Send me “5 more minutes” to see how my character would wake yours up
[Hey remember this? This is going to be 1 year old in a couple of weeks, and it’s got almost 14000 notes. Yes. This post is why Wheeljack has a notification blocker on this post.]
Traveling through ground bridges always left her with an odd feeling in her tanks; space bridges shifted it from odd to unsettled, making it one of her least favorite forms of travel. As quick as it was, the Wrecker honestly preferred a ship to the swirling green vortex. Even if it took longer.
Terradrift’s pedes hit the ground at a slight jog as she exited the portal, optics surveying her surroundings, and the transformation code to shift her arms into blasters at the forefront of her processor. It turned out to be unnecessary, for she was greeted with nothing. She’d chosen to ground bridge near the coordinates her mysterious contact had provided, but not directly to, just in case it had been a trap, or something dangerous.
She wasn’t too far from the provided coordinates, a mere half a mile, and a rock outcropping that she’d need to skirt the base of to get there. Doing another quick check of her surroundings, she took off, switching to alt mode as she went, engine revving as she lurched forward the moment her tires hit the ground.
Not slowing until after she’d drifted around the outcropping, and even then, not until she was almost upon the crash site, Terradrift came to a grinding halt, switching forms yet again. There’s another quick glance around, but she’s come to the conclusion that the only ones here are herself, and Wheeljack. Approaching him, she can’t help but note the state he’s in, but then her gaze is suddenly caught by who’s with him. Even battered, she’d recognize that particular Predacon anywhere. Her spark skips a beat, and before she even has time to process the idea of him being alive, and being here, she’s darting to his side and kneeling down next to him.
"Darlin?" she calls to him, a slight waver to her vocals. Without the bond, she can’t immediately tell if he’s still online, and the thought of finding him only to lose him rattles her to her core. Servo’s shaking slightly, she reaches for her repair kit and it’s meager supplies, hoping that the scanner inside is still functional. "Jack, I’m here, you’d better not die on me, you hear?"
Being the little shit that he is, Slagheap immediately crawls over and just his neck out to try and take a bite out of Terradrift’s shin plating. The movement’s enough to rouse Wheeljack, optics dimly glowing bfefore brightening with consciousness.
The mech heaves a ragged vent, not daring to trust his optics, but the admonition to not offline now that she’s here is enough to convince him for now.
His only reply is a bleat of tridecimal basic, nonsense. Stubborn as he is, he realizes he can’t find the bond. His chestplates grind open with a pang of loss, a servo jerkily moving to clutch at the damage. There’s a nearly subaudible groan of pain and he let his optics dim out again.
He bleats her name in staticky tridecimal, though, A servo reaching for her and shoving the Predacon’s helm out of the way.
Q:::I will try to locate one for you. Query. Barring a medic, is there anyone else you wish me to locate and inform of your dire situation?::
Hopefully that made any sort of sense. Abbreviating to her nickname probably didn’t help matters, but at least the anon’s been getting the gist of what he’s been saying, even in tridecimal.
Q:The anon doesn't immediately respond, unsure what to make of the vague response it got to it's inquiry. ::Query. Would you like me to fetch someone for you?::
He’d stayed online long enough to get the next message.
Not that he knows who. Not that he knows how the anon can help.
It’s the best he can do.
Look, his logic processors aren’t running at 25% right now, he’s at least TRYING to get help… by asking anons who offer tacos fo rhelp. Yeah that’s going to go so hot, Jack.
Q:::Query? Do you want Taco Bell?::
Wheeljack’s optics barely bother flickering online as he rouses to the ping this time.
And it’s something absurd.
But a stirring in the back of his processor reminds him that maybe instead of telling contacts to frag off in as base a language as he could manage, he should try asking for help instead.
So he just transmits his location, name, and serial number in tridecimal instead.
Go survival instincts, you beat down those lack of socialization skills.
Q:Bother bother bother
Thank you, anon. Wheeljack now knows his comms are still working, if barely.
You’ve also wasted his energy waking him up to check it. At best you’ll get a tridecimal “frag off”.
Broken wiring sparked until it fizzled out, arcs moving from frame to frame, skittering over plating and grounding in protoform or rock. The crash had knocked all three offline, but Broadside’s podfragment had onlined first. A simple tridecimal distress beacon repeated the location of the crash and last known inhabitants of the shuttle in the last Autobot encryption she’d used for communications
If she and her passengers were lucky, someone might even notice. The signal strength isn’t everything it could be, but between the rhythmic repetition of the short message and the somewhat-dated encryption, she could hope someone would pick it up.
Not that she could hope anymore. The podding process had shucked off her primary processors, despite not needing to split spark or protoform for multiple inhabitants. Either she’d die, and her crew with her, or she’d be raised once more to usefulness.
Wheeljack, for his part, was drifting in and out of stasis lock. He managed to shut down most of his systems in a particularly lucid period, stopping the worst of the sparking and conserving energon usage. Slagheap was ‘helping’ by keeping him mostly clean of spilled energon, despite a few broken limbs of his own.
If it kept him from chewing on him like the last several times something had happened? He didn’t mind. Still. His chronometer didn’t function anymore, and there was processor damage that limited his ability to stop the damage from getting any worse. He was lucky he could coordinate well enough to seal what he had. It’d taken several periods of lucidity to work it out.
OOC: I’m coming home? State of the Wrecker + Shuttle Headcanons
Before I do anything else in terms of rousing Wheeljack (again. hopefully this time without dropping his heavy aft), it’s headcanon time to explain how it’s happening.
[I have one pathetic last-ditch hope. Re-watch canon. Re-attain Wheeljack. Play the victim of another shuttle crash, like was planned. Like I did, and then erased because of reasons. At least there’s a reason he could technically be alive. Even if I’ve supposedly killed him.
[because some part of me doesn’t wantn to roll over and give up even though I already have.]
- Continental Sword with Gilt-Brass Hilt, dated late 18th/19th century
- Spanish Dragoon Sword, dated 1776
- Spanish Cup-Hilt Rapier, dated last quarter of the 17th century
- French Cavalry Sabre, dated late 18th century
- Composite English Cavalry Sword, dated circa 1780-90
- Spanish Bilbo Sword, dated 18th century
- Venetian Schiavona Sword, dated late 17th/early 18th century
- English Basket-hilted Backsword, dated last quarter of the 18th century
Source: Copyright 2014 © Thomas del Mar
[Despite my attempts to revive Wheeljack, he’s pretty dead in the water on me. I’m not sure he’ll ever come back right. :\]
- Dated: probably Shinto Period (1600-1764)
- Medium: steel, gold, silver, wood
- Measurements: 66.3 cm long
The sword comes with a soft metal fuchi and engraved kashira, gilded menuki while the iron tsuba presents silver inlays including a crescent moon. The katana has a chiseled silver habaki, a black saya with woodgrain lacquer and mounted en suite with the hilt. The mumei tang comes with a single hole, blade with active grain and billowing temperline in good polish.
Source: Copyright © 2014 Auction Flex