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When he regains consciousness, something’s buggy—like the neural connection’s gone glitchy. But not a normal glitch. Nah, instead it's like even the glitch's gone glitchy. The rhythm's off—the beat’s too strong and the tempo’s too fast. He’s had enough experience with fritzed neural connections to get a good feel for their vibe and this ain’t it.
Then again, he’s never experienced pushing his mech so hard, so fast, for so long without waking up in the medbay a few days later. And after that last hit— well, waking up in a medbay at all had been looking like the best-case scenario. So, given that he’s lucky enough to have a living neuron left to have a glitchy connection with, he’s willing to give the dissonance a pass.
But the creeping unease isn’t so easy to shake off. And when he sinks into the connection deep enough to initiate the boot up sequence for his visor and see, he’s reminded why he’s lived so long by trusting his gut over his head.
His optical feed is wrong. There’s so much more—too much more. Everything is more clear, more colorful, more vibrant—rather than less. He’s struck a bit dumb, having fully anticipated onlining to a juddering, washed out 360p mess. It immediately, almost painfully, reminds him of the experience of first piloting a mech in peak condition, but this… this is different. He can see everything.
The specks of dust floating around him aren’t just shapeless smudges, but instead clearly discernable metal shavings of every shape and size—like looking at snowflakes under a microscope. Each one lights up in vivid technicolor, mirroring the thousands of lights and bright paintjobs littering the field around him. Somehow, there are colors he doesn’t even recognize which doesn’t make any sense. And he can see them all; his field of vision just goes on and on and on. In the midst of the wonder he briefly wonders if the blast could have supercharged his systems, but he dismisses it just as quickly. More pilots than he’d care to name have gotten fried from much, much less.
Then a sudden movement and a familiar flash of black on white off to his right catches his eye and instantly the new world he’s discovered shrinks down to that one point. A hundred yards away, next to a few crates of supplies and a small white tarp spread across the trampled silvergrass, sits Prowl; his wings drooped and trembling around his huddled form.
Time slows for a moment.
"Prowl— er?” He croaks, hardly audible, as he tries and fails to turn his head to face the other properly. Everything’s so heavy, like his mech is a car without power steering. Exhaustion overwhelms him immediately. Some troubleshooting with a smaller motor test reveals he can hardly even twitch a pinky. The uneasiness he’d only barely beaten back shoots straight past anxiety and directly into alarm.
But if he’s anxious, he ain’t sure there’s a word for what Prowl is. The mech jolts like he’s been shot in response to Jazz’s soft call, hugging his knee to his chest like a child with a stuffed toy. Prowl’s startled electric blue eyes dart around before almost hesitantly coming to rest on Jazz, peeking just above the horizon of his crossed arms.
Jazz is grateful for his visor, not for the first time, as he unabashedly stares back. Prowl’s eyes are as wide as he’s ever seen them and he finds himself bewitched again by the sudden onslaught of colors—have Prowl’s eyes always been so many different shades of blue? Have there even always been so many different shades of blue? And though both Prowl’s huddled position and haunted expression send up more red flags, he can’t help but be mesmerized. A few hundred feet away and he can see Prowl better than he ever has before. He drinks in every new scar, scratch, and freckle-like discoloration on what he’d previously thought was flawless metal. It feels like the first time he’s really seeing Prowl. And though he’s a marred by the occasional scorch mark or dent and a bit muddied by mud or rust on his hands and chest, Prowl is undeniably the most gorgeous thing Jazz has ever seen.
And then the spell is broken when Prowl’s eyes dim and his wings begin to droop back down. His gaze drifts away and his arms tighten even further around his knees, like he’s trying to comfort himself and sink through the ground all at once. The ever-present sense of wrongness floods back into the forefront of Jazz’s. There’s a thousand and one questions he wants to ask, but only one seems emergently important, “Y-you ok?” He rasps.
Prowl’s gaze whips back to him so fast it’s a wonder he doesn’t snap his own neck. Piercing blue eyes fix upon Jazz with such blazing intensity he almost finds himself forced to look away. Instead, he finds the strength to finally turn his head just the tiniest bit further, enough to meet Prowl’s gaze with his own.
All at once, whatever strange fervor that had come over Prowl vanishes and his stern face melts into an expression that Jazz can’t reconcile with reality at first. Since the first moment they’d met and every moment since, regardless of whatever expression he’s actually making, Prowl’s always had a particular look in his eyes—a look of unflinching, unwavering confidence that everything is following a plan that only he knows and he’s just waiting for all the pieces to fall into place…
Right now, though, Prowl looks lost.
