Wheeljack (G1) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ye_olde_engineer) wrote2015-05-20 07:18 pm
ye_olde_engineer) wrote2015-05-20 07:18 pm
Entry tags:
END OF AN ERA [Narrative/Closed]
There was no one single incident. Or even a particular timeframe. It was, in reality, a whole long roadmap that he could look back on now, could recognize and trace the threads of influence through various events and interactions. The most recent were merely the final ones apparently needed to at last lead him here.
The storm from a month ago – and even, to an extent, the one last week – had reminded Wheeljack of what he had lost. Not that he needed the reminder. His friends, his loved ones . . . most of them were gone. Even if he went back home for a visit, even if he went back to Sleep, he would never see them again. And those few who still survived? Well, he could only "see" them. He'd never interact with them again. He'd never be with them again.
But it wasn't until the most recent exchange with Dead End – over Starscream, over Motormaster, even over that new Autobot femme – that he really realized the extent of what he had lost.
No . . . no, that wasn't entirely true either, was it? He'd known all along, arguably from as early as his first days here, the first time around. He'd just not wanted to admit it. He didn't really want to now, either, but neither could he – as Sparkplug used to put it – bury his head in the sand and ignore it any longer.
Spark heavy with the weight of what he was planning to do, the old engineer slipped into the Memorial Room, quietly closing the door behind him. He debated for a moment, but then finally turned on the light. What he was about to do, he was doing in private, but he was not going to do in the dark, in shame and in secret . . . even if his only witnesses to the act itself were a collection of lifeless images on sheets of paper and plastic. He let his optics rove over the images, finding the Autobots who had come and gone – Jazz, Optimus Prime (not his, but one he'd respected even if the mech had been far too young for the weight on his shoulders), Jetfire and Jetstorm . . . Blurr . . .
His hand reached out almost of its own accord as his optics locked with those of the young, teal-blue speedster. "You were right, weren't ya? Maybe for your own reasons, but you were right." One fingertip brushed over the teal chest – clean, devoid of any markings, not a speck of red to be seen. His other hand found his own chest – his Autobrand, the stylized face prominent against a white background surrounded by fields of red and green. For a moment, he drew back, away from the wall and into himself, hand pressing the sigil he loved as much as anything he ever had in his life.
I-I can't…
He looked up again, optics finding Optimus Prime . . . not the young one who'd been here, but the other, the one at the center, among the oldest pictures on the wall. "His" Prime. The Prime. Broad of chest and shoulder, tall, sturdy, old – as old as Wheeljack, if not older – wise and kind and selfless and powerful. The mech he had spent half of his very, very long life trying to emulate, to learn from, to make proud. He gazed at the rich blue optics, at once full of strength and devoid of spark – he was, after all, only an image on film, a memory. A long-gone memory.
"Optimus . . . " His vocalizer broke softly with static-y grief and a sense of being lost, forcing him to reset it before he could continue. "My old friend . . . what would ya do if you were here? How would you handle all'a this?"
He drew a deep cycle of air through his vents, letting it out in a long, drawn-out sigh. "'Till all are one.' Wasn't that what you taught us ta believe? That one day there'd be real peace an' we'd be all one race again? No more fightin', no more killin'? No more factions, no more sides, no more hate an' distrust an' division? You knew it'd take time even once the fightin' stopped, an' that not every single last individual would be able ta accept it . . . but you believed it'd be possible, didn't ya? With all your spark. I know ya did. I did too. I . . . I still do, now more'n ever.
"Here, that's possible. An' yet . . . is it? Is the fuel between us all just too contaminated? Is the history just too long, both for individuals an' even across the realities? Are there really so few who'll give the other side a real chance given the opportunity? Or will so much time always be wasted in blindness an' anger, an' maybe people eventually come around an' maybe they don't? Where does it end? How does it end? Fraggit, there's gotta be an end, or else everythin' we've fought for, everythin' we've given up, everythin' we lost will be for nothin'!"
