Wheeljack had seen a lot of weird fragging things in his life. Ghost signals. Corrupted codes. Shadows moving where no spark should linger. But this? This was different.

He stood frozen, helm tilted as the wind shifted the ash around him. In the center of the scorched clearing, where no one should be standing—where you had died—stood a frame he knew too well. Familiar… but wrong.

Your optics flickered, faint. Blue once. Now dim and cold.

“Jackie…” Your voice was static and softness all at once.

He reached for the hilt at his hip—and stopped.

“… No fraggin’ way. You’re dead. I buried you myself.”

You smiled. Tilted your head. “Well, I got better.” There was something broken and musical in your voice. Something that made his spark twist in ways no battlefield ever had.

“I’m not like I was, not really. But I remember you. Your voice. Your laugh. The way you looked at me like I was alive long before I ever died.”

Wheeljack stared, vents hissing.

“You’re a Terrorcon. You shouldn’t even have thoughts left.”

You stepped closer, dragging a dented pede behind you, sparks trailing. Your arm twitched when you raised it—half-instinct, half-memory.

“Processors are overrated anyway. I just want to be with you. Even if I smell like death and leave energon stains on the floor.”

Wheeljack’s battle mask slid into place—but he didn’t move.

You tilted your helm again. “I love you. Please don’t shoot me in the spark. Again.”

He sighed, slowly, hand still on his blade.

“…You better not eat my teammates.”

You grinned crookedly, rot and all.

“No promises.”