Down the River
Title: Down the River
Characters: Wheeljack
Verse: Prime
Genres: humor, angst, sci-fi
Disclaimer: Not mine as usual.Summary: Something was wrong.
Wheeljack's recovery from a battle with a Decepticon goes completely awry.
Something was wrong.
An alert tone from the Jackhammer's control console jolted Wheeljack out of recharge. He blinked at it, not really comprehending what it meant for a good few minutes. Just as it shifted pitch and intensity, things finally clicked in his sluggish processor and he grabbed at the controls, juking the Jackhammer a sharp right to avoid a free floating asteroid. That's what the warning had been- an impeding impact.
Crisis averted, the Wrecker eased back on his ship's controls and then put the ship into autopilot. He peered blearily at his hands as he released the controls. Why hadn't he-?
Ugh. Wheeljack's processor felt like it was clogged with engine sludge. His usually quick mind was running slow and he wasn't certain why. Not only that but he could barely recall what he'd been up to and why. His memories were hazy - there had been a fight, he recalled. An encounter with a Decepticon on an isolated moon and the Wrecker had emerged the victor, walking away with both his life and his opponent's energon cubes. Phantom pangs of pain flickered, he'd been wounded, Wheeljack could remember. He'd returned to the Jackhammer, departed and set a course for…set a course for-
A glance through the Jackhammer's logs showed no destination had been set. Because he hadn't had one in mind at the time, he realised with a frown. Wheeljack twisted round and peered behind the pilot's seat. Strewn across the Jackhammer's cabin were his first aid kit and other medical supplies, along with a lot scattered energon cubes. His tool kit for fixing the Jackhammer looked like it had been raided as well. Idly a hand drifted to the front of his chassis, where a dull ache still lingered and fresh welds gleamed silver. Wheeljack has just wanted to be off and hidden away inside the safety of the Jackhammer while he repaired himself. The wound had been serious, the Decepticon had been armed with a heated blade and during the fight, he'd gotten a good hit in and sliced right through the Wrecker's armour.
Wheeljack wasn't a medic. But he'd been on his own for long enough that he was accustomed to doing all kinds of jerry-rigged surgery on himself, sometimes even delving in and messing around with his coding if that's what it took to keep him going. With the few supplies he had on hand, it was as haphazard as any repair carried out on the Jackhammer. But what else could a Bot wandering the deep black do? There simply were no alternatives, one just made do with what they had.
Things were finally coming together now for Wheeljack. He'd been so focused on fixing himself that he'd neglected to set a course, stow away his fresh supply of energon or put on the autopilot. By the looks of things, he'd been so exhausted, he'd fallen into recharge when he'd finally made it to the pilot's seat.
The Wrecker made to stand, determined to clear the mess he'd created away. The cabin spun dizzily and Wheeljack was forced to reevaluate his condition. He'd get to that as well as set a course later, for now, he needed energon and recharge. He unsteadily stumbled towards his bunk , grabbing an escaped energon cube on his way there. Gracelessly, the Wrecker flopped down onto his bunk.
He'd refuel, then recharge and hopefully he'd feel marginally better when he woke up.
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Wheeljack blearily stared at the ceiling and waited for the string of errors to clear his processor. His recharge had not been peaceful, though the details of it were fading fast. None of it had made much sense and he was left with the impression that despite being in recharge, part his processor had actively engaged in…something, instead of all of it shutting down.
Whatever it was, that was unimportant. What was important was that refuelling and recharging had not made him feel any better. In fact, that ache from the front of his chassis was feeling decidedly worse, which resulted in the Wrecker rolling on to his back to alleviate the pain. Wheeljack scowled and draped his arm over the edge of the bunk. He was pretty certain he'd seen his hand built medical scanner lying somewhere on the floor around there before he'd sunk into recharge.
It took a few minutes of feeling around and identifying a range of other different tools and items (empty energon cube, wrench, ooh full energon cube, welder -oh that explained why there wasn't a gaping hole in him anymore and why the tool kit was open) before Wheeljack found the scanner. He finished refuelling on the new cube, activated the scanner, turning it on himself then unwound a wrist cable and plugged in.
