Obsidian 2

Jazz onlined fragmentally over the next stretch of time. He shouldn't have, but he had. Perhaps Primus had it in for him. Perhaps deeply ingrained battle protocols were fighting with total shutdown for a grand finale. It didn't really matter to him. He wasn't thinking right.

He wasn't sure how long it had been between awakenings. Frag, they hadn't really been awakenings so much as brief, shattered flashes of vibrations and images. Like sinking deep into an oil pool, flickers of artificial light glancing over his visor in an opulent dance. It was calm. Soothing. Detached.

The first time- Maybe? Perhaps just the first he could remember- there had been a floor, and a ceiling. He wasn't sure which had been which. Dragging- he had been dragged. Half-carried, light shining up from white halos. Splatters of phosphorescent hot pink trailed ahead, in front, behind. His spatial processing net had been long since slagged, so he couldn't really tell if he was coming or going. Grey, scuffed heels stamped by his servo. Back and forth, stomp stomp stomp. He could feel the stomp. Maybe they'd stomp on his digits.

Stomp.

Stomp.

Stomp.

Stomp.

Stomp.

One-two, one-two, one-two-one.

He couldn't remember shutting down again.

Heat. Burning heat. Spinning? Was he spinning? No, the world was pulling sideways- Jazz was on a table. A long, long table, covered in limbs and chassis- The pit? Hot, hot, hot. His dermals were going to fry- get away, get away from the heat.

No, it wasn't that bad. He wanted to recharge. Frag, he was so drained.

One-two, one-two, one-two-one.

But no, no. Now it was painful. No, he had to move, and fragging pit his body didn't want to, but somehow the universe tipped again and he was- His helm. His helm was bent forwards and he was stuck to the ceiling. Suddenly the ceiling was the wall, and then it was the floor, and then the wall again- In a box, glued by his neck, tumbling- And a stomp-stomp-stomp he could feel in his plating.

Get up, get up, the mech told himself, but his knees wouldn't brace and he kept tipping over. Dragging himself inches at a time with blunt digits.

Suddenly he was being carried again, looking down at heels.

Different colour, he noticed. Lighter grey, and rusted at the seams.

Neon droplets. One-two, one-two. The stomping was faster. Stomp-stomp-stomp-stomp-stomp, onetwoone, onetwoone.

Boomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboom.

Did he purge, or was that energon spilling out of his intakes?

A bigger splotch of glow ran away from him, following all the other pretty spots.

Jazz watched it go, saddened. The pink was so pretty. Maybe if he watched, another big one would appear.

Boomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboomboom.

Grey floors. Neon spots.

Spots don't land on the cracks!

No, wait. They did. There was one.

Dissapointing.

Then there was a doorway, and he must have shut down for awhile longer.

Falling. Falling out of his berth. No, that would hurt- Stop it!

He tried to brace his arms, but they weren't functioning. Someone grabbed him. Lots of servos. Nonononono. Tipping, tipping, laying on his side. Wet and warm spilling out his intakes again. I'm overcharged. A faceplate.

Whirling online in a dark room.

For a moment, he was still in a red hallway with flashing sirens and dying mechs.

For that one moment, he was laying on the ground about to offline, and his weapons weren't functioning.

He was going to die if they didn't fragging online this pit-fragging klik.

Instead of a hail of gunfire, the gears of his shoulder panels spun with a tight, grinding crunch that almost threatened to pop his plating.

Then Jazz snapped into a very quiet reality.

A glance down showed the mech to be sitting ramrod straight up on a flat floor-berth, and a look up revealed the berth to be located within a holding cell.

From the shadows of the adjacent room emerged a slender, quick-build warmech who glared at Jazz in disdain, obvious even through the carefully maintained blankness of his faceplate.

He would have been handsome, maybe even desirable, if that faceplate didn't have such an ugly expression on it.

Bad guy.

The mech's bared denta rumbled something towards the prisoner, but it seemed the commando's audials were still scrap despite other various repairs that had taken place since the battle.

It looked like he was saying "Let towns haggig gone".

Assessing the context of the situation, Jazz assumed the mech wanted him to lower his arms and maintain a submissive posture.

Like slag. He wouldn't go out of his way to look threatening, but he wasn't going all the way without a fight.

Perhaps looking harmless would be useful though, he thought. Keep them thinking I'm no threat, get their guard down.

