Wheeljack coughs, small clouds of smoke rising up from his singed looking frame. His helmfins spark every few moments. But he is only staring at the bubbling, black mass.. or better.. MESS in front of him. And he had been so sure that this tome would be the time to get it right. Where it would not explode seconds after leaving the heat. Where he wouldn’t get splattered with thick, hot, partly burning and sticky black dough. “Primus damn this Oilcake. I will get it done someday...”
