Wheeljack frowned as he perished the diagnostic information. It was a simple scanner, nothing the likes a proper medic would work with. Most of what it told Wheeljack, he'd figured out himself while scrounging around the floor for the scanner. He had a large hole torn into him which he'd welded shut. The one good thing about that heated blade was that it had cauterised the wound even as it made it - preventing energon loss. There wasn't much else that Wheeljack could do, aside from let his self repair kick in and hope that that would be enough to take care of things.
It would take time but time was something Wheeljack had in abundance out in deep space. So long as he kept himself refuelled, he'd be alright. And right not, the Wrecker had plenty of energon, courtesy to the Decepticon who'd put him in this condition. The only thing that was bothering him right now -aside from the pain and discomfort- was the mess Wheeljack has made inside the Jackhammer. Wheeljack had never been one for neatness until he'd struck out on his own in a starship. Loose items and equipment that were left out could come back to haunt a pilot. During a fight or an escape, they could distract the pilot, or hit into the controls with enough force to damage them during a particularly daring manoeuvre.
His long lived experience was nagging at the Wrecker to get up a and clean the cabin. Exhaustion and the knowledge that for now, the less he moved around, the better, kept Wheeljack down. He'd sort it out later.
The Wrecker drifted off into recharge again.
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It was several days -or rather what passed for days out in deep space - before the Wrecker was feeling well enough to get at the mess. The pain in his chassis had faded but had not vanished completely. There was still a dull burn where the Decepticon's blade had pierced him. He ignored it as best as he could while he moved about and cleared up the Jackhammer's cabin.
Much of his time was spent in recharge. The sluggishness that had seeped into his thoughts never really left, even though his energon levels were high. The Wrecker shrugged, not all that alarmed about this. He figured that the damage was overtaxing his self repair and the brain drain was a result of that. Another mech might have been concerned over it but Wheeljack's confidence and faith that he'd be fine remained high.
He would pull through this.
He would.
...because really there were no other acceptable alternative outcomes.
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Time passed, though its passage was difficult to track given the blurred state Wheeljack's processor had fallen into. In some ways, it made things easier. The pain was dulled and if Wheeljack had been operating at his full mental capacity, things would have been very boring indeed. He'd attempted to solve a Cybertronian puzzle cube at one point but had given up on it early simply because he lacked the concentration. Most of the time, Wheeljack existed in a semi-fugue state, barely aware of what was going on.
And throughout it all, his frame still ached.
It was persistent and unyielding. Sometimes, it would flare up, sometimes it would taper down to almost nothing but never truly leaving. And while it was certainly tempting to cut all feedback from his pain receptors, it was also the only way Wheeljack had to tell if something was going wrong. There was nothing to be done but wait, certain his self repair would get him through this.
Eventually.
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Things had to come to a head eventually. Wheeljack just wasn't expecting what happened when they did.
He came out of recharge to incredible amounts of agony. There was a fierce burning sensation right in the centre of his chassis, where the wound was, like it had been set on fire. Which it technically kinda had been but that wasn’t important in the here and now.
Wheeljack had rolled out of his bunk, onto the floor and half crawled onto his knees before his mind caught up with the rest of him. The Wrecker forced himself to calm down - the agony was enormous but it had dragged him out that semi-conscious state and he'd regained his self-control. His calm didn't last for long.
What the-?
The Wrecker's hand scrambled around and found the medical scanner. He didn't immediately use it because he was pre-occupied by the fact that his chassis had...bubbled.
This 100% did not look right.
Wheeljack fumbled at the scanner but whatever this was, the piece of equipment had no idea. It could tell him however that some of the protoform that lay beneath the patchjob he'd given himself was up to something. Instead of solid metal, it seemed to have...liquefied?
That couldn't be right, the readings had to be wrong.
The evidence however was right there, right in front of his optics however. Liquid was not quite the right word for it, the fact was that he had protoform bubbling up now from inside himself and pushing against the welds - and dear Primus did that hurt.
Thoughts about what the frag was happening left the Wrecker's mind because this, this was unbelievably painful and there was nothing else he could focus on. He squeezed his optics shut, there was an incredible pressure, building up inside him - burning him up and surely he couldn't go on like this-?