It’s a look that’s so antithetical to everything that Prowl is, that Jazz almost immediately finds himself second guessing his first impression. It’s an expression that doesn’t belong on Prowl’s face, that just can’t possibly exist on Prowl’s face and yet his mind’s eye is suddenly flooded with a different scene of Prowl’s ̼͋tormented expression. He’s splaỳ̗ȩ͛d o̘͐ut on ̤͞the g̜̃r̻̃ound, framed̜͑ by chaos, by̭͘ smoke a̢͒n̛̗d debris and laser fire, bu̢̾t he’s desp̯͘è̬rately reach͙̄ing bă͈c̦̽k for Jazz—̻͞
And then he’s back in the present and his head feels like it’s imploding—
—͕̎Li͙͕͛ͤkẹ̤̾̏ a̒ͩ̒ ̞ͮw͔̥̮a͎tḛ̘͓̇̉̐rmelo̱̓n̞̥ ͍̙c̗̑ö̟̮̑̇ͅĺ̦̘͌l̰̜̩ͮͣ́ap͙͐s̞i̜͖̓̚n͇g ̪͒under͓̹̀̒ ͈̭̘ͭ̂͋the͖͔̝̊̈̒ ̮́s̏t̪̼̠ͤ͋ͭr̙͚a͙̽i̭̰ͩͭn̲͔͑ͦ ̟̦̗of̔̚ a ̺̖̰̉͂̚thó̬̻̆ū͇ṣ̳̥̉̔͋a̞̲̹ͭ̒ͭn͇d̽͊ ͚̟͚̓͗͗ḁ͙n̳d̀̓ ö͈͇́̒n̯͚͇ĕ̙͉̈́ ̻ͮr̩̋ub̩͚͒ͪb͐̆͋è̳̖̠ͣ̓r̩ͯ b̰̞͆̔a͓n͖ͯds̭͉̺ asͤ̌ chi̇ͪͦld̠̳̀̐r̳͚en ̺͔̩̄͛̅l̘͓ͭͫá̻u̓̉ĝ͓̝ͮ͗ͅh̍ͅ ͐̑ͥỉń̜̰͉͊̏ ̤̥̖gḽ͇͗ͧe͂e̖̝—̫̈́
No, that’s— that’s from years ago—
—̟̑l͎̇ĭ̺k͎͊ë̪̺͋ ̥͛̍͟t̪̞́̚h̟͆è̟ ̯͛r̗̿à̝i̫̙͘͘ṋ͎͒̓b̲̰͌͠ǒ̜w͎͒ ̥͌o̝͆f̣͕͐̆ ̣̀s̱̃t̨̑r̼͑ò̼̭̃b̺̠̈͂e̮̞̓͊ ̨͡l̦̃i̬̇g̱̻͑͘h̲́t̗̎s͇͕͘͠,̳͈͒͝ ̼̄͌ͅf̛̬l̺͌ā͖s̤̚h̚͜e̯̘̊̚s̠̆͢͡ ͔̻͒̀o̗͠f̡̓ ̬̀p̲͚̏̑y̰̑r̯̜͗͡o̻̫̎̚ţ̀e̳̝̔̓ć̦ḧ̻̝́̔ǹ̙i̫͒c͈̬̀͝s̠̠̔́,̤̬̆̾ ̞̰̀̎a̘͛n͈̓d͙͉̋͡ ͚̻̔̽t̻̀h̺̽e͚͆ ̩̪̆͝b̧͖͋̓a̙͛s̭̐̕͢ŝ͟ ̫͗p̝̂o͐ͅu̡͆n̛̖d̳̑i̡̟̽̆n̨̾g̜̻͌̆ ͖͛w̲̉i̙͇͑̓t͙̉h̪͂ ̫̩́̌t̩͖̊̚ḩ̈e̡̼͊͌ ̠̊b͖͡e̫̚a̪̾t̜͒ ̱̮̀͛ọ̠̀͗f̮͖̈́̍ ̝̚h͑͟ĩ̳ṣ̉ ̝̪̊̄h̤͐ë̮́̿͢a͇̓ŗ̇t͔͑—̣͇͛̇
No— no—
—̻̏l̹͗î̩k̼̐e̦̖̓̏ ̝͘tḣ̝e̼̾ ̡͌b̡͡li̬͊̌ͅñ͕d͍̔i̗̊ng̪͝ ̻̕ḅ̄u̖͡r̨͘s̻͘t ̮̜́̀ò̥f̫̼̿̈́ l͔̅̕ͅig̖̔h̫̏̚ͅt̰̲́̏ ̻͊͜͠a̼̽ṅ̹d b̘͑o̧͗n̖̈e͖͆ ̣̀ratt̖̪͌̈́ļ͠i̫̅n̜̉ģ̣́͗ sḫ̕o̲̐ck̰̐ẁ̛͕̜ave ọ͆̎ͅf̖̀ a̠͒ c̨̟̅̿ollă͉ps̬̒in̟̗͋͑g͉͋ ̳̕s͖̒p̗̤͒͠a̹̔ceb̺̚r̻̾i̢͆d̢͛g͚̐ẽ̪,͈̺͗̋ ̨̟̌͌fî̹r͑͢st ̤̔sh̤̤́̏r̯͠ink̖̖̾̿i̖͖͆̂n̮͂g̱̓ ̥͡d̯̺̆̑o͎̳̅͠w͚̟̾̃n̼̓ ̺͕̌̕ủ̗̰͠n͙͓͗͋t̗̽ḯ͖l̮͠ i̐͟t̝͂’ś̛̥͢ ̧̛͖̐j̘͝u̹͑͟͡s̙̓t̢͐̈͟ ̛̦̦̕a͇̒ ̫̚pi̬͐n͙̐p͔̞̂͠ȓ̮ȉ̖̖̒c͈̀k ̗̌͡ͅof͚̮̍̚ l̊̐ͅͅï̹g͆ͅẖ̿t, b̩̌e̼͐f̪̈́ỏ̲̗͗r̡͠e͓̓ ̖̍ṯ̝̐͘ę̃a͎̽r̲͑͢͡ǐ͙ng͈̘̃͛ ̺͝o̢͡ut̖̤̕͘wǎ̖ṙ͇͕͘d̔͢s̗͑ ̤͗a̖̫̎̽g̞͞a̲͔̕͠in̄͢ ̹̒w̛̜i̗͊th ͇̓ă͟ ̝́v̙̇ė̩n̠̈́g̱̒e̝̕an̑͢cè̥͘͢ ̧͞un̻̬̉͘t̖͑il̨̍͘͢ ī̬͎̍t͎́’̦͡s ̨̔ă͙̥̚ll̟̒ ȧ͙r͕͊o̘͋un̯̯̎̀d̘̕ ̪̿hi͇̖͑̆m̖̪̉̚, ̱͉̀̑ḓ̏r̟͐ağ̗̪͊g͕̯̀̅i̩͂n͎͊g̯̿ ̙̒͜͞h̜̑i̦̓m̫̔ ̭͗i͓͝n̳͡ ̫̂—̰̔
NO.
No— No… that’s— it’s just a memory surge, he realizes.
He throttles back the onslaught of images and before the haze even clears, he’s triggering the emergency eject. Or at least he tries to. The command results in a fat load of nothing; no error message, no chastising 𝙸𝙽𝙲𝙾𝚁𝚁𝙴𝙲𝚃 𝙸𝙽𝙿𝚄𝚃 buzzer. It’s like the command doesn’t even exist.