He paused, mentally regrouping as he met the printed optics of every Autobot on his wall – Optimus Prime, Prowl, Jazz, Brawn, Windcharger, Ironhide . . . Ratchet . . . his best friend, his brother. Would they understand? He loved them all so very much. He would never do anything, anything, to dishonor their memories. They weren't here, they would never be, but he needed to know, somewhere in his old and weary spark, that they would understand, that they wouldn't hate or judge him for this. The Autobots who were here . . . he'd long gotten past the point of caring what any of them thought. Except for Skyfire. He'd want Skyfire to understand, even if the shuttle didn't agree. Out of anyone in any timestream, he'd almost certainly get what Wheeljack was doing, and why. Ratchet – the other Ratchet, not "his" Ratchet (Pit, why couldn't it have been his own!?) – had just recently returned from his travels abroad. The medic-turned-Ashura might get it, whether he liked it or not. Sideswipe, of course, never would. Then again, anything Wheeljack did was spawned by Unicron himself in that glitch's optics. The young fragger already hated him with such a deep, burning fury that nothing he did or didn't do could repair that nor even make it worse anyway, so why bother to consider what he'd think? And any other Autobots? The few he was aware of were still too new to the city, still too caught up in their own struggles and hates and prejudices. They'd either come to understand with time or they wouldn't. They might not even recognize him – as himself or as a version of someone else they knew back home – and so they'd never guess anything had changed at all to give him grief over.
It didn't matter. None of it mattered. What mattered was what was in his own spark. The beliefs and the morals that he had fought for, suffered for, died for. He felt them and upheld them as much now as the day he took his oath and accepted his Brand. But there was a time for everything.
Including letting go.
With renewed purpose and resolve, he refocused on the images before him, meeting the dozen-and-more pairs of optics again with shoulders square, head held high. "Till all are one. Keep our faith, keep our strength, keep goin', till all are one. But that day will never come if someone doesn't spark its dawning." He paused, drawing another cooling, steadying cycle of air through his vents and deep into his substructure. He let it out slowly, resolutely, feeling his courage shore up like the pouring of concrete struts around his body and his spark. "Let those who will, follow. An' if no one else here ever does . . . that's fine too. But this is the choice that I make. I do this, not ta turn my back on everythin' I've ever believed in, but as a culmination of the end goal of those very beliefs an' teachings."
Steeling himself, he cupped his hands over his chest, over his beloved Autobrand, and he began concentrating.
The pain started almost immediately, a blooming acid burn that spread across the auto roof of his chest, then dug inward. This wasn't "just" Bending. He wasn't merely making an illusion or a shapeshift or rearranging.
This was a complete Unmaking.
The storm from a month ago – and even, to an extent, the one last week – had reminded Wheeljack of what he had lost. Not that he needed the reminder. His friends, his loved ones . . . most of them were gone. Even if he went back home for a visit, even if he went back to Sleep, he would never see them again. And those few who still survived? Well, he could only "see" them. He'd never interact with them again. He'd never be with them again.
But it wasn't until the most recent exchange with Dead End – over Starscream, over Motormaster, even over that new Autobot femme – that he really realized the extent of what he had lost.
No . . . no, that wasn't entirely true either, was it? He'd known all along, arguably from as early as his first days here, the first time around. He'd just not wanted to admit it. He didn't really want to now, either, but neither could he – as Sparkplug used to put it – bury his head in the sand and ignore it any longer.
Spark heavy with the weight of what he was planning to do, the old engineer slipped into the Memorial Room, quietly closing the door behind him. He debated for a moment, but then finally turned on the light. What he was about to do, he was doing in private, but he was not going to do in the dark, in shame and in secret . . . even if his only witnesses to the act itself were a collection of lifeless images on sheets of paper and plastic. He let his optics rove over the images, finding the Autobots who had come and gone – Jazz, Optimus Prime (not his, but one he'd respected even if the mech had been far too young for the weight on his shoulders), Jetfire and Jetstorm . . . Blurr . . .
His hand reached out almost of its own accord as his optics locked with those of the young, teal-blue speedster. "You were right, weren't ya? Maybe for your own reasons, but you were right." One fingertip brushed over the teal chest – clean, devoid of any markings, not a speck of red to be seen. His other hand found his own chest – his Autobrand, the stylized face prominent against a white background surrounded by fields of red and green. For a moment, he drew back, away from the wall and into himself, hand pressing the sigil he loved as much as anything he ever had in his life.