Still sitting, the mech lowered his arms and dipped his helm respectfully.

It seemed that it was the wrong move, however, as the warden stomped closer and repeated the first motions, adding on what appeared to be "Core ha he well gum hithare sand bake ew."

Bake ew. Make you? Core-ha-he- Or I-E. Or I make you?

Was he supposed to get up?

Cautiously, he swung his lower body off the side of the mat. Frag, he still only had one leg. Did the guardsmech know...? Was this some cruel joke? Stay passive.

"My left pede ain't there."

Without his audials, his voice hummed a dull vibration into his helm. He had the feeling he was talking too loudly.

The grey mech by the bars was shouting imperceptibly now, gesturing with a stun-sun in his impatience.

Alright, if that's the game they were going to play, he might as well try for a hop.

Slowly, Jazz pushed lead limbs off the ground and forced his struts upright. He wobbled for a moment, stabilizing, and then tipped over onto his side.

His helm hit the ground with a solid motion, and then there was static. Like being overcharged in a rainstorm, his processors supplied.

And now there were hands on his back, gripping the plate between his processors and his protective spinal plating, and like frag he wasn't going to do something about the damned digits being so close to his outer nervous circuits.

Jazz knew how to scrap with a mech, but it as clear that he was at an incredible disadvantage.

All he could really do was buck around and grab for silver ankle joints until an unseen object slammed his faceplates into the floor.

Floor, floor, ceiling, wall, pain in his joints, and a flare of warnings from his HUD before a buzzing electrical shot to the ventral plating and he was falling again.

Then he was on his back again, staring immobilized at a grey ceiling.

Déja-vu.

A new face appeared in his line of vision, white and red medical grade paint and a plain visor obscuring the lower half.

The figure waved for his attention, raising a glowing pad when his optics confirmed he was paying attention.

'Stay down'.

Oh. Friendly.

He nodded slightly to acknowledge the order.

His tanks churned a warning.

What's happening? He wanted to ask, but the attendant denied his gestural request to hold the writing tablet.

The neutral lifted an arm to tap at the side of his helm.

Are you going to fix these?

It would ordinarily be absurd to expect the enemy to repair self-inflicted damage done in the act of raiding precious resources, but as they had seen fit to keep him alive and relatively safe the yellow-optic'd mech figured he'd see if he could capitalize on the situation.

The medic flinched at the sudden movement and stepped back, but otherwise withheld response.

'I'm going to check on your internal repairs', the pad read. Well well, wasn't this a chatty 'bot.

Ah yes, I'm doing well. Got a limb missing and I'm deaf as a lump of slag, stuck in a box in the middle of frag-knows-where, but nothing out of the ordinary. How's Tricks?

He continued the sardonic inner dialogue right up until the medibot began tugging his plating apart at the center seam, pinching sensitive cords between the shifting metal.

Frag. He winced in discomfort. Didn't even buy a mech a drink.

And wait, when had he sustained internal damage? The mech looked down.

Black, carbon-dusted charring.

Huh. Holy frag.

The medic noticed his patient leaning down and roughly pushed him back down by the forehead.

Thunk-Fzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzxxzzzzzzzzzzxzzzzxzzxz.

Silence.

I'm probably in shock, he noted distantly. The neutral could feel tugging and cutting around his midsection, but it was distant.

Disassociation, his mind supplied. Removing oneself from the situation. His current place in reality hadn't sunk in yet, which is why he wasn't glitching out just yet.

It was bound to happen though, he noted matter-of-factly.

He was at the mercy of a powerful enemy in the middle of a brutal war with no hope of rescue. He had information on a notoriously resilient third faction that functioned as a nuisance to both Decepticon and Autobot forces alike, and holy fragging pit he had better thank his lucky fragging stars he'd gone down by the 'bots instead of the 'cons. His life was essentially over at this point, and if he were processing at full capacity he'd be climbing the walls.

It was weirdly calm.

On the surface, at least. There was definitely something hysterical and deadly bubbling up from below. The kind of crazy he'd experienced before during street fights and battle scraps. He could recognize a snapping mind.

Slag's gonna hit the fan.

A white servo was waving over his Feild of vision.

He was trying to keep still.

It was distracting.

His own servo lifted without his consent and ripped it off.

Whoopsie.