Fine. Manual override it is then. He pulls up the emergency menu on his HUD and even years of training and countless drills don’t prepare him for the heart attack when 𝙴𝙹𝙴𝙲𝚃 isn’t the first option to great him. Worse still, he’s met with a plethora of unfamiliar tabs and options in place of the usual commands and overrides. Panic sets in harder and faster with each useless page.
In the thrall of a sync, mind inexorably intertwined with systems, it's impossible to tell if the incomprehensible menus are a sign that his mech is fried or that he is. Given the memory decay, he’s not feeling too optimistic about which is which. Either way he needs to eject now before the damage becomes permanent or fatal. If he’s right, though, and it’s his body failing, then he’s got even less time to troubleshoot before another memory surge could—
Recent images of the Autobot’s narrow escape explode across his waking eyes. The part of him scarred by unrelenting training recognizes that what he’s seeing are memories, but the rest of him gets swept up. But each crystal clear image is so far removed from any other memory he can recall—sharpening the closer he scrutinizes it instead of blurring and fracturing at the edges—that the discord of it all prevents him from losing himself completely.
He's captivated. He watches, in pe̗̐rfect clarit̰̒y ̡̄as…
_̠͒__̫̐___̬͠_̨͝_̙̿__̨̱̆͋___̧̜͊̈_̹͖̉͘_̲͚͐͡__̢̠͓́̽̕_͋͢_̳̫̃͂_̝̮̈̈́_̰͎͍̅̋̇__̛̙̙̋_̻̰͋̚_̢̌_̱̳̌̌_̣̦͍͒̅͝_̡̪͐̈́_̨͓̬̼̒̊̾͝_̞̘̒͞_̧̨̺̻̭̉̑̎́́_̡̬̼̹̲͂̒̄͑͞_͚̤͚͖̯͑́̈́́͂_̢̯̗͎͐̓̐̒͘͢_͓͕̜̟̈́̒͆̀͜͠_̞̜̖͙͊͗̽̈́̄ͅ_̦̰̟̝̤̓̅͌̿̽_͚͎̠͎̙͂̋̅̀͡_̳̳͇̰̝̓̃͂̉̊_̨̪̺̰́̎͂͗̕ͅ_͕̪̻͇͙̅̆̊́̍_̫̮̮͇̱̈́̀͐̕_̢̛͔̠̺̦̠̼̈́̄̈̓͛̀͒̕͟ͅ_̧͉̩̯̼̣̪͔͍̏̀͋̽͌̈́̿̆̀_̢͇̺͕̰̩̘̭͊̈́͒̓̀̂̃͋͑͟_̥̯̳͇̗̮̟̹͖͛̅̏̇̇̒̚͞͡_̨̨̡̠̯̻̠̭̹̆̽̓͒̄̃͂͛̚_̨̛͇̼̦͔̗͉̤͙͂̆̋̎̄̌̀͒_̛̰̫̯͔̖̰̬̠͉̎̍͂̾͂͡͝͝_̡̧̠͓̑̑̀̎͘͜_̧̗̼̜̗̿͐̑͌͗_͓͓͓͇̆̃̒̚͢͠_̡̣̮̺͗̍͊̈́͝ͅ_̨̦̟̪̪̀̿̂̌̚_̧̝͈̖̈̐̌̾̿͟_̨̯̝͚͙͛̐͛̓͋_̰̼̹̥͒͆̎͘͞ͅ_̡̤̼̳̻̉̀̓̀̓_̧̨̳͔̹̈͂͘͞͝_̪͍̻̦̣́̂̽̈́̅_̡͍̭̥̅̅̿̌̆͟_̼̬̳̻̟̊̆̓͛͞_̩̖̖̞̠̑̽̑̓͞__̢͎̂̔̇͢_̣̭͔̮͆̋̔͞_̢̺͍̏̑͋_̠͉͚͍̰̀̃̋͘͞___̗̃_̯̄_̙͐_͕̒_̒͟_̗́̇͟_͚͖̀̅__̩̜̏̾_̡̓_͎͠_͉̑_̰̌_̨̣̇͒_̳̄_͔̩̌͡____̺̀_̩̿___̢̂_
The blinding light of a space bridge materialized at the outermost edge of the battlefield, behind the quickly deteriorating Autobot front line. Sirens rang out, indicating both its presence and its meaning. The heavily injured were hauled through the swirling portal almost before it had fully formed. The walking injured quickly followed. And then pandemonium spread as the thinning ranks, and all its deadly repercussions, became obvious to both sides of the war effort.
Anyone not originally panicking had to start somewhere. And most found that out when they discovered each and every retreat route fragged 6 ways from Sunday. Bombed out craters wider than human city blocks pockmarked the area, leveling the native organic wildlife and altering the very geography. Countless grayed frames littered what little untouched ground was left.
Deeper in the battlefield, bots tripped and fell up the steep slopes and as they attempted to navigate the scattered remains under the encroaching Decepticon's constant barrage of gunfire. And each dead Autobot that lay with a gaping a hole in their fleeing back tore a chunk of morale with them and pushed the rest of the escaping Autobots a step towards hopeless defeat.
Jazz, ever the optimist, had instead prepared himself to make a mad dash down the nearest crater wall to rescue the poor schmuck clung to a pile of frames there. But the unmistakable whine of an approaching seeker engine had nixed the rescue mission real quick.
Jazz and a few others ducked into the ruined remains of fallen treehouses and temples. The seeker glided almost lazily over the nearly abandoned battleground like a shark smelling blood. Unerringly, the menace on wings crept closer to the struggling convoy as she attempted to camouflage herself amongst the corpses when it became clear that she wasn’t going to be able to climb over them in time.
The seeker charged and readied his weapons as soon as he made final visual contact. Hidden amongst the debris around the periphery of the crater, the witnessing Autobots charged their own weapons in preparation as well. But they had a crucial little intel on the retreat's progress and routes. And therefore, where they could afford to kick up a party and draw enemy attention without hindering a vital evacuation line. It’d also be neat to know what Trine members they should expect to come raining unholy hell down on their heads as soon as they took out their third, but Jazz had always been good at improvising.
