A/N: Set in TF Prime, to the song Enter One by Sol Seppy. It really adds to the feel of the piece. And this is very flawed, as I don't have a beta so... :|
After a storm
I wanna let go
Of the things that I've done
Without any worry
I wanna come home
Jazz stared at the carnage before him.
Praxus lay a shattered ruin all around his feet. Jagged spikes of metal were all that remained of once-graceful towers and sky-bridges, a mockery of the ancient city's splendour. Smoke rose from the remains of the residential district in which he stood. Bodies were scattered about as though tossed by a spiteful giant. Some dead, some dying, some just piles of blown up parts. The air was rank with the stench of seared energon and spilled coolant. Ash flicked down from the blackened sky like some foul snow of the apocalypse.
A wild keen rose above the moans of the dying and snapping of fire, and it took Jazz a moment to realize it was his own voice. The black and white mech crashed to his knees in the rubble, totally helpless to do anything.
In a fit of rage, blinking past the coolant attempting to spill down his overheated faceplate, he used one clawed hand to shred the purple brand seared into his chest. Energon leaked and wires sparked, but Jazz paid t no mind. the physical discomfort was no match for the roiling emotions in his spark.
This was his fault. This whole massacre... he had seen Megatron's descent into madness and lust for war consume him, had watched the once-proud Decepticons fall from righteous liberation in a slow but steady transition into tyranny. With each passing day, the lives he had taken weighed more heavily on his conscience.
And yet he had stayed because he had taken an oath. Jazz was many things, but a traitor was never one of them. He was honour-bound to the Decepticon cause and there was nothing he could do about it. His own inaction had led him here, to the streets of Praxus, to send intel back to Darkmount in preparation of the upcoming assault. Jazz quickly came to the conclusion that in he'd done his job too well and had been sent to the city for the express purpose of being bumped off. This was not such a surprise; Jazz had a sharp mind and that fact had scared the Special Ops commander enough to warrant the murder of his best mech.
Finally, Jazz's vocalizer gave out with a spat of static. His vents stuttered harshly, and the white mech forced himself to his feet. He ignored the aching gash in his side -in fact, he quietly was both thankful and tank-churningly guilty that the damage was so limited- and made his way toward the first frame.
He heaved the inert body over, and immediately wished he had not. There was a mess of tangled wires and caked energon where a face should have been. Jazz purged his tanks.
Despite his growing horror, the mech continued on, turning over bodies. He didn't find an online body that could have been saved, and so sat with the dying until either they slipped into stasis lock or guttered out in front of him. Jazz forced himself through his grisly task, not just because of how intensely guilty he felt, but because he would not have wanted to die alone.
He had covered half the street, or rather what remained of it, when a new sound hit Jazz's audios.
Immediately the mech raced towards the source of the sound, throwing rubble away from a low-slung housing unit with fervour. Trapped beneath the piles of broken metal was a tiny figure, impossibly small. He chirped fearfully at the strange mech and gazed up with big blue optics. Curled around the little one was an adult Praxian, not dead, but offline. Jazz redoubled his efforts to move the heavy debris.
The adult shifted, onlining himself for the sake of the sparkling in his arms. Jazz immediately called out, "Hold on there, I'll get ya out."
The Praxian groaned softly. Jazz could not see his face but could imagine the grimace adorning it. His doorwings were sparking in a way that looked quite painful.
"Get.. the child..." he gasped out, shifting to let the tiny sparkling escape through the small opening Jazz had made. Jazz nodded, reaching into the gap. He pulled the little one out, mildly surprised when he scampered up over his spark chamber and magnetized himself there. Shaking himself, Jazz resumed his task.
After almost a joor, he managed to free the trapped Praxian. As he climbed through the hole Jazz had made in the rubble, he caught sight of the insignia and rank etching on the mech's collar strut. His vents seized.
Before him was one of the most feared Autobots in existence, the Head Tactician and Second In Command.
Prowl showed no sign that he recognized the notorious Decepticon agent, and Jazz sent a thankful, silent prayer to Primus or whatever gods were listening for that small mercy.
The Autobot made a move to stand, but his knee joint gave out, forcing him to the ground. Jazz hesitated only momentarily before kneeling by the Praxian's side and began repairing the leaking, sparking hole that was the source of the pain.
A minute passed between them. "You are injured," Prowl said. Jazz was startled by how controlled the voice was. No static, no whine, nothing to suggest that he was missing a large part of his knee joint and was suffering damaged door wings.
"Ya're not lookin' so hot yaself, Commander," he replied.
"Why?" Prowl asked after a moment.
"Why what?"
"Why save us? Your reputation precedes you, Jazz. Effective, cold, brutal. You don't do anything without a reason."