It seemed to take forever before something did give and it felt like it was his frame that had lose the fight. There was a tearing sensation then sweet, sweet relief. With his optics shut tight, the Wrecker did not witness a stream of protoform bubbling its way out of him then splattering itself on the floor next to him, though Wheeljack did hear the wet sound it made. He gave himself a moment to exhilarate in the fact that whatever this ordeal was, it was over, at least for now and he no longer was in pain.
Eventually though, he opened his optics to find out why. The first thing he looked to was himself. The armour on Wheeljack's chassis looked warped and when he lifted a cautious finger to touch it, it depressed under his touch. Okay, totally not alarming at [i]all[/i]. It was not entirely solid but when Wheeljack lifted his finger, his armour sprang back into place. The hole the Decepticon had left in him was gone however, filled in with silver protoform that gleamed dimly amongst the red, white and green of his front.
Wheeljack tried to not let any of this worry him. Protoform given time differentiated into the different parts that made up a frame, perhaps this was a good thing, he hoped. Not that Wheeljack had any idea of what 'this' was, what had just happened to him.
Finally, the Wrecker's optics travelled further to the thing that had dropped to the floor. In his distraction, the stream of liquid metal had slowly coalesced into a silver orb about as large as his hand.
What the-?
Whereas whatever was up with his armour was less solid that Wheeljack preferred, at least it was calm and not...rippling like the ball was. Four spindly spikes would emanate from the centre and would grow briefly, expanding outwards before collapsing back to the central mass. It did this bizarre display for a good long while before giving up and going still, with the occasional ripple through its surface as if to remind anyone watching that it was not simply a ball of metal.
What the ever living frag was going on here?
Wheeljack haunched over the mass and stared suspiciously at it. His first impulse honestly was to destroy it, whatever it was couldn't be good news considering the amount of pain he'd been in to expel it from his frame. The Wrecker strongly suspected that this was why he'd lapsed into that half-awake state and why his self repair had been so slow - his body had been preoccupied with whatever process had led to this. Wheeljack was, in fact, feeling so much better now that it was done, his processor was running optimally and his usual strength had returned. He was also no longer had a hole in him.
The ever curious scientist part of Wheeljack's nature overrode his more destructive impulses. There was no harm in studying this, even though biology and medicine had never really been his trade. Who knew, perhaps the process that led to this could prove useful in future?
...yeah he wasn't fooling himself for a second. Wheeljack had absolutely no desire to go through that again. It worried him, that his protoform had done something so drastic. The Wrecker consulted the scanner again.
Huh.
He hadn't actually lost any of it.
That...was strange.
Well, just as strange as everything else involved in this episode. Wheeljack hadn't used the scanner at regular intervals over the duration of his recovery but when he went back to the previous two scans-
There, a slight increase in protoform mass. Wheeljack squinted at the timestamp. A week ago. A warning side that he'd missed partly because of the state he'd been in, partly because he wouldn't have looked at it anyway even if he had been in the right state of mind. Protoform, as a general rule -one that had been absolutely violated only a few minutes ago - just didn't change, once a spark was placed in a frame.
Which led him to here and now in this very peculiar situation. Wheeljack considered his options, then grabbed a cube and crawled back to his bunk.
He was going to recharge. And this better turn out to be one very fragged up dream when he woke up.
It was not a fragged up dream when Wheeljack came out of recharge.
Now well rested and undeniably in his right mind, the Wrecker stared down at the mystery on his floor. He really didn't want to touch it. But it was bothering him - not only in the sense that it existed and what had happened to make it exist- because it was an unsecured object in the Jackhammer's cabin.
Wheeljack stared. Stared some more. Then sidestepped the matter altogether by getting up and checking on the autopilot.
Still in deep space. Yep. Nothing had changed here. No course set. Wheeljack paused. Stared blankly out into the deep black.
Where did he want to go?
He'd waste time and energon drifting like this. A few taps later and the Jackhammer had adjusted course to a region of space Wheeljack had heard there was a small neutral settlement on an asteroid. Maybe he could trade something for more energon if he found them. The Wrecker didn't actually need any right now but he was always on the hunt for more. The thought to seek out medical help never occurred to Wheeljack. What had happened to him was far too personal to share with anyone but a trusted medic and he had none left alive in this universe.