Meanwhile, the seeker crept closer and when Jazz and his current little ragtag battalion had accepted that they had nothing more to work with than what they’d got in front of their faces, they took aim. Like a series of static shocks, mechs jumped to attention. A hum went through the air—not the kind you could hear, but the kind you could feel. (Well Jazz couldn't hear jack, but the rapt attention every mech around him had paid to their comms may have told a different story). And whoever was on the line must have been one all of a DJ, because the second the call dropped, so did the bass.
The bots in the craters, some on death’s door only seconds ago, turned on the Decepticons with a vengeance— bolstered by the sudden communique of just how many friendlies were stashed away above their heads, prepped and ready to blow the Decepticons’ brains out.
Fighting erupted anew in every conceivable direction.
To his left, Jazz peeked between the gaps of shattered buildings. Hundreds of yards away and obscured by debris and smoke, he watched as the last remnants of the fractured Autobot front line reformed and laid down such precise and well-coordinated covering fire that Jazz was briefly awed into wide-eyed stillness.
Blindsided Decepticons fell and the rest scattered. With more freedom of movement than he’d had all day and the mechs in the craters already being hauled to safety, he gave a jaunty 2 finger salute to his makeshift group and headed off.
The fluidity of battlefield was a captivating show in and of itself. But Jazz knew it was much more satisfying to watch who had made it all possible. As he made it deeper behind Autobot lines, he found what he’d been looking for. Above it all, on a raised mound of earth, stood a lone figure, orchestrating their final stand more perfectly than the finest conductor could have dreamed of. Prowl stood poised and regal above the surging river of mechs below, seamlessly ordering each new group into position, a literal beacon of hope to his Autobots. The most brilliant, brave, beautiful, and obliviously self-sacrificial idiot Jazz had ever had the pleasure of knowing.
The regrouping Autobots weathered each subsequent surge of Decepticons with remarkably few losses, if any. Battalion after battalion arrived from the far reaches of the battlefield in faultless tandem. And when a unit had served its purpose, its members were ushered through the bridge at the optimal moment. It wasn’t a song in the usual sense, but it was damn near perfect harmony.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t had long to wallow in his sappiness, before a much more unpleasant sensation had shot straight up his spine. Jazz could safely say that he was what one might call… well accustomed to the feel of imminent danger at this point in his career. But something about this— something about this time was on another level. Despite him, goosebumps raced up his arms and a cold sweat erupted across his brow and back.
With great reluctance, but no other option, he tore his gaze away from Prowl’s otherworldly figure to bear witness to a wholy different brand of preternatural. On the front lines now, a battle between titans raged.
He was pretty damn sure that whoever on Earth had coined “unstoppable force versus immovable object” hadn’t had this particular scene in mind, but damn if it wasn’t the picture perfect definition the phrase. Each killing blow was parried by sword or axe or glanced off a well timed shift of plating in a flawless dance. The eerie stalemate could have gone on for hours or for seconds, Jazz genuinely couldn’t have told you at the end of it.
But there was an end.
Before he’d had the chance to consciously recognize anything had changed, his armor was rattling once more under the smothering feeling of raw killing intent and, in the blink of an eye, the careful balance toppled.
Optimus reeled, battle mask fractured from a hard blow to the face. But he was already recovering before anyone else would have even realized they’d been hit, off-balance for less than a split second. It didn’t matter. Megatron didn’t need a split second to showcase what made him the deadliest mechanism on this side of the known universe. Megatron pivoted around and, betraying its enormity and weight, leveled his canon with instantaneous and unerring accuracy. He couldn’t have even had time to look at his target beforehand—not with how busy Optimus had kept him until that moment.
Unfortunately for Megatron, Jazz hadn’t needed to take a second glance either to know exactly who was going to be at the center of those crosshairs—he’d probably known even before Megatron had. After all, he’d been painfully aware of where Prowl was standing dangerously out in the open the entire goddamn time.
He’d whirled around so fast he’d nearly snapped a cable. The tell tail jolt of something having given way had made his heart drop at first, but when both legs responded and no alarms had shrieked to indicate a critical failure, he dug his toes into energon soaked soil, blessedly found solid purchase, and took off fast enough to have made Blurr do a double take.
Dirt, rocks, and scattered pieces of mech alike splintered under the force of his every frantic footfall. He pushed his throbbing head and mangled mech to the limit and then past it, hurtling forward at speeds that well exceeded the design tolerances of his frame. With each jarring impact, he felt both the internals of his mech—and, distantly, his own flesh and bones—fracturing. Within only a few seconds that had felt like hours, he reached Prowl. At the very end of his endurance, imminent structural failure alarms and pilot injury warnings drowning out most of his senses, he leaped atop the mound and collided with the Praxian with enough momentum to send the other flying—hopefully clear of the blast range.
His vision briefly burst into white from the collision and he was plunged into deafness, but he continued to move, blind and numb. Only… his next step was accompanied by a sickening jolt. Instead of holding his weight, his right leg crumped underneath him like marionette with its strings cut. 𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶: 𝙲𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙲𝙰𝙻 𝚂𝚈𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙼 𝙵𝙰𝙸𝙻𝚄𝚁𝙴 burned across visual feed, superimposed over Prowl’s horrified expression as he desperately reached back for him.
He didn’t feel the impact.
It was like a bit of his life had been skipped over like a scratch on an old CD. One moment he’d been falling and the next he was staring up at the sky, watching pixelated seekers and missiles explode overhead like fireworks on the 4th of July.
Out of the corner of his eye, he’d seen a hazy figure with white wings and red horns rushing toward him. He’d wondered if his whole life was going to be measured in the time it would take the figure to reach him, and whether it would be an angel or a devil when it reached him in the end.
