Aw, scrap, no!

Autobot Mishap

Wheeljack sat on the low couch in Xantium, staring at the gray wall. Beside him on the couch, Bulkhead snored loudly.

He glanced aside at his friend, scars across the mech- no, man's arms, black hair falling into his face. 

Whoops.

And events had only gone downhill from there. Every Autobot, whether on base or not, had been... affected, 'infected' as Sunstreaker eloquently put.

They were human, practically helpless. Small. Soft. Fragile. Weak.

But that wasn't the worst, not by a long shot. The worst part, in point of fact, was that Wheeljack knew full well he had been responsible.

Now, he sat awake, racking his mind for a solution.

As humans, they could not combat the Decepticons- providing, of course, that their enemies had not also been 'infected'.

That might level the field slightly.

That stupid weapon.... he scowled. It had malfunctioned... of course it had, he was Wheeljack. Nothing ever worked as it ought.

Wheeljack felt exhaustion dragging him under, his eyes narrowing in futile resistance.

This organic body was not to be controlled as easily as his former Cybertronian frame.

Wheeljack allowed his head to fall back, sleep overcoming him.

Tomorrow.

He would...

Finish.

Tomorrow.....

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