He'd take each day as it came. The Wrecker had two weeks to his destination. That was plenty of time to figure out what was up.
The first three days, nothing much happened with the weird orb of living metal. Wheeljack had scanned it to no avail. All his handheld machine could tell him was yes, it was made of protoform and yes, it was sitting on his floor. The Wrecker had done some thinking about it, protoform being the very first component of a Cybertronian's frame before anything else. The very base material of his species, aside from the quintessential spark.
But his knowledge was not that deep, Wheeljack's studies on Cybertronian biology was mainly self taught. Picked up as he learnt to maintain and repair himself. Wheeljack had had plenty of glorious stuff ups, mis-wiring his leg and sending it into uncontrollable spasms. Then there was the time he'd tweaked his own coding and had accidentally reduced his vocabulary to one word ('frag', how appropriate). There had been plenty of embarrassing incidents for which Wheeljack was forever grateful that he had been the only witness.
Wheeljack found himself dwelling on this. What if - in his meddling and fumbling repairs, that he'd altered something he shouldn't have? Was it possible that could have led to this incident?
The Wrecker did not know and he had the feeling he would not find out.
On the fourth day of his ruminations, the orb of protoform unfolded and sprouted a pair of arms, leg and a head.
Oh.
Wheeljack stared.
He'd been doing that a lot lately ever since this rodeo into absolute insanity had started. In all his theorising, he had not predicted this outcome. Wheeljack had figured that the mass of protoform would die eventually. It'd melt or finally go solid or whatever but going inactive was the endpoint Wheeljack was assuming it would head for.
Not this...not this at all.
It was undeniably Cybertronian now and it was tiny - the smallest frame he'd ever seen. It'd come up to the top of his shin- maybe. The frame didn't have any colour, just the silver of raw protoform and it lacked any distinguishing features. The frame was completely smooth. At a stretch, Wheeljack would have called it the barest minimum to create a Cybertronian.
The Wrecker privately decided that this 'wait and see what happened' plan had been a bad idea. Because now he was even further out of his depth than before. Earlier, it had been a lump of liquid metal and he could have disposed that without much feeling. By now, his armour had fixed itself so neatly there wasn't a trace of the hole that been punched through it. The protoform that had filled in the gap did end up differentiating into armour, just like he'd hoped. Wheeljack could have written this whole weird blip off as the result of an over-active self repair job or something. Ended the science experiment and ejected the orb out the ship and let space do the rest.
But now it looked like a person and the state of affairs inside the Jackhammer had officially crossed into the 'I have no idea what's going on any more but I want it to end' zone.
So staring it was. Wheeljack indulged in this for a good long while before his thoughts longingly turned to high grade. He had none but that was a conscious decision of his part that would take little to reverse. Deep space was dangerous and the Wrecker had no desire to be caught unprepared because of high grade.
A snap decision was made, he scouted a nearby asteroid and found it utterly barren. Wheeljack landed the Jackhammer and then set about reassembling his still.
It gave him something else to focus on and now the creepy frame lying on the floor in the Jackhammer's cabin. Wheeljack was resolutely not thinking about it and lost himself in the simple enjoyment of working with his hands for a while as he pulled apart a few of the Jackhammer's non-essential systems. The first time he'd built the still, it had been out of spare parts. Then after a vicious fight, when he'd had out on spare parts, the still had been broken into its components and used to fix the ship. Wheeljack knew where each one of the pieces had ended up and it didn’t take him long to unscrew and pry them out again.
Once he'd put it all back together, he left the energon distilling and then wandered away from the Jackhammer. Wheeljack settled down on a rock to take in the view.
It was a rare moment of peace and the Wrecker was going to savour every moment of it simply because they never lasted. He didn't allow himself to reflect on the contents on the Jackhammer, he'd deal with that in due time but that was not here or now.
Eventually his internal timer chimed. Wheeljack had left the high grade brewing for long enough. He wandered back, poured the high grade into some spare cubes, then set about dismantling the still and reinstalling it back into the Jackhammer. He had no intention of consuming the high grade anytime then, it had been more for the distraction that assembling and dissembling his ship and the still presented. But he did have the feeling he was only on the tip of the iceberg and that there was plenty of weirdness left to come.