His vision stabilized, just once, when the figure was close enough to touch. For only a split second the figure sharpened into a painfully familiar person—face anguished, but gorgeous—before everything began to fracture and fade away.
Prowl is the last thing he sees.
_______̞̒_____̡̈́___̗̆_̯͠__͎́_̼̊_̰͌_͇͛_̮̩̏̎_͖̀___̼̼̓̀__̮̩̋́_̤̳͇̆͋̈́_͚̜͝͞_̝͓͓̈́̓͑_̗̯̬̂̊̾_͕̂_͔̹̝̟̀̾͘͞_̣͖̹͎̐̈́̉̐_͇̮̻̖̍͊̓̅_̙͓̫̭̓̃̑̋_̰̱̙͐͐̚_͖̣͖͗̓̆_̠̦̭̆̾͡_̺̥̩̎͝͡_̼̻̝̼̾̂̔͌_͕̉_̺̫͇̻̺̆͂̈́̈͝_͉̜̲̩͓̂̂͒̂̔_̻̺͇̜̰̿͂̉́̄_̙̼̮̰͌͒͒́͘͟_̿̒̒͗̂͂̌͋_̫̲̯̼̞̥̼͚̳͔̃͆̀͌͐̂̌̚͞͞_͙͚̘̈́̇͠_̳͕̺̜̣̓̇́̎́_̫̖̦͉́̆̽͞_̛̩͉̩̰̖̼͐̂̎̇͑̀̇̓_̢̨͎̮͔̹̹̆̌̒͊̓͞͠_̻̖̝̜͆̉̇̚͝ͅ_̔̈́̈̒̃͊̓̇̓̈̇͗̑̄̈́̽̊̿̅͋̾́͂͂̎̃̇̈͒̂̓̚̚͞͝͠_̨̛̦̟̤̘̥̤̣̰̮̻̙̮̰̭̤̻̫̻̽̂̽̐̒͗̾́͋̓̿͛̑͗̃̀̕̚͘͞ͅͅ_̡̜̟͍͍̦̠̦̟̭͓͉̯̙͎̦̖̋͋͊̒̌̅͑̋́̊͂̏̓̆͘͘͢͝͝_̧̡͍̩̣͉͑̿͆͑̆͐͢͝_̡̧̛̮̻̖̻̰̦̱͉̥͙̝͚̭͕̙̤͙̝̬̤͉̩̳̞͚̺̲̀̉͋̈́̅͊́̒̈̃̑̀̐̈́̀̓͒̆͆̊̈̒̽̎̒͐͐̓͘̕̕̚͢͟͡ͅͅͅ_̧̧̛̜̫̳̘̝͉̝̐͛̋̂̎̑̌̿̓̕͟ͅ_̼̜̹̠̏̇̕͝_̋̊́̌͆́̀̕_͑̽͐̿̓͆͊͡͠_̢̨̡̳̻̼̰͙̞̳̬̱͎̮̺͎͌̃͊̄̏̽̈́̓̾̂͋́̃͒̈̚͝ͅ__̧̡͍̲̞̭̦̣͓̥̟̣̝̣͙̩̣̪̮̮͙̩̪̻̰͉̣̖̘̤͙̖̎̓̀́̈̾̊͊̋́̓̐̅̀̀̂̈́͗̓̐̀̃̇̊̊̄̀̆̓͐͊͘͜͢͢͡͠͠_͋̀͊̏_̧̧̛̛͙̤̣̠̙͉͎̰͖͈͓̝̫̦̩͖̣̭͆͌̒̈́̏́͗̊̅͒̅͌͆̽̓̑͌͢͞͝͠ͅ_̡̝̣̙͔̳̑̓̔̆̒́̇̐͌͌̚̚͝͞__̙̱̭̹̻̄̌̋̽̀͛̏͛͗̔̍̊͑̀̌̏̋̃̉̔͒͌͆̋̓̽̕͜͞͝͠͠_̡̡̡̡̨̝̭̪̖͕̜̘̮͙̳͖̥̝̗̝͔̹̣̜̬̥̟̠̬͕̻̫̘̗͍͓̣̩̹̭̙̘̥̼̣̪͔̙̈́̍́̇̔̇̍́͒͛̐͛̓̿̌̀̆̋̈̍͋̃̇͂͒̆͊̍͐̃̂̃͐̀̏̀́͐̽͂͛̆̓̅̕̕͘͘͘͢͜͜͞͠͞ͅ_̔́̀͆̈́̍̃̀̏̏͋̕͠͝_̦̠̼̼̮̫̱́͑͛̃͛͊͒̌͜_̛̂̆̂͑̇̄̏̊̄_͕͈͕͉̈́͂̀͑̑̔̄̓̋̒̽͝__̢̨͎̮͔̹̹̆̌̒͊̓͞͠_̻̖̝̜͆̉̇̚͝ͅ_͖̲̆̏_̢̨̬̠̬͙̲̼͇̯̮̤̀̆̽̾̆̂͌͗͒̀̽̿̚͜_̡͎̱̜̼̆̌̽͂͠_̮͓̝͚̮̭̫̫̯̯̾̈̀̉͌͋̓́̿͝_̧̧̛̜̫̳̘̝͉̝̐͛̋̂̎̑̌̿̓̕͟ͅ_̼̜̹̠̏̇̕͝_̢̳͉͚̗̃͊̒̆͘_̿̒̒͗̂͂̌͋_̫̲̯̼̞̥̼͚̳͔̃͆̀͌͐̂̌̚͞͞_̻̺͇̜̰̿͂̉́̄_̙̼̮̰͌͒͒́͘͟_̩͉͔̜̥̓͌̇̀̚͝ͅ_̨͖̺̈͋́̀͒ͅ_͉̰̩̮͌̀̋̉̚͜_̣͖̹͎̐̈́̉̐_͇̮̻̖̍͊̓̅_̪̏_͖̣͖͗̓̆_̺̼̠͗̎͡_̥͔͍̑̀̏̆͘͜ͅ_͕̂_̤̳͇̆͋̈́_͇̪͈̜̞̣̬̯́̓͛̑̐͋̄͠__̮̩̋́__̼̼̓̀__͖̀_̮̩̏̎_̰͌_̼̊_͎́_̯͠__̗̆_̡̈́___̡̈́____̞̒____
He jerks himself from the memory and back to the present to find himself confronted with the same scene, more or less.
