Work Text:
He spent most of his time amongst the vast arrays of stars hunting shadows.
Glimpses of what he thought could be there, only to find nothing of substance.
And like shadows, they fade into oblivion as you move away. Wheeljack couldn't stop moving. Or else he'd end up a shadow as well.
The prolonged isolation had made him a mix of both desperate and distant. Every instance he'd come across a soul he knew, or those he didn't know, but belonged to his dying faction, he'd be afflicted with a turbulent spark. The flicker of hope rekindled like a match striking a stone. Then only to have that flicker extinguish up in smoke once he witnessed that soul perish. Taken by the energon-stained hands of his own race.
It especially hurt when the victim was a fellow Wrecker.
Wheeljack lived in desire of the past. Wheeljack also lived in fear of the present. He tried to live in hope for the future, though he wasn't sure how much he bought into the idea of hope.
Pyro. Roadbuster. Impactor. Rotorstorm. Countless others. It pained him to know the list of the dead was so long he couldn't name everyone on it.
He began his routine that had become so routine he could turn off his processor and still be able to do it. He stood up from his ship's controls, and stretched his back struts and arms. He's been inside the cramped quarters of his ship for so long, that his joints often locked up. They let out a metallic pop as he rolled his shoulders towards the rear and arched his back.
He paced towards the back of the ship, and checked on his fuel reserves. Running low. Wheeljack frowned and ex-vented quietly.
This couldn't be the finale to his life that he imagined.
He pondered. What were his options? Die from starvation or die from his offlined ship getting pummeled by some cosmic force and being torn to shreds. At least the latter was more stimulating.
Wheeljack wondered if he'd ever see battle again. For a mech who was so accustomed to a battlefield that he wore it on his armor, he craved it. At least, it'll give him a final bout of glory. Something to reignite his purpose.
He gazed down at his servos. Servos that had taken thousands of lives. Servos that chucked grenades at war criminals. Servos that carried injured comrades through blaster fire and brimstone. That placed themselves upon the battered frames of his brothers in their final moments, promising vengeance for their sacrifice. Servos that repaired engines and weapons, servos that were useful.
Now, with their eons of injuries etched into his metal, servos that went cold. That expertly piloted his ship with the precision and grace of a master surgeon who was placing bandages on minor wounds.
Wheeljack didn't consider himself religious. He did believe Primus once existed and walked the primordial ground of his homeworld, but he thought that such a benevolent creator wouldn't allow his progeny to destroy themselves the way they did. Even he reached out to Primus in the back of his mind. Besides himself, he might be the last one to hear his words.
Wheeljack walked a few laps around the Jackhammer. Laps he'd paced through approximately seven million times. He was certain he'd dented the floor at this point.
He'd inspected every corner and bolt in the confines of his vessel. He'd considered rearranging the interior panels just to have something new to look at. After a few minutes of pacing, he squatted down several times. He stretched more. He did push ups. He threw a tool back and forth between his hands.
To keep his grip skills and reflexes sharp, he thought to himself.
He refueled himself with a miserable ration of energon. He only refuelled enough to keep him alive and aware enough to make any sudden maneuvers if necessary.
He kept a vaporizer that Kup had gifted him in a drawer near his compartment of grenades. The old Wrecker always had one in his intake. Wheeljack occasionally took up the same habit after a while, but only in times of absolute distress. There were days, or what seemed like days to him, where he'd get so worked up with existential dread, that he had to use it. The liquid substance within the small device that heated into into a violet mist gave him a buzz and calmed his nerves. Though he wasn't sure what it was, it helped.
He pulled it out and took a few in-vents though his mouth. Within a few minutes, his tumultuous thoughts quelled, and the tension in his neck eased. His processor felt clearer. Now instead of concrete mix, it was mud. He sat on the edge of a small berth that retracted in and out of the wall behind the seats.
He could recharge again. He left an Autobot identification beacon on at all times. He'd set all the ship's alarms and incoming transmission notifications to the maximum volume to wake him if he were in recharge. Though rarely anyone ever pinged.