The high grade would be needed.
Day 5, nothing much happened. The frame was still lying on his floor and Wheeljack really should have done[i]something[/i] about it but he wasn't sure what.
Instead, he resumed the course he'd set before turning the pilot's seat around so he could do some more staring.
The thing was- no matter that this was a frame made from protoform - it lacked a spark. And there was no way to give it one. It wasn't alive, no matter how much it looked like a Cybertronian. It wasn't a person and it wasn't going to be one.
For all intents and purposes, it was an inanimate object. And yet, the idea of shoving the frame away in a drawer felt weird. Wheeljack didn't know where he could put it. It was definitely not going near his bunk, he couldn't stuff it into a storage compartment…
The co-pilot's seat, maybe? Even that implied a certain amount of personhood the Wrecker was uncomfortable ascribing to the frame. The floor wasn't a good spot either but Wheeljack had no better options. Now he was seriously contemplating the high grade. He resisted.
For now.
Day six, Wheeljack did get into the high grade.
Wait, let's go back a little.
Day six, the frame decided it was done being a boring, blank Cybertronian. It has resolved this by sprouting two pieces of metal on its back and the majority of its frame looked eerily like Wheeljack's own.
It didn't pick his colours however. It went green, olive green.
And it had Bulkhead's face.
That last bit was what had driven Wheeljack to the high grade.
It was also day six that Wheeljack finally remembered about budding.
He'd made a good effort and gotten through 3 cubes when his thoroughly overenergized procesor had gone, 'Ha, this is so insane, it's like one of those very old stories of way back when budding was a thing.'
Wheeljack had passed out soon after that but he woke up with the thought still rattling around his head.
Budding.
It was an ancient form of Cybertronian reproduction, so old that it had been lost. Very little was known about it but one of few characteristics that Wheeljack could recall was that it involved protoform bubbling and blistering out of a person and creating a new one.
And Bulkhead...Bulkhead had been the last person Wheeljack had shared processor space with, eons and eons ago. He still fiercely guarded those bits of code his partner had left behind, instead clearing them out when he defragmented his processor. He should have let them go, moved on, let his past remain buried. Instead, it had come back to haunt him in the most ridiculous, painful way.
So he had the process that was responsible for all this madness, Wheeljack still didn't have a concrete 'why' it had happened at all but his best bet lay with all the self-modification he'd done to himself. Something must have been triggered while he'd been recovering from the wound inflicted upon him.
And yet, despite all the deduction he'd put into figure out how he'd gotten into the situation, Wheeljack still wasn't very clear on where he was going from here.
His regret deepened that he'd allowed this science experiment to go on for as long as it had. It would have been better to remain ignorant. This budded frame was a perversity on a relationship Wheeljack held dear above all other things. It was like all his longing and regret had been torn out of him and given a body, made out of his own metal.
The Wrecker didn't know what he was going to do with it but he wasn't going to leave it on the floor anymore, not with Bulk's face. Wheeljack gingerly moved it onto the co-pilot's seat, then retreated back to his own bunk, glaring at it.
It wasn't even alive. He really should just get of it - no one would ever know but him. No one could judge him for it.
But it has Bulkhead's face now and that would stay his hand any time.
Wheeljack found the remainder of his high grade and got very wasted instead.
Day 8, the Wrecker blinked his optics open and immediately regretted it. He had a terrible processor ache and he'd also remembered what awaited him over by the control console.
He spent the rest of the day recharging.
More prepared to deal with his officially fragged up (and high grade less) reality, Wheeljack settled on the pilot's seat, deciding to ignore the frame in the other chair.
This resolve lasted until the frame actually turned its head and stared up at Wheeljack with clear blue optics.
"What."
"The."
"Frag."
It didn't react to Wheeljack's startled voice but when the Wrecker reached for it -though to do what, he had no idea- it was clear that those optics were tracking his hand. Wheeljack paused and then slowly moved his hand to the side, just to confirm what he was seeing.
The optics followed.
Wheeljack let out a very slow exhale. Every time he thought had a grip on this situation, it got shuffled around on him. He barely even knew what to call this thing - 'weird piece of budded protoform that used to belong to me, that had transformed into a frame, now has Bulkhead's face and is active somehow despite lacking a spark?' - much less define his relationship to it beyond 'utterly fragged.'