Prowl is crouched over him, muddied hands frozen in the air between them, poised as if wanting to touch, but hesitant on where and how. The expression on his face is a cluttered mess of a thousand different emotions, the most pronounced being a strange combo of disbelief and panic.
The expression makes Jazz reflexively survey their surroundings for threats. But the air is clear, free of debris and the overwhelming stench of spilt energon and oil. The atmosphere is calm and quiet and the sky is clear. The evacuation must have been successful. They’re not in danger anymore. He relaxes just slightly only to immediately tense back up when he recalls that he is, in fact, still very much in danger.
It's hard to tell if it’s shock-induced adrenaline or sheer force of will—probably a bit of both if he’s being honest—but he manages to abruptly push himself to sitting. Prowl makes a strained, disapproving noise, and flails around like he can’t decide if he’s going to push Jazz back down or help him up. Ultimately, he freezes just shy of touching Jazz’s plating, still oddly hesitant.
Jazz doesn’t have time to unpack any of that before Ratchet appears out of nowhere, skidding to a halt in front of them. He looks even more incredulous than Prowl, which Jazz wouldn’t have thought was possible if he wasn’t staring him right in the face. And it isn’t an expression he’d thought either of them were capable of making until this moment. It’s a world of firsts today.
But as much as he wants to address the bizarre situation unfolding, he’s got a far more important one that needs settling first—at least if he wants to be neurologically intact enough to address the second situation. But speaking full sentences turns out to be a bit harder than he’d anticipated.
“Need to eje—eject... Something’s wrong w— w—” His explanation fizzles into static as he’s distracted by sensory-ghost input. He swears he can feel the silvergrass blades rustling against his mech’s armor. It’s becoming increasing clear he doesn’t even have the time to explain. “Get me out.” He demands instead, already reaching with both hands for the manual ejection lever on his chestplate.
Prowl visibly flinches at… the statement? the movement? the rising panic that Jazz knows is evident in his voice? He’s not sure. It’s another thing Jazz wants to address, but similarly has absolutely no time for right now. Because priority numero uno is to get out of the cockpit now by manually activating the emergency sequence right her—
Like quicksilver, Prowl snatches his hands away from his chest and holds them in his own trembling ones. Jazz startles from the sudden contact and looks to Prowl’s face, confused. Prowl parts his lips with a sharp intake, looking like he desperately wants to speak, but something flashes across face and he snaps his mouth closed with an audible click of denta. Abruptly, his eyes glaze over and instead of staring at Jazz, he staring through him. The piercing blue light of his eyes begins to flicker.
Jazz makes an alarmed blat of static, trying to draw Ratchet’s attention, but the medic is already stabbing something into the base of Prowl’s skull before Jazz even registers he’s pulled anything out of his subspace. Prowl seizes up at first and Jazz reflexively switches their grips to clasp Prowl’s hands in his. But only a second passes before the tension melts from Prowl and he releases a relieved, albeit shaky, vent.
Jazz isn’t sure if it’s for his sake or Prowl’s that Ratchet goes on like Jazz never said anything and Prowl didn’t just fritz, “How—” Ratchet begins to ask, only to cut himself off and visibly rethink whatever question he was about to ask, which is not comforting, “…are you feeling… Jazz?” He finishes, somewhat lamely and somehow making Jazz’s name sound more like the question than the actual question.
Unsure now if he’s doing it for his own sake or Prowl’s, he decides to roll with it, “Just ‘bout how you’d think,” he says, “Feels like I got shot by a fusion canon.” He clarifies, carefully flexing his hands where they’re tangled with Prowls, as much as to continue attempting to gauge how much time he’s got left as fidgeting out some of his steadily building panic.
But then there’s an audible buzz in the air from the restricted comms chatter Ratchet and Prowl are sending quite literally directly over Jazz’s helm. They exchange some—what they seem to think are, at least—covert looks and some more rapid-fire encrypted messages that grate on Jazz’s taxed sensory systems like sandpaper, before Ratchet turns to him.
“Anything else?” Ratchet coaxes, tone off in such a way that it’s clear he’s fishing for another answer.
“What answer ‘xactly are ya lookin’ for, Ratch?” He snaps with a bit more bite than he’d intended, a little too emotionally and physically frayed right now to be playing 20 questions when there’s only one priority, “Like I told ya already: I need out. Now.”
Ratchet, despite his ordinarily short fuse, has boundless patience when it counts, “I understand that, but I also need to get a read on your symptoms so I can…” Ratchet pauses, and concerningly it’s not to make space for a curse, but for a sigh. “…make a plan here.”
Jazz pauses, considering. An angry Ratchet is what you want, because a cursing Ratchet can fix you and vent his frustrations at the same time. You don’t want a quiet Ratchet, because that means he doesn’t even have enough RAM to form speech as he’s yanking your sorry ass back from the pearly gates. A pensive Ratchet is a whole different beast indeed. Because, terrifying, it implies potentially he’s not even sure what problem he’s looking at right now.
“Why do you feel you need to get out of the mech?” Prowl prompts instead, when enough time’s gone by that it’s clear Jazz isn’t going to or can’t give much more information, “Do you have warnings? Pain? Anything the stands out as particularly noteworthy?”
His first instinct is to say “no”, because at the end of the day he’s still more familiar with his mech’s systems than either of them and he’s more equipped to fix everything that’s wrong with it. But, more importantly than that, Ratchet shouldn’t get tangled up with him when there’s living, breathing (in a manner of speaking) mechs around that may need help.
That being said… he’s just so damn— “Tired.” He admits.
Ratchet cocks a brow, “Tired?” He repeats, already reaching into his subspace pockets and pulling out a menagerie of medical equipment from thin air, “As in fatigued? Or sleepy?”