He laid back onto the berth that was too small for his frame, and closed his optics. He took in the whirring drone of the ship's engines running at their lowest capacity. Along with the cyclical activation and deactivation of the scrubber, purging the air within of contaminants. A cacophony he'd heard all before. Slowly, he felt his systems idle and soon enough, he fell into recharge.
Wheeljack never slept deeply unless he was in a coma or overcharged on engex. He'd grown used to having to embark on the next dangerous mission or haul aft during an ambush at any moment. It's something he's never grown out of, so he doesn't recharge properly. He's often tired but too on edge to rest again.
He'd often emerge from recharge in the same position he was in, in the same environment, to the same sounds and sights as before he laid down.
This time was different.
He nearly had a spark attack when his audials registered the distinct sound of a hailing signal. He essentially fell off his berth, frightened, cursing to himself in Cybertronian as he stood to his pedes. He rushed to sit in the captain's seat.
Before him in the distance was a solar system, not unlike systems he's seen before. He enhanced the image. A single medium, bright yellow star stood in the center. Surrounding it were a series of differently sized planets. One was mostly gaseous and larger than the rest with colored bands decorating its' atmosphere. One was smaller with wide, luminous rings surrounding it. One was tiny compared to those others, a vibrant blue and green and brown with white clouds swirling amidst its' surface like paint in water.
From there the signal was emanating.
An Autobot hailing frequently was requesting an incoming transmission. His spark was letting him know it still functioned.
"Unknown vessel, this is Autobot outpost omega one. Identify yourself." spoke a voice he'd become familiar with. That of the last of the Primes.
Wheeljack's spark was pulsing so fast he was sure they could hear it on the other end. He mustered the energy to reply in the only way he could during a crisis: with humor.
"I've had warmer welcomes from Deception combat brigades." He spoke, grinning to himself like a child.
What he heard next almost killed him from joy.
"Wheeljack!? You old con crusher!" inquired the voice of one of his closest friends. Bulkhead. A fellow Wrecker, a comrade, a brother. Wheeljack could hardly contain his relief. He closed his optics for a second, panic and excitement rattling his mind.
He wanted to hang onto this moment, hoping he wasn't either dreaming or about to witness another tragedy.
"Bulkhead? That you?" He almost couldn't believe he was hearing Bulkhead's voice. His audials were keenly focused on every sound that came from the receiver.
Bulkhead replied with the same amount of enthusiasm for life he had back home. He exchanged words with him and Optimus Prime, who promptly transmitted landing coordinates. Wheeljack indicated he'd be arriving soon.
After the transmission ended. Wheeljack allowed himself to unravel. He was a mech who often held back when it came to his emotions, but here and now, where no one see, he couldn't anymore.
Energon leaked from his optics down his frame. He in-vented and ex-vented loudly as he covered his optics with his servos and continued. He leaned back in his seat where his weary frame rattled. He felt every emotion he'd kept buried deep in his spark erupt.
Maybe Primus had heard him.
Wheeljack hadn't felt energon spill down his faceplates in years. The last time that occured, it wasn't even his own.
His overwhelmed state was interjected by flashes of terror. Soon he'd be within the company of his friend and comrades. Soon he wouldn't bear the burden of loneliness any longer. He wasn't prepared, but he was simultaneously impatient. The thought of seeing another living Cybertronian alive and well frightened him.
The subsequent thought and mental images of them being torn to shreds by vicious cons and lifeblood leaking from their fatal wounds made him hitch and hold his venting. He let out a agonizing noise.
"Not again, please." He whimpered to himself as he finally and shakily released his in-vent.
It took him a few hours to finally stop crying and return to some semblance of normal function. His chest cavity ached, but he decided now that he'd take his chances and proceed. No matter the result, he'd see Bulkhead again.
He'd find his purpose again.
Little did the veteran Wrecker know, his arrival to his refuge wouldn't be as smooth sailing as he thought.