Wheeljack's Travels

Even though it's in my signature, I still feel like makin' a thread to promote my little fictions. Not at all long or complicated, they center around Wheeljack's travels post-Loose Cannons, with him ascertaining the nature of Earth and its people.
There's links, but everyone else just includes the whole text, so that's what I'll do.

A Solitary Stroll
The road spun on for miles.
Wheeljack savored the feeling. An empty world, ripe for exploration, was a welcome break from the criss-crossing roads of Cybertron and the battles in seemingly-empty space. He wondered how Prime's team was doing—as he did, intermittently—but again the road cleansed his pangs of guilt for leaving them. Besides, he needed to see if the hunk of rock was worth saving first.
His new alt treated him beautifully. Bulkhead was a master coordinator when it came to picking altmodes. It seemed to be the only thing the lug did right sometimes, but he did it excellently. The tires gripped the rough skin of the asphalt, and every thought became a turn as he was having them. He hadn't seen much of Earth, but their vehicle designs were certainly impressive.
Wheeljack had grown accustomed to the newfound power of his engine. On Cybertron, his boxy cargo-transport form was functional, but little else. To get away from the war had many benefits, the least of which was the ability to take care of one's self. A few rocks of varying sizes, a faded stripe on the road, a pebble here and there—they were his markers. He gently pushed his engine, aiming for precision among the impromptu checkpoints.*
1.2 seconds. 1.23 seconds. 1.19 seconds. The response time was unbelievable. 1.2 se—
wait, what was that?
He slowed down, pulled over. A feeling, deep in his gut. A smell he could recognize. A memory he couldn't quite place.
There, over the hill.*
A black luxury car, stained by mud and washed of its pristine beauty by a long trek. Another car doesn't seem so bad. Why feel trepedation? But then, on the hood.
A Decepticon symbol.
The other car slowed, pulled over. They were both in plain sight of each other, a hundred meters apart. Their engines hummed almost in harmony, one sweet and purring, the other powerful and brisk, echoing across the empty plains.*
They both stopped.
Neither made a sound. Wheeljack's sensors picked up no outgoing communications; the 'con wasn't signaling for reinforcements.*
And there they stood. Minutes seemed like hours, hours like days.*
Wheeljack turned on his engine, headlights illuminating the faded finish of his enemy. But still, it made no move. He pulled up to the luxury car, and still it made no move.*
He engaged his reverse gear, and, eyes trained on the other car, began slowly pulling away. When he thought enough distance was between them, he turned around and went to second.*
The hum of an engine other than his almost spurred him into transforming, but, in his sideview, the agressor—not so, as he now thought—was making the same speed on his previous course.
The Earth is strange, Wheeljack thought. Things are different here.


The Rich Folks
Through countless battles, life-threatening situations, and more explosions than he could count, Wheeljack never counted on dying *of boredom.*
His tires seemed to sag under his weight, dust caked his siding, and more than a few of the tiny flying creatures had committed suicide on his windshield. A rest was in order, but where? Humans had the frustratingly Cybertronian trait of having more journey than destination. Just like his home planet, megamiles of road separated any population center from another. Without any Energon depots or "gas stations" to be found, he faced the unenviable task of calling base for a place to stay.
An intersection in the distance provided an alternative. Though his vision couldn't make out the ends of either direction, it was better than this monotony. He turned, noting the sluggish response of his differential. Earth tech. Can't even handle a few straight days of driving.*
The sky gradually dimmed, and the Wrecker began to think twice about his decision. His tiredness began to present itself. Did his headlights just flicker? The engine sounds a bit fussy...*
A large, rectangular object appeared a few miles away. Dimly lit from below, the structure, supported by struts, sported a human male with a white substance covering his face. The text, faded through many years, still said "BURMA-SHAVE."*
A good place to park. He pulled up to the rectangle, shut his lights off, and let his programming idle.