He exhaled roughled again. It had a fully functional frame and it seemed a processor was ticking away inside the dumb helm somewhere. But no spark meant it would never truly be alive. A drone, then- budded from Wheeljack's own frame through a series of circumstances so unbelievable he was still half convinced this wasn't real.
Wheeljack could handle a drone. In fact, he ordinarily wouldn't have been bothered by the prospect and would have looked forward to it. He enjoyed working with machines. But he wasn't so sure he could deal with one wearing the face of his closest friend. Wheeljack would have found the duplication of himself a little odd but could have handled it. At least that was understandable, even if it was not desirable.
But Bulk's face-
Let's ignore how complicated Wheeljack's feelings were on this matter and just put it down that Wheeljack would very much like to see Bulkhead again and leave it at that.
Day 10, Wheeljack resolved that he wasn't going to talk to it. This was a rule Wheeljack upheld about the Jackhammer and this was really just a natural extension of it. Wheeljack did enjoy his solitude for the most part. It was only when things got particularly rough that he felt tempted to speak and break the silence about it. But even in the security of the Jackhammer, he didn't like to lower his barriers. If he said nothing at all, then he was doing fine.
And Wheeljack was definitely not going to talk to the drone because everything was 100% most certainly fine.
Even if it just kept staring at him with that unnervingly relentless gaze. Guess turnabout was fair and all, as Wheeljack had certainly done his own amount of staring earlier and now he did his best to avoid looking at it -at that face.
The next day, the drone had decided enough with this sitting thing, let's try standing and walking.
Wheeljack came online to the a loud clatter as walking proved too much for the drone. He spied it in a pitiful heap on the floor. Even though the drone wasn't capable of emoting, it looked distraught enough that the Wrecker was over there in a flash.
"Come on, you dumb lug," he said, helping the drone to its feet.
Then Wheeljack froze.
So much for not speaking to it. That's fine, he told himself firmly. He just wasn't going to get attached. It was just a dumb drone with a very familiar face but Wheeljack was going to treat it like any other machine.
He squinted at it. Treat it like any other machine which he'd been ignoring and hadn't given it any form of maintenance and -one quick scan - had rather low energon levels.
Wheeljack fetched a cube for the drone and hold himself that the situation was [i]fine[/i].
He'd been telling himself that a lot lately. It still felt like a hollow lie.
Wheeljack did not admit to himself that he was emotionally attached until three days later.
During that time, he'd taught the drone to walk properly and play with one of his simplest puzzle cubes. He'd also come to realise, over time and with observation, that the drone was completely deaf. It never reacted, not once to Wheeljack's voice. The Wrecker was also pretty certain that it was colourblind as well as it consistently failed one of his puzzles, similar to a human's Rubik's cube. It noticed differences in shapes but not in shades.
He tried not to let that worry him. Really, that the drone existed and functioned at all was impressive. If only he knew more...but Wheeljack didn't. He wasn't a medic. And this straddled the weird line between Cybertronian biology and mechanics. Wheeljack wasn't going to go prodding away at something he had no idea how to fix if he didn't have to. He was content to let the drone be.
It didn't move often. The drone seemed to be most content curled up on the co-pilot's seat, watching Wheeljack. In all fairness, given that they were travelling in deep space with nothing much to do, he probably was the most interesting thing about. And the only thing that moved.
Sometimes, Wheeljack would stare back but that never lasted long, he found it uncomfortable to look at the drone. So he kept himself busy. Went through all his drawers and did inventory, even though Wheeljack knew it all by spark. Pulled out his tool kit and went through it as well, making sure to clean each and every one of them.
Halfway through that, the drone got up and quietly came over and joined him. Wheeljack paused and watched it curiously, but it seemed to be waiting for him so he got back to cleaning. Those small blue optics were intent on his hands and it didn't surprise Wheeljack at all that after a minute or so, the drone picked up the next tool and cleaned it for him.
Demonstrate something enough times and it would eventually learn how to do it. It would easy to mistake this for a sign of sentience but it wasn't. Just mimicry. It would take a spark to change it from going through the motions to actually giving a sense of self that could reason and think.