I-I can't…
He looked up again, optics finding Optimus Prime . . . not the young one who'd been here, but the other, the one at the center, among the oldest pictures on the wall. "His" Prime. The Prime. Broad of chest and shoulder, tall, sturdy, old – as old as Wheeljack, if not older – wise and kind and selfless and powerful. The mech he had spent half of his very, very long life trying to emulate, to learn from, to make proud. He gazed at the rich blue optics, at once full of strength and devoid of spark – he was, after all, only an image on film, a memory. A long-gone memory.
"Optimus . . . " His vocalizer broke softly with static-y grief and a sense of being lost, forcing him to reset it before he could continue. "My old friend . . . what would ya do if you were here? How would you handle all'a this?"
He drew a deep cycle of air through his vents, letting it out in a long, drawn-out sigh. "'Till all are one.' Wasn't that what you taught us ta believe? That one day there'd be real peace an' we'd be all one race again? No more fightin', no more killin'? No more factions, no more sides, no more hate an' distrust an' division? You knew it'd take time even once the fightin' stopped, an' that not every single last individual would be able ta accept it . . . but you believed it'd be possible, didn't ya? With all your spark. I know ya did. I did too. I . . . I still do, now more'n ever.
"Here, that's possible. An' yet . . . is it? Is the fuel between us all just too contaminated? Is the history just too long, both for individuals an' even across the realities? Are there really so few who'll give the other side a real chance given the opportunity? Or will so much time always be wasted in blindness an' anger, an' maybe people eventually come around an' maybe they don't? Where does it end? How does it end? Fraggit, there's gotta be an end, or else everythin' we've fought for, everythin' we've given up, everythin' we lost will be for nothin'!"
He paused, mentally regrouping as he met the printed optics of every Autobot on his wall – Optimus Prime, Prowl, Jazz, Brawn, Windcharger, Ironhide . . . Ratchet . . . his best friend, his brother. Would they understand? He loved them all so very much. He would never do anything, anything, to dishonor their memories. They weren't here, they would never be, but he needed to know, somewhere in his old and weary spark, that they would understand, that they wouldn't hate or judge him for this. The Autobots who were here . . . he'd long gotten past the point of caring what any of them thought. Except for Skyfire. He'd want Skyfire to understand, even if the shuttle didn't agree. Out of anyone in any timestream, he'd almost certainly get what Wheeljack was doing, and why. Ratchet – the other Ratchet, not "his" Ratchet (Pit, why couldn't it have been his own!?) – had just recently returned from his travels abroad. The medic-turned-Ashura might get it, whether he liked it or not. Sideswipe, of course, never would. Then again, anything Wheeljack did was spawned by Unicron himself in that glitch's optics. The young fragger already hated him with such a deep, burning fury that nothing he did or didn't do could repair that nor even make it worse anyway, so why bother to consider what he'd think? And any other Autobots? The few he was aware of were still too new to the city, still too caught up in their own struggles and hates and prejudices. They'd either come to understand with time or they wouldn't. They might not even recognize him – as himself or as a version of someone else they knew back home – and so they'd never guess anything had changed at all to give him grief over.
It didn't matter. None of it mattered. What mattered was what was in his own spark. The beliefs and the morals that he had fought for, suffered for, died for. He felt them and upheld them as much now as the day he took his oath and accepted his Brand. But there was a time for everything.
Including letting go.
With renewed purpose and resolve, he refocused on the images before him, meeting the dozen-and-more pairs of optics again with shoulders square, head held high. "Till all are one. Keep our faith, keep our strength, keep goin', till all are one. But that day will never come if someone doesn't spark its dawning." He paused, drawing another cooling, steadying cycle of air through his vents and deep into his substructure. He let it out slowly, resolutely, feeling his courage shore up like the pouring of concrete struts around his body and his spark. "Let those who will, follow. An' if no one else here ever does . . . that's fine too. But this is the choice that I make. I do this, not ta turn my back on everythin' I've ever believed in, but as a culmination of the end goal of those very beliefs an' teachings."
Steeling himself, he cupped his hands over his chest, over his beloved Autobrand, and he began concentrating.
The pain started almost immediately, a blooming acid burn that spread across the auto roof of his chest, then dug inward. This wasn't "just" Bending. He wasn't merely making an illusion or a shapeshift or rearranging.
This was a complete Unmaking.