Light washed over his hood. Wheeljack reactivated his programming, and noted his readouts—systems performing at 20% more efficiency. Energon mixture 59%—
tink, tink, tink.
He almost transformed to fire at the sudden tapping occuring on his rear quarter panel. A small human, covered in dirty fibrous material, was now rubbing dirt off his body. What gives him the right to touch me? Primus, this planet is disgusting.*About to turn on his engine and stop this offense, the Wrecker halted when the human sat down and began addressing him.
"You know, you're different."
His cover blown, Wheeljack prepared to gun his engine.
"In my little town, a few miles down the road, no types like you come around anymore. It's only old, tired men with rusty pickup trucks and bottles of beer."
He stopped.
"My momma said that there used to be your types, when this road got built. Nice, glitterin' cars full of rich men wantin' to spend their money at the capital of nowhere." The human chuckled. "That's what momma calls it. The capital of nowhere. Feels like that sometimes."
It dawned on Wheeljack that the human wasn't talking to him as a Cybertronian, but as a car. What was it talking about? Human nonsense, no doubt.
"Well, she says that we got passed over pretty quick. The glittery cars turned ta rusty trucks and the town lost its life. How d'ya figure? A town having life? That's like a car havin' life. Momma says I'll understand when I'm older."
"I guess this is where the glitter went. You folks just stop at the billboard. Maybe we should move the town here. I bet that'd give the town 'life.'"
The human morosely kicked a puff of dust into the air.*
"Look at me, talkin' to a rich folk's car. The dust is gettin' in my brain, just like Momma said. I guess I'd better head back before she gets worried." It started off, and walked into the distance.*
An hour passed. Wheeljack contemplated what the small human had confided in him.*
His engine purring, he started in the child's direction. Shortly, he came upon a dilipidated human settlement, filled with what must have been "rusty pickup trucks." Metal sheets, hanging from dwellings, creaked back and forth in the wind.*
He felt uncomfortable, even as he paced through the deserted town. When the tiny human said there was no life, he was serious—no trace of human activity seemed to persist anywhere. Suddenly, his gleaming finish and 8-cylinder engine seemed painfully out of place. Giving a hard look around for the tiny human yielded no results, and, not knowing his destination, turned around in the narrow street and sped for the highway. As he departed, Wheeljack was reminded of the settlements exterminated by plagues on Cybertron. Devoid of life, the two seemed strangely similar.
If that's the whole town, Wheeljack thought, I can't blame the rich folks for leaving.

Cool

these are good please do more

Interested in reading any more you do. Wj's character is vastly different from from his G1 counterpart, but he's growing on me big time. Will keep an eye on this thread.

A Quick Fix

A radiator overheated, an energon pump overworked, and a few nasty scorch marks. Wheeljack scratched the hull of his ship morosely, and contemplated the endless cycle of repair he and his ship seemed to be trapped in.
Though the most recent incident with Soundwave and his distraction came to mind, Wheeljack realized that he had been in far more air battles that didn't end with a normal touchdown than he probably deserved. Researching a bit of Earth's dogfighting history, he had come across an old adage that stated, "Any landing you can walk away from is a good one." A scrape against an Energon tower. A flak missile to the thruster. An experimental Decepticon disruptor weapon—Wheeljack began to wonder if his share of good landings was nearing an end.
He shook his head, clearing his mind. Too much time watching war movies, he guessed. The humans had a way of making war seem so terrible. But Wheeljack knew the truth, that war was necessary, and that he could have fun fighting.
He thought of Bulkhead. His little friend, Miko. All the Wreckers that would never come back. Casualties, civilians, soldiers, it followed him wherever Wheeljack went, and he was getting sick, so sick, of walking away from explosions and wreckage and comrades—
A bird crowing in the distance shattered his train of thought. He kicked a stone a few hundred feet, sat down against the hull of the Jackhammer. Pulling out a container of hull sealant, he began to mend a sparking wound, a heat-induced crack in the plating. He looked into the sky of this unspoiled world. Cybertron never had a sky, at least as far as he remembered.
Pyro, Impactor, Roadbuster, Seaspray.
Suddenly, Wheeljack realized he was no longer applying the sealant to the hull. He looked down at his chest, the silvery epoxy partially obscuring his Autobot sigil. A moment of blind rage, a handful of sealant covering, blinding, destroying the suffering associated with this fragged symbol—
Wheeljack paused. Sealant dripped down from his hand in a slow stream.
Absently, he scraped the sigil clean, and applied the epoxy to the ship. The reflection of his blank face in the scarred metal ceased to stare back at him.
"I'm goin' outta my crankcase," he said.

