Wheeljack groaned as his optics flickered online, a sharp ache pounding through his helm. Everything felt off—heavy, even. His servos twitched instinctively, but resistance met him fast. Energon-scorched shackles dug into his wrists and ankles, pinning him against the cold, grimy wall of a barely-lit cell.

“Fantastic,” he muttered, voice laced with sarcasm. “Wake up in a slag pit again. Just how I wanted to start the day.”

His helm turned slightly, trying to scan the area behind him, but there wasn’t much to work with. The faint sound of breathing—someone else—close. Too close.

Wheeljack narrowed his optics, straining to get a better sense of who—or what—was with him. No dice. Whoever they were, they were staying quiet. Which meant either unconscious… or waiting.

He let out a low growl, struggling against his bindings for a moment before slumping back with a clank. “Okay, Jacky. Think. You’ve gotten outta worse than this. Probably.”

A pause.

“…Hopefully.”

He glanced up at the ceiling, vents blowing recycled air, stale with the scent of rust and dust. Yeah. Definitely not one of his top five favorite prison cells.

“Alright, mystery bot,” he muttered over his shoulder, “if you’re a Decepticon, now’s the part where you gloat. If you’re not—well, we better start thinkin’ of an exit strategy before I start improvisin’.”

Wheeljack smirked faintly, despite the pain lacing his frame. “And you don’t wanna see my version of improvising.”