundwave and the other Decepticons – one Seeker in particular – watching him as he frantically scrubbed Ratchet’s paint off his thigh plate was even worse than wondering what might have happened if Prime or Trailbreaker had noticed it. Unwelcome images had flooded his CPU, imagined scenes of Starscream laughing at his efforts, making crude comments, boasting that his encounter with Wheeljack must have given the Autobot inventor a taste for rough, Decepticon-style ‘facing…

His fuel tank had roiled in self-disgust, and his hands had begun to shake. He’d been all but useless in the fight to keep Soundwave from stealing the Negavator.

His reaction had in turn set off a renewed bout of guilt, terror and self-recrimination that had made him stagger back against the wall, violent tremors assaulting his frame. What had he done? What had he been thinking, creating a weapon of such devastating power? Soundwave had trapped them in the bunker, had a clean run at the Negavator, and Wheeljack, the ‘Bot who had built it, could only stand by helplessly, frozen in terror. His spark had clenched in anguish, filled with a dreadful certainty that he’d single-handedly doomed them all.

From there things had only gotten worse.

They’d managed to drive off Soundwave and the cassettes before they could steal the Negavator, but Wheeljack had nevertheless been consumed by guilt. The Decepticons had very nearly gained control of a weapon powerful enough to destroy them all – a weapon he’d invented – and if not for Inferno’s heroic intervention, Optimus Prime would have been its first victim. Red Alert was damaged defending it, struck by a parting shot from Rumble as the ‘Cons retreated.

It was all Wheeljack’s fault. And it wasn’t over yet.

Concerned that the damage to the bunker might compromise its security, Optimus had decided the superweapon would be better off back at the base. With a heavy spark, Wheeljack had transformed and rolled out with the others, praying they’d be able to get the Negavator back to the Ark before Soundwave returned with reinforcements.

His prayers went unanswered.

They’d barely gotten underway when the Decepticons attacked in force. To Wheeljack’s dismay, this time Starscream was with them. The sound of the Decepticon’s distinctive screeching vocalizer had set his fuel tank churning anew, and turned the energon in his lines to ice.

His spark pulsing in panic, Wheeljack had thrown himself into reverse, no thought in his CPU beyond the desire to escape, a single word repeating itself over and over in his processor like an endless feedback loop – No, no, no, no, no –!

His tires had spun wildly, throwing up a huge cloud of dust that half-blinded him as he swerved, veering around so rapidly that he collided head-on with Red Alert. The impact had thrown the already-damaged Lamborghini clear off his wheels, his circuits sparking.

Ratchet had warned him. His words had echoed in Wheeljack’s processor as the battle raged on around him: You freeze up whenever you see him. What happens the next time we go into battle? What happens if you have to fight him?

I die, Wheeljack’s inner voice had responded, sounding eerily calm. I die, and so do all the others. They die because of me.

Red Alert had been damaged but functional when they left the bunker, but after their collision his logic and reason circuits were fried. No one else seemed to have seen what had happened; Optimus Prime even commented that Red must have been more damaged than he’d thought, sending a painful twinge of guilt through Wheeljack’s circuits.

He was responsible for Red Alert’s injuries, not just the latest but all of them, directly or indirectly. When Red Alert fled from his allies in a paranoid daze, Wheeljack was too overcome by guilt to try and stop him.

Wheeljack had never before failed to put another ‘Bots’ welfare before his own, to provide assistance whenever or wherever it was needed. He’d never before been the cause of another Bots’ suffering instead of the cure.

For a few astroseconds, the shame had been so great he’d wanted to die.

By the end of the day, Red Alert had been saved and the Negavator destroyed. The Decepticons had retreated, and the Autobots had returned to the Ark to celebrate their victory.

But Wheeljack hadn’t felt particularly victorious. He’d forgone the celebration, returning instead to his quarters. He’d collapsed onto the berth, feeling lower than the pavement that had passed under his tires that day.

He was pathetic. A danger to his comrades. Weak. Defective. Utterly useless.

He hated Starscream for doing this to him, for forcing himself on him and making him this way. He hated Ratchet, for betraying his trust, for failing to fix him after he’d promised he would.

But most of all, he hated himself.


*Part 12 is here.*