Disclaimer: Don't own Transformers…

Summary: He was a nice bot. He smiled, he laughed, and he listened, but victory requires sacrifice, and Wheeljack will never forget that. Angst. Wheeljack Analyzing. Character depth. Glorifying, maybe?

Rating: T (Slashy if you squint.)

AN: It's some inane hour in the morning and yet I sat here and wrote this. Anyway, this is just an angsty piece to give Wheeljack depth and a sense of self in abstract terms. In a way, this is very similar to the "When you're Gone" story I wrote for Prowl. Please enjoy.

The Greater Good

"He's kinda crazy."

"Kinda?"

"He is known for being a bit of a loony."

"Too right, mate!"

"He did blow himself up yesterday. Ah could hear da medic screaming at da guy all da way to da rec room."

"Again?"

"Vat vas that?"

"Jack blew himself up again."

"Ya'd think he had a death wish."

"Poor guy. Having to deal with the Hatchet all the time."

"He seems to take it pretty well though."

"Strange guy. Last time I was in Ratchet's company, I nearly sprung a leak."

"He is a nice guy, isn't he?"

"Ya'd have ta be unusually nice ta be da Hatchet's friend."

Yeah, Wheeljack was known for that. Being a nice guy.

Wheeljack beamed with pride as he handed the newly redesigned data pad to his commanding officer, helm panels flashing as he awaited the other's decision, such earnest excitement.

Being trusted to create an electronic database up to the head tactician's standards was not to be taken lightly, and Wheeljack was still a young inventor, virtually unheard of in the Autobot's ranks.

The stoic bot nodded approvingly, a rare occurrence in itself, and Wheeljack nearly leaped for joy.

He was finally being noticed.

A mere three orns after he'd caught the attention of the commanding officers, Wheeljack met the bot that'd become the most stable figure in his functioning in the years to come. No good first impressions either, that bot just so happened to be scowling at him already, blue optics sharp and calculating as they assessed the damage.

"You managed to zap a fragging hole straight through your hand."

A sheepish nod.

"With a plastic-coated wire in a controlled environment."

Another nod.

"Glitch! You'll be the end of me one of these orns. I can see it now!"

Their first encounter was nothing special in comparison to the many that would follow. Still, Wheeljack looked back on it fondly.

Perceptor. Such a sweet bot really, quiet and shy, but so easily excited if just given the chance to express his love of the sciences. It was really very endearing.

Wheeljack decided he liked him immediately, and Perceptor returned the sentiment.

Perceptor expressed his love of traveling along with the other Autobots and just gathering samples for later analysis, in that long-winded way of his of course- not that Wheeljack minded. In return, Wheeljack expressed his desire to further the Autobot cause via the use of his inventions, how he craved peace and yearned for the days he could just create toys for sparklings and tools for workers.

He expressed his need to help save the lives the Decepticons were taking.

Perceptor had patted his arm at the admission and told him he thought it was a wonderful goal, but something in the scientist's expression only made Wheeljack feel like a youngling being told he could be the Prime, even though he was the only one who actually believed it.

Perceptor had seemed almost- sad.

When Wheeljack questioned him, the microscope merely smiled in a poignant sort of way and said Wheeljack was a good bot.

This had confused the engineer, but he hadn't questioned it.

Maybe Perceptor was just tired.

The energon converter was invented: a machine that created energon from most available resources found out on the field, small and travel-sized, but durable for those tight situations.

They called it genius, and by extension, Wheeljack, and he glowed with the praise showered upon him.

Many began to see the potential in him, not all so innocent of thought.

"His name is Wheeljack. He is relatively new to my division."

"Yes. He has potential."

"Indeed, he does."

"However, he is too kind of spark. He will not last long."

"We all start somewhere, and should he die, then it is simply the way of it."

"Indeed."

"What?" Wheeljack just- couldn't fathom what he was being told to do, the blueprints on the data pad becoming a blur across his vision.

The head engineer furrowed his brow ridge in annoyance, and repeated himself.

The Prime was ordering the creation of a weapon that had the capabilities of a mounted cannon, the sheer destructive power, but was smaller and able to be easily transported from base to base. And it was to be done within the deca-cycle, to be used in the upcoming battle.