Jazz knows that they’re technically two different things, but at the moment it feels like a distinction without a difference, “Both? Neither? I donno, Ratch. I’d say I’m over the max neural load I shoulda carried today by ‘bout 4 hours and a fusion canon shot. The fact I can’t even feel the headache I know I got is bad news.”
Ratchet hums in uneasy acknowledgement as he sets up something that bears an uncanny resemblance to a human heart monitor. Almost as soon as it boots up, the thing starts shrieking in unholy fury and one of the measurements at the bottom—which Jazz can’t even hope to guess the meaning of—turns red and begins strobing. Prowl and Jazz both jump at the sudden cacophony.
Ratchet’s eyes go wide and his mouth drops open. The next second Ratchet has Jazz’s mech arm in one hand and a needle Jazz would guess would be about the size of his real arm in the other, poised to insert it. A squiggle of bright pink light trails off the end of the needle and Jazz only registers it’s a canula when he spots the bag of energon strung over Ratchet’s shoulder. Alarmed, he frees a hand from Prowl’s and immediately attempts to bat Ratchet away, “Ratch! I told ya already my systems don’t run on energon! You’ll glitch the whole thing!”
Ratchet expertly evades his uncoordinated flailing—and really, what chance did Jazz have when Ratchet’s gotten an IV in much bigger and much angrier mechs while under fire?—but he seems to make it difficult enough that Prowl finds it necessary to join the fray. Abruptly, he finds his free hand caught tight again between Prowl’s and just because Prowl’s holding his hand absolutely does not make the situation any better! “Prowl!” He admonishes, betrayed.
Prowl, at least, has the decency to look a bit abashed, but he’s also starting to get back that look of steely resolve. He only squeezes Jazz’s hand tighter when he tries to pull away. Jazz immediately recognizes he’s not going to get anywhere with him, not when he’s got that look on his face.
He turns his attention back to the real problem just as Ratchet lines up the needle. With what, Jazz isn’t even sure, because, “My mech don’t even have a line for ya to—” But his sentence cuts off with a blat of static as the sharp sting of the needle entering his arm nearly causes him to bite his own tongue off.
It— it hurt.
Why did it hurt?
He looks to the IV site as though seeing it will explain why he’s feeling it. Instead, baffling, he sees the needle protruding from a visible vein in his arm. He watches, stupefied, as the energon visibly flows into his arm, lighting up the line with energy for a few inches downstream of the insertion site before it fades out.
Ratchet releases him and is already readying to replace the rapidly emptying bag with a new one before Jazz can even process what he’s seeing. And only a split second after he’s done that, he registers that he’s starting to feel better and that quite abruptly makes him feel much, much worse.
The rapid fluttering of his heart is accompanied by the frantic beeping of what looks to be some type of monitoring device set up in front of Ratchet; hooked up, he assumes, while he was distracted with his existential crisis. At the sound, Ratchet’s attention snaps up from whatever other device he’s tinkering with. Prowl uses a thumb to gently rubs circle on the back of Jazz’s hand. “Jazz?” He prompts, voice hesitant, bordering on nervous.
Instead, Jazz’s world narrows down to the simple fact that he shouldn’t be able to feel anything. So the soothing touch is paradoxically as comforting as it is distressing and, instinctively, he eyes up his surroundings for danger, trying to find a threat he can see, can understand, can fight.
Instead, his heightened scrutiny inevitably leads him to investigating Prowl’s hands where they grip his. His eyes track the rusty red stains as they creep up Prowl’s arms. The realization doesn’t strike at once; instead it slowly, hauntingly, sets in the longer he stares at the choledochoscope of different shades of red. He hadn’t recognized it for what it was at first, too distracted by the beauty and variety of the colors. Until now, blood red had always just been blood red.
Prowl seems to recognize what Jazz is suddenly staring at and visibly overrides the urge to jerk his hands away—it’s far too late for that.
“Whose…?” Jazz reflexively begins to ask, mind still a mixed jumble of then vs now, and, on some bone-deep level, unable to accept that all of that could possibly be only his. His state of denial lasts all of a few seconds before the weight of reality settles in. He’s millions—billions even—of miles away from the nearest human.
And Cybertronians don’t bleed.
He continues to stare at Prowl’s hands, not really seeing them, for another few moments, until his gaze is drawn back to the spot he’d seen Prowl when he’d first woken up… and the innocuous little white tarp he’d been sitting curled up next to.
The splotches of red staining the fabric are so easy to see now that he’s looking for them. What’s also evident is that the tarp has been meticulously, carefully, lovingly arranged to conceal what lies underneath. The outline is unmistakable; it’s one that Jazz has seen so often as to be burned into his memory—thousands of them lined up in tidy rows in the aftermath of countless battles.
Panicked, he blindly grabs with his free hand for his chest—for himself, where he should be sitting, flesh and blood. Prowl intercepts his frantic attempt and gently, reverently, guides Jazz’s second hand to join the first where it’s clasped within Prowl’s own trembling blood-soaked ones—before Jazz can touch the gaping wound where he should be.
“Jazz—" Prowl begins, voice impossibly soft.
“How?” He chokes out. The question could mean a thousand things, but Prowl understands.
Prowl looks to Ratchet first for confirmation and receives a curt head shake in response. “We don’t know,” Prowl sighs, looking pained, “Immediately following the blast, you—” He corrects himself, “your mech appeared to be operational, albeit heavily damaged. I quickly carried you through the bridge. Upon arrival, however, your systems had shut down.” He vents, visibly attempting to calm himself, “I forced open your cockpit, fearing that you or your mech had been too severely damaged to allow you to exit. You—” His voice cracks, “Your injuries…" He swallows thickly and his hands squeeze Jazz’s, almost as if to assure himself Jazz is still there, “It was clear that nothing I, Ratchet, nor any human medic could have done would have revived you.”
The confirmation shouldn’t be a shock.
His own corpse is lying over there.
But he still can’t wrap his mind around any of it.
