Cybertron had glittered.

He remembered the buildings of various city-states before they'd gone to ruin and disrepair. They made for an impressive sight. Each city-state with its own unique styles and history and culture…

But he'd never really been the type to sit still long enough to really appreciate them. And by the time he realized he needed to slow down and just look, everything around him had been nothing but ruin and smoldering remains. Nothing was the same as it had been before.

Now though, he knew things would probably never be the same ever again. He'd held on to hope that things would get better given time. He'd managed to keep everyone else's hopes up in the same fashion he'd always been good at. But now, as he stared out at the emptiness of space from his new "home", he wondered what good it would do.

Cybertron had hit critical some time ago. It had needed help long before Optimus Prime had come up with this haphazard plan, and they'd all known it… had ignored it in favor of the Great War. The planet was only barely livable now. It wasn't very stable.

What was worse in his eyes… even if this adventure was successful, they didn't encounter Decepticon forces, and they returned home, there was no guarantee the Planet would survive. In fact, there was little to really be done about Cybertron. There would be no grand revival. Those left behind, he knew, would be forced to leave at some point.

It just seemed that the ARK and her mission would be the first of the exodus.

Jazz shook himself. Hard. He glared out at the stars a moment before his expression faded. Had he truly given up hope? One small set back he'd been unable to avert, and he gave up? His systems gave a small hiccup, and he felt weak as he leaned against the plating of the ship around him.

One small set back. Was that what he'd refer to that as forever more? A set back? It hadn't been. Not on their side of things. It was no set back in the moving forward of their mission. They would be able to continue, and they would look for resources they and their people desperately needed.

"-This is the ARK calling any Autobot able to answer.-"

The line was replaying over every Autobot comm. frequency. He could hear it, even now. He wasn't terribly far from the Bridge. The waves pinged on his internal comm. line. It had been going for cycles. Ever since they'd lost contact with Iacon in that one moment. They weren't out of range. Not with the old satellites hovering here and there. There was just no reply. From Bot or Con.

His frame shook, despite his attempts to quell the feeling. This was not how this mission was supposed to go. Not at all.

He pushed himself upright, one hand remaining on the wall more out of instinct, and began toward… anywhere but here, facing the emptiness of space from some random corridor of the ship. His peds led him where they would. He didn't really care, much. Had things always felt so out of place? He couldn't really tell.

He missed the openness of Cybertron. This ship was so confined. He couldn't just go, feel the wind on his armor as he drifted through various places without really knowing or caring where he was. He couldn't find some high up perch and balance along the drift ways. He was stuck within a structure smaller than even the Autobot base in Iacon itself had been.

He wasn't really certain he wanted to see anyone. But he realized where he'd ended up a moment too late to correct his course. He was thankful when no one seemed to notice his entry, nor his movement to an open seat.

The sound of the never-ending transmission was stronger in here. Someone had jacked into the internal comm. lines and were playing them aloud for all to hear. It was, truthfully, the only noise made in the large, orange, octagonal room they had all dubbed the "Rec Room" before takeoff. Looking around, the silver white mech vented quietly, frowning. Listening to empty radio static was just going to make the whole thing worse.

It actually took a moment to realize what he himself was doing.

There wasn't a hard beat. Such a thing, while he normally favored, would have turned every mech who heard it upon him in varying forms of upset. Besides. He was far more tasteful than that. Instead, soft, deep notes with a slow melody rang out. He made sure it stayed piano, testing the atmosphere. Two mechs looked over at him from opposing sides of the room.

The bulky sage green mech called Bulkhead sat with a hunch at his shoulders. Still, his large, light blue optics were soft, and he gave a wistful smile. Ripa, a small femme build with yellow accents on a dark plum plating, glanced around with interest in her same yellow optics, a touch of life lighting them.

Promising. Jazz smiled, amping the music louder. He could still hear Optimus' call, attempting for some form of response. That wouldn't due. They were already grieving enough. The image of Iacon Command was not one that would leave any of their collective memories anytime soon.

He wasn't sure who the first voice belonged to as they hummed to the traditional lament. Everyone in the Rec Room could hear the emotion in that first strand, and it opened the gate. Another voice joined in, maintaining a harmony with the first. And another, adding a spectacular staccato. A low voice joined in, creating a chord between the others as another followed that one's lead, only an octave higher. The power and emotion and diversity only added to the beauty of the sound.

Jazz's smile grew more vibrant.

One or two helms were downcast. Three or four sets of optics were visibly fogged with fluids. Mechs on the outer edges seemed to unconsciously move closer to those on the inner side. Holo-images began appearing around them all. Those left behind, or even long departed.

Tiny trills began to fill the room. Optics swept over faces they would in all likely hood, never see again, and the song grew louder without prompt. Even Jazz's voice entered the fray, moisture forming beneath his visor even as he felt the pressure of mourning upon his spark.

When the song ended, the room went quieter than before. The transmission no longer played. The ghostly images winked out of existence one by one. The lingering sensation of what had just transpired was nearly overwhelming. The memories of their flight from Iacon replayed, though not quite as bitterly.

"I'm gonna miss 'em," Jazz said, just at a whisper. He wouldn't have been able to hold the words back, even had he wanted to. A soft keen echoed from somewhere else, and suddenly, there were words. The mechs around him began to talk, watery smiles, tears and downcast expressions no longer hindering the soft conversations.

He listened to the stories, the memories and the voices. He overheard various hopes, fears, dreams and nightmares. What ifs and maybes overcame them, in good and not so good form. Vows of revenge and assistance were always quick to follow.

All he could do, was listen and keep his hope.

S/N: Not very long, but that's alright. This was almost depressing to write.