Confused, and a little shocked, Wheeljack pointed out that he had joined the Autobots to avoid killing indiscriminately, and that such a weapon would rip through armor, walls, and even entire buildings, killing Decepticons, Autobots, and Neutrals alike if they just so happened to be within the blast's path.

The head engineer just gave him a pitying look, one that spoke of experience, before he shook his helm.

Just remember you're doing it for the greater good. Victory requires sacrifice. Remember that. That's what the head engineer had said, and Wheeljack did remember.

He remembered that and chanted it and breathed it and believed it as he placed every wire, turned every bolt, and set every switch.

Later that deca-cycle, Wheeljack would watch in mute horror as his and his colleague's creation tore through the Decepticon lines, winning the battle, but at the price of many innocent bystanders.

Two orns later, it was discovered the Decepticons were also in possession of such a weapon.

Wheeljack could not recharge that night.

Wheeljack was a much liked bot around the base. Kind and open-minded, always good for a laugh or a drinking buddy, but he often spaced out, smile still creasing his optics and helm fins flashing brightly.

Some called it eerie, most called it quaint.

They said he was a thinker that just couldn't turn his processor off, and that's way his mind would drift off occasionally. It was not unusual to see this in geniuses, and so most accepted this reasoning.

Ratchet, however, saw deeper than most.

Many called Wheeljack's behavior that of a genius. Ratchet called it that of a haunted individual.

It was called a spark extractor. It's purpose: to pull sparks from the damaged frames of their owners and hold them in a secure environment until the frame could be stabilized.

It was suppose to save lives.

It was to be a gift for Ratchet. After he'd watched the medic weep himself to recharge after a young spark had guttered out under his care, Wheeljack had decided he didn't want to ever see that again. He cared for the medic.

It was his greatest invention, something that would change the war.

It was suppose to save lives.

Ratchet would be so proud.

That was, until the spark extractor's design blueprints were confiscated by special ops. For 'evaluation', they'd said. Wheeljack had not been so sure about that, but he trusted his fellow Autobots, and so he agreed to remain hushed on the matter.

However, he could never keep anything from Ratchet, and so told him of this development.

He'd never forget the look that crossed the medic's face.

Regrettably, enemy spies stole the spark extractor blueprints in the dead of night many orns later. The team charged with its protection was wiped out.

For many vorns, no one would ever truly know the original inventor of the spark extractor. No one, that is, but the inventor himself and the one it'd been intended for.

Perhaps, that was a good thing.

Later that vorn, the head engineer died, a plasma bullet to the spark chamber, and Wheeljack was elected the new head engineer.

The inventor was not as happy as he'd thought he'd be about the promotion.

He still remembered that weary smile his mentor use to have, and for once, he understood what it'd meant.

Just remember you're doing it for the greater good. Victory requires sacrifice. Remember that.

There are whispers of a Decepticon so terrifying, so immoral, that even Prowl was said to shudder at the mention of his name, a Decepticon inventor with the single, yellow optic.

He was rumored to be the creator of the seeker fleet, of Megatron's fearsome arm cannon, and of the much feared spark extractor. He was said to be without emotion, a sparkless drone programmed with the terrors of sciences unethical, nothing more than a conveyer belt of horrors. A monster.

When asked what he thought on the matter, Wheeljack merely forced a smile to crease his brow and commented on how odd it must be to have only one optic.

They had all laughed at that, but when the group moved off into the distance, Wheeljack was left to wonder.

A monster, they'd called him, a conveyer belt of horrors. Wheeljack supposed he and the yellow-opticed inventor were not so different in that.

When a patient was lost under the care of merciful hands, Wheeljack held the medic as he cried his silent tears of grief and loss.

When new weapons brought new tragedies, Ratchet held the engineer as he cried out his shame and sorrow to the heavens.

"See this, Ratchet. It's my newest assignment." The engineer said, his voice so bright and cheerful.

A lie, that cheer was, an act, and Ratchet knew this.

He stayed silent.

"It's a automatic plasma blaster." That smile- wavering.

"Capable of melting through armor and even eating away at spark energy." Those optics- misting.

"It's a very painful way to die." And finally those blast-worn hands shook, so badly the blaster fell to the floor with a soft thud, so anti-climatic in comparison to the misery it caused its creator.