Still, the smallest shred of warmth and sense of companionship infused Wheeljack. The moment he realised it, he stopped working but the drone kept going and it's self appointed task. The Wrecker closed one optic and sighed.
He wouldn't have cared or worried at all about how he was feeling about the drone if it just didn't have Bulkhead's face.
At least, Wheeljack told himself, he hadn't given the drone a name yet.
There was hope for him (maybe).
An alert tone chimed from the Jackhammer's console. They were finally there.
In truth, Wheeljack had completely forgotten that he'd set a destination at all, so preoccupied with the drone's development. When he ventured up to the controls, he gave the co-ordinates a blank stare before remembering.
There was supposed to be a neutral colony out here.
Judging from the shattered debris floating around that looked suspiciously like the remnants of an asteroid, there [i]had[/i] been a neutral colony out here.
A dead one.
Wheeljack pursed his lip plates together before setting a new course towards what he was certain was Decepticon controlled space. Could have been Cons, could have been a meteor shower, any number of things could have cratered the asteroid. Didn't matter, there was nothing he could do here.
That's just how things went in deep space.
It was much later that Wheeljack found himself cursing the callousness of deep space.
He'd woken to the sound of the drone crashing to the floor. The Wrecker online quickly, getting up with a frown already on his face. Once the drone learned something, it knew how to do it and it hadn't had a problem walking since.
And yet, he found it in a collapsed heap, limbs misfiring and thrashing about. Wheeljack helped it up and off the floor then let go, figuring it could now stand by itself.
The drone stood for one golden moment. Then its legs wobbled and it began to tip over in front of Wheeljack's worried optics before the Wrecker grabbed it again.
It kept thrashing in his grasp and finally, after long days of silence, the drone made its first sound - high pitched, pitiful and undoubtedly a noise of pain and distress, a sound he'd never wanted to hear but did not end. Wheeljack had no idea what to do, he picked it up easily and carried it to his bunk, placing it there for the first time.
Wheeljack scrambled around to find his medical kit and the scanner, even though he knew he was woefully out of his depth. The scanner didn't pick up anything wrong, but its use was limited in most cases anyway. He had no clues, no hint to what was wrong, why the drone was malfunctioning. It had no ports or cables, someplace where he could plug in and run a diagnostic scan. Visually, it looked fine, undamaged-
The problem had to lie with its processor, Wheeljack concluded reluctantly and grimly. He felt something cold inside spread at this realisation. That was something beyond his ability to fix. He could repair a ship's computer but this was the brain module of a Cybertronian even if it was one without a spark. Wheeljack could cause more damage attempting to fix it.
Maybe he should just ride it out and hope that this episode would pass.
Wheeljack stared dully at the floor and tried to ignore its cries and the fact that Bulk's face was twisted up in-
Nothing he could do, he tried to remind himself. Nothing he could do. It was shrieking while flailing and twisting about - he had no restraints, he'd have to hold it down with one hand and then do what? One handed processor surgery? He'd break something for sure doing that.
This had to pass. It would pass. It would end and the drone would be fine.
With one last haunting cry, the drone shuddered and went dead still.
Things were not fine.
It took him two days before Wheeljack finally admitted to himself that the drone was not coming back online. That it was dead in the sense that something was irreparably broken - whatever it was that activated it in the first place. It had no spark and so could not die like a Cybertronian - no spark to gutter and return back to the Well. This was a machine's death and even with Wheeljack's skill as engineer, he could not fix it. He'd taken the drone apart and put it back together again to no avail - whatever had sustained the drone was gone.
There was nothing more that he could do.
Wheeljack gathered up the small body and stood in front of an ejection chute. There was nothing he could think to say, no words that were appropriate. The Wrecker placed the frame inside the chute and pulled a lever, allowing it to be sucked into space.
It was quiet.
End
A/N: After a very strange conversation with a friend, I not at all seriously remarked, "Today I have learned that Wreckers lay eggs."
She, also not at all seriously, responded: "Want to buy a story where Wheeljack lays an egg."
I obliged against her wishes to the contrary and this is the result. I also view Wheeljack and Bulkhead's relationship as platonic but am well aware that this fic can read otherwise.
Also budding is totally a canon thing.