Jazz felt a thrill of icy fear shoot through his spark. He stilled. "The 'Cons went too far this time. I was expectin' an assault, not mass genocide," He said carefully, resuming his repairs.
But instead of accusation, Jazz saw calculation when he finally met the mech's optics. He was grateful for his visor, which hid the terror suddenly felt.
It was then that the little 'bot chose to remove himself from Jazz's armour and skittered down to plant himself on the Autobot's chest. In response, Prowl thrummed his engine soothingly and flicked still-sparking doorwings in silent communication, Jazz guessed, that he was safe. This was quite the contrast to the rumoured-emotionless mech that dominated the nightmares of every Decepticon grunt.
Another silence passed between them. Jazz continued to work. While certainly no medic, the Decepticon had had to repair himself both in the field and after higher-ranking officers "disciplined" him that he had some first aid skills. It had saved his spark more times than he liked to count.
"Is he yours?" Jazz asked, breaking the tense silence.
"No," came the even reply, "I found him in the Crystal Gardens, alone, when the attack began."
"Ah."
Prowl's optics suddenly grew distant and Jazz knew he was receiving a comm. Then the Commander spoke with every ounce of authority, staring him down.
"Jazz, there will be a rescue team here in one minute. One of two things will happen. Either you come with us as a prisoner of war peacefully and if you wish we can examine the possibility of allowing you to defect. Or you can leave now and I will consider us even, though I cannot ensure that my subordinates will not pursue."
By the end of his speech, Jazz could hear the roar of nearing engines.
"I can't go back to the 'Cons. Somebody wants me dead, and anyways, I'm done. There's no honour in keepin' ties with 'em just 'cause I swore an oath," He said finally.
Prowl stared, seeming to see Jazz right through to the protoform. He was overwhelmed by how much he wanted the Autobot Second to be satisfied by what he saw. Prowl seemed to find whatever he was looking for and nodded.
"I will comm ahead and inform them of the situation," The Praxian said.
The rescue team arrived in a timely manner, as Prowl had predicted. Heading the charge was a young medic whose name Jazz didn't know, a tough-looking younger mech he recognized as Springer, a red femme, also unknown, and none other than Optimus Prime himself. Despite the SIC's warning, the party transformed with weapons drawn and aimed directly at him. Jazz was grateful for the visor hiding his fear-widened optics.
The medic transformed and immediately pushed past Jazz and attended to the damaged Second. He hummed in surprise at the neatly done patch on Prowl's knee, then after determining that his remaining injuries, while painful, were not life-threatening, turned to the quiet youngling in Prowl's arms.
"Prime," Jazz said, bowing his helm respectfully. He upturned his hands and held them to the sides of his body in a gesture that said, "I am without weapons."
The large mech dropped his weapon, though his stance remained wary. "If you intended to harm us, I am sure we would be long dead. However, for the safety of everyone involved, you will be treated as a prisoner of war. This will be an uncomfortable experience, but if you are serious, your cooperation here will do much good in the future," he intoned in a rumbling bass. Jazz had realized this all of course, but it shook him nonetheless. He fought off a wave of anxiety at the idea of being taken prisoner and surrounded by some of the most dangerous mechs on the planet. He worked hard to steady his voice and was somewhat pleased by the result.
"I understand, sir. I got nothin' left ta go back ta, anyhow," Jazz replied. The weight of the Prime's gaze made him feel two inches tall. He didn't protest verbally, though his instinct screamed alarm, when the red and blue mech stated, "Very well. Firestar?"
At his gesture, the red femme stepped up and withdrew a pair of stasis cuffs. She was flanked by Springer and Optimus as she secured his slightly-shaking hands in front of him and proceeded to disable his weapons, comms and subspace.
The now-repaired Prowl took his Commander's place at Jazz's side and the group marched away to the ship that would fly them back to Iacon. At the boarding ramp, Jazz threw one last look at the wreckage of the once-graceful city Praxus. Several emotions swirled through his spark, and he had to consciously think about not flinching away from the medic (now introduced as First Aid) when he began attending to the long-forgotten gash marring the sooty silver plating of his side.
The weak blue sun of Cybertron was just beginning to set, casting long silver shadows across the ruins. It was an eerie sight, and one that Jazz knew he'd never forget. He had helped the perpetration of this massacre, even if indirectly and unknowingly. The guilt, he knew, would stay with him until he returned to the Well of Allsparks.
He was seated between Prowl and a bulkhead, magnetized to the seat as the ship began to take off.
Prowl was staring at him again. Jazz could feel it.
"You made the right choice today," he said. The smaller mech lifted his gaze from his cuffed hands to the SIC's too-blue optics.
"I know," Jazz replied with a small sigh, and some part of him that had long ago died sputtered to life, faintly. Hope, he realized. "I know."
Into the light
It's hard to believe
It's always been ours to give
And to receive
I want to be shameless like the sun