Ratchet, with his lips drawn into a grimace and his optics searching, put a hand on the other shoulder and squeezed reassuringly, not knowing what else to do.

"You are not a bad bot, Jack. You do not choose to kill. You are following orders."

A sad, haunted smile slipped gracelessly across the other's expression. "Yeah. I just put the weapons in their hands and show them the trigger."

And both were silent after that.

Very, very silent.

Just remember you're doing it for the greater good. Victory requires sacrifice. Remember that.

Jazz. He was a nice guy, he laughed like smooth music and managed to joke with the most humorless of bots, pranked with the best of them and drunk with the others during parties- and he liked to listen as much as he talked.

Bots really, really liked him.

In many ways, Wheeljack supposed he and Jazz were very similar in regards to how others saw them.

He was Wheeljack, nice guy, and Jazz was- well, Jazz, nice guy extraordinaire.

Not many actually stopped to think about what they actually did for a living, what they had to do every time they were called upon to defend the greater good. Not many actually thought to question why Wheeljack spaced out or why Jazz disappeared for joors on end. It simply never occurred to them that this was unusual.

No, they were the nice ones, the ones who listened and smiled and laughed. They were the ones you wanted to be friends with, because somehow, in their minds, Wheeljack and Jazz were the ones untouched by the war. Endlessly humorous and filled with good will.

Jazz put forth this illusion far more efficiently than Wheeljack, but Wheeljack found he didn't mind.

At times, he even craved it.

Sometimes, when he tried really hard, he could even fool himself into believing that Jazz was just a nice guy truly unaffected by the war and mindlessly talk away about his problems with the saboteur late into the night.

Not that Jazz minded. He thrived on information after all.

Sometimes, however, when he was really looking, Wheeljack could see pass the saboteur's mask to something dark and unspeakably sad. Sometimes, he even saw a little too deeply, and Jazz would give him that look.

He would not see the third in command for many orns after that.

Overall though, Jazz was genuinely a good guy.

That is why Wheeljack was shocked, but not too much so, when Jazz made a request that was most certainly not one a truly nice bot would.

The special ops unit needed a device of torture, to extract information from a captive who was unusually tight-lipped for the usually sketchy Decepticons. A device their current Prime would be against full-sparkedly.

Spark extractor.

Jazz knew many things, and though he was not one of those who'd originally knew of Wheeljack's secret creation, he knew things and ways to find out the things he didn't.

Oh, of course Jazz had not said that out right, not while they were in the company of others, but he had implied it, and Wheeljack, despite what others thought, was good at reading in-between the lines when it counted.

It was unethical and demented and just wrong in all sorts of ways, both in Autobot belief and morally, but still Wheeljack merely smiled a weary smile and told Jazz he'd do it and if he'd like the white chess pieces or the black.

Jazz chose black, as was expected.

That night, the inventor cried silently in Ratchet's arms- again.

Just remember you're doing it for the greater good. Victory requires sacrifice. Remember that.

The Dinobots. His and Ratchet's creations, creations Wheeljack himself had wanted to craft with his own hands, a chance to build something that could protect and cherish and be protected and cherished in turn. So young they were, so curious, and- so destructive.

The destructiveness of their nature had not been predicted.

The ongoing joke, they inherited the medic's temper, but Wheeljack saw only himself reflected in their optics, a tainted kind of innocence blackened by a function that ripped away the kindness and softness of the spark.

It had been almost sinful, bringing them into the world, and Wheeljack understood this, and in some small way almost reveled in it, just not quite.

He'd pleaded with Optimus not to destroy them, to have mercy. They were his after all, he had built them, and in some ways, they completed him.

He was a nice bot by nature in any case, and while they were not so kind, the Dinobots were good, almost pure, and Wheeljack-

He had yet to decide what he was.

However, he knew how to smile and laugh and listen, so in a way, he might have been good- in a way

Maybe.

Yeah, he might just be that.

Maybe just a little good, despite who he'd become.

Just remember you're doing it for the greater good. Victory requires sacrifice. Remember that.

AN: So sad. This late at night and I'm close to tears- my eyes are burning, but all is well. Still, poor baby.

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