Couldn’t have revived you.
That’s what Prowl had said.
“I’m dead?” He croaks. It doesn’t seem right, because—even though he can’t say he was ever devout or particularly religious at all for that matter—someone on earth had to have gotten religion right… right? And the afterlife actually just being a body swap into a giant mech to live out eternity with a bunch of aliens doesn’t really fit the plot of any of the Big Books he’s ever heard of.
Prowl, bless him, looks like he’s about to send himself into another fit trying to answer that question.
Ratchet, instead, gives him a good clap on the back of the head and takes over, “No.” He says, firmly which is comforting. But then he shrugs, “Unless we’re dead too of course.”
“Ratchet!” Prowl snaps, absolutely scandalized.
Jazz isn’t sure if Ratchet was trying to be comforting or not. But the absurdity of the comment (from Ratchet of all people) and Prowl attempting to hold onto civilized conversation by the skin of his teeth, despite the situation, pulls a startled laugh from him.
All that—tossed together with the insanity of his maybe-maybe-not actually dead predicament as a whole, the startled looks on Prowl’s and Ratchet’s faces, and a significant amount of blood (energon loss?), and head trauma—culminates into one hell of a laughing fit.
Prowl and Ratchet immediately duck closer to try to look him over—snap him out of it maybe?—as he wheezes through cackles that he didn’t know his mech was physically capable of making as his gears and cables cramp like a real diaphragm would.
He doesn’t feel breathless in the same way, but he half-mindedly muses that the mechanics are similar as his giggles die out into soundless wheezes as his vents fail to suck in any more air. Somewhere along the line, he’s pulled his other hand free from Prowl’s surprise-laxened grip and slaps his knee and the ground a few times in his mirth.
Silvergrass seedlings are whipped into the air to flutter around him and dance in a whirlwind above his head, reflecting starlight and swirls of galaxy. He finds himself looking up to watch the colors and lights twirl around him, progressively more entranced by the sight than amused over the situation, and his laughs slowly die out. When the seedlings begin to scatter, he’s left simply staring up into the night sky. Immediately he notices that the constellations are… familiar.
It takes a bit to realize they’re not ones he’s seen in the sky himself, but instead ones that he’s inevitably come to recognize over his time with the Cybertronians; from countless space charts, but also from movie nights, murals painted in the ark’s rec room, history files, and the subtle illumination of Prowl’s habsuite ceiling that he knows Prowl hoped he didn’t notice.
He stares at the stars now, reverently, “Cybertron…” He whispers, digging his fingers into the soil and taking gentle handfuls of dirt and grass alike.
This is Prowl’s home.
But even through the awe, Jazz is abruptly reminded of his own home swimming in an endless black abyss some thousands of lightyears away—if it even still exists.
And that’s the real kicker, isn’t it?
Maybe it wasn’t just Jazz, the human, who had died today. Maybe it was the entire human race and he doesn’t even know.
And worse still, he finds himself horrifically relieved by that. Up until now, he’d had a thousand different nightmares, one for each of the different ways he’d fail to make it home, for every once he’d dream of seeing his family again.
Now the dream’s suddenly the nightmare.
Now, he thinks, suffocating under the shame of it, the worst possible thing would be for his home to still be waiting for him exactly as he’d left it when he can’t go back.
He looks down at the metal of his palms and he can’t imagine what it would be like to hold his little sister’s hand. He can’t imagine how his dad would give him a hug. And worse of all, all he can think of is how—before he could even get to any of that—his mom would greet him on the front porch by demanding he get his ass out of that damn cockpit and give her a kiss.
And the horror and disbelief on her face when he explains he can’t. The screaming, the crying, the denial—
He can’t think of anything more painful. Not even dying.
He’s trembling when Prowl dares to approach again, this time kneeling down in front of him, almost bowing, with his hands clenched into fists where they rest on his knees. “Jazz... I cannot ever repay you for the enormity of your sacrifice.” Prowl intones, to all the world sounding no less composed than usual, but Jazz hears the anguish in his voice. Worse still, though they’re sitting face to face, Prowl isn’t looking at him. He’s glaring at the ground, shoulders bunched to his ears, fists clenching tighter, wings rising to a distressed V, “If I could have predicted it, prevented this from happening— If I could have switched places with you—"
The rest of Prowl’s sentence fuzzes out into white noise; that special type of white noise that only follows a bomb going off. The rare, staticky buzz that only happens after getting struck dumb.
He watches as Prowl continues to apologize, drawing himself into a tighter and tighter knot, becoming more visibly, painfully, stupidly contrite over being worthy of sacrifice. And Jazz falls a bit more in love with him.
A sense of peace, one stronger than anything he’s felt in years even when safe in the deepest recesses of the most fortified base—one he hasn’t realized he’d been so desperately missing—envelops him.
It’s as painful as it is freeing to be reminded that he’d long ago accepted that he may never see his family again. He’d come to terms with it the first time he’d suited up and in each and every time since.
As it is now, he doesn’t know where or when his family is. He doesn’t know if he’d failed and they’d died only yesterday or hundreds of years ago. He doesn’t know if he’d succeeded and they’d lived to old age or if they were still waiting for him, just as he left them.
But Prowl is here.
Now.
Alive.
“I understand… if you regret your decision.” Prowl whispers at last, but the lie is evident in his heartbroken expression; his dull eyes never once straying from the ground.
It twists something deep in Jazz's chest—he supposes he can't call it a heart anymore—and he's already reaching up to cup the side of Prowl’s face before another thought can cross his mind, not willing to let Prowl's doubt last a second longer. At the touch, Prowl finally meets his eyes.
He locks gazes with the sad, stern, beautiful mech in front of him. He may never know the fate of the earth or his family. He can't know whether they'd welcome him home or turn him away. He doesn't even have a single clue how he’s still alive. But as he gently runs a thumb over the smooth metal of the other’s cheek, this time taking a moment to appreciate that he can feel it, he is certain of one thing:
“I don’t regret nothin’, Prowler.”