Aw man, that's awesome. Wheeljack shows an inner depth to his otherwise battle-hungry nature. I suppose even the toughest of us suffer under war.

Well done! I enjoy reading these

Originally Posted by Gingerchris Ratchet: "I hear you've been talking smack about me, Bumblebee."

Originally Posted by TylerMirage A wild question appears! Meta uses 'SCIENCE!' It's super effective!

New, probable two parter!

The Blood Races

A road, a horizon, a set of wheels. Wheeljack was beginning to get sick of driving.
Just the same routine, every day. A stalk of grass rustled as he flew by. The bots had the right idea, sitting around their base. At least they got to watch action on their screens once in a while. He'd die before he admitted it, but he was beginning to wish for a less...mobile lifestyle. A flying creature killed itself on his windshield. Ugh.
A twinkling of lights, a frequency of cars, indicated an upcoming city. A place to rest his wheels, at least. Maybe he'd get lucky, find another empty warehouse to walk around in. Not transforming for so long was murder on his servoes. The roughness under his wheels suddenly ceased, and Wheeljack thanked Primus for the transition to actual asphalt.
A blare shattered his peaceful progression, alerting him to another car, but before he could react, it flew by him. It was a garish sight to see, with light painting the ground below it, an enormous protrusion off the back end, and an engine bigger than your average Cybertronian. As it faded from view and the bass he felt on his undercarriage grew weaker, Wheeljack knew he couldn't leave well enough alone. Shifting into high gear, he gave his engine the speed it had long-thirted for as he tore after the strange vehicle.
As he caught up with the car, he learned its occupants were similarly abnormal. Their heads had large spikes, in bright and offensive colors. They reminded him of Miko. Upon seeing him, they yelled incoherently in a non-human language. Wheeljack kept a decent pace beside the car, but it accelerated every time he caught up. Though it wasn't a strain on him, he couldn't figure out why they wanted to get away from him so much.
They approached the city, and the vehicle executed a sharp turn. Are these humans insane? He took the same turn, and into view came a mob of these strange humans, separated by the road. They were screaming and jumping. More of their insane brood, surely. He passed through them a moment before the other car, and it must have been a full hundred feet before he realized the other car had stopped. He halted as well.
In the rearview mirror, he noticed the mob was moving to his position. As they came closer, he made out some phrases. They referred to him "smoking" "the Hong" and "tearing the concrete." They parted and became silent, and the costumed freaks from the other car passed through.
"Who do you think you are?" One of them, the driver as he could make out, stormed forward and came to his side. "Answer me! Nobody comes in and just wins against Hong!" So this was "the Hong."
The human got uncomfortably close to his windows. Wheeljack turned up the tint. It did nothing to stop its petulant rapping on them, however. He decided that this had gone on long enough. With a roar that startled the Hong away, he restarted his engine and sped away. In the background, he could see the Hong waving his fists and screaming, while the other humans had resumed their chatter.
What was that about? Wheeljack had more than he'd like to believe to learn about Earth, it seemed. However, his Energon seemed newly revitalized by the experience, his engine given a new happy hum. Smoking the Hong had given him a rush, a rush he now realized he desperately needed.
Were there any more Hongs to smoke? Wheeljack turned towards the city, and decided to find out.

Oooh, this looks good. Definitely coming back to see the second part, and whatever else you might write.