Low on energon, wheels sliding on sand blowing across the road and outrunning the wisps of clouds over the moon...Jazz blasted the local hard rock station, screaming Radar Love at top volume. His radiator was riddled with bullet holes, the armor of his hood was cracked, his inner navigation gyros were burned and failing, and the landscape passed by in a blur at a hundred miles an hour.
In the night sky, a thousand stars splashed from one horizon to the other, a streak of light pointing Jazz's way. Finally close enough to hear Blaster broadcasting on their agreed signal, he followed the communication officer's voice but didn't answer. Basic subroutines led Jazz to drive home, but he was wounded. He was too vulnerable to let anyone know he was there. He would have turned off his headlights if a Decepticon hadn't already smashed them.
He nearly didn't let himself drive back to the Ark in the first place. The only reason he went back at all, instead of curling up in a dark corner and listening to Madonna on repeat, was Ratchet's annoying override nagging him to return for repair.
Worse—if he held still for longer than twelve hours, his radio shut down and his music library seized up.
Jazz's cortex swam in and out of the song, drifting away to miscellaneous hit songs until his tires rolled over the road's rumble strip and he jerked back onto pavement. The songs mixed in his head, "I get knocked down and we've got a line in the sky," Mirage's party replaying itself in his head.
Memory files missing, out of order. He needed a defrag, a hard reboot, a recharge and a full repair. None of that would happen any time soon.
Or maybe he didn't need repair. His diagnostics were coming back garbled and missing sections. If diagnostics couldn't read any injuries, then clearly he was fully functional. Just low on fuel. He'd get back, hit the depot for an energon cube—
His wheels suddenly jerked to the left, sending him into a spin. A full rotation went by and he steered into the turn, coming to rest with a wild plume of dust.
Jazz coughed sand and energon, surprised at how bright his headlights had become. As bright as the Ark's main entrance. How'd he get here? He recognized the open corridor and the smooth steel floor, and he transformed back into his rootmode, shrugging his shoulder so that his bent armor would move into place. One doorwing jammed at an odd angle and his left arm refused to move, hanging numb and hot at his side.
"-zzz-ttsllllllllleiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii—"
Jazz drew and fired before he knew what he was firing at. Everything was too bright, reflections bouncing off of reflections, with enemies somewhere in the white glare. The sound didn't come back, and he turned back towards...towards wherever it was he was going.
Is your head still attached? Blaster said only half in jest, watching via the Ark's monitors.
Yeah. Bumblebee leaned out from around the main doors, careful not to make a sound. I jumped before I even finished. Definitely doesn't know it's me.
I don't think he knows where he is at all, Blaster said. Just keep the corridor clear and don't let any latecomers into the party.
On the other side of the main corridor, Ironhide watched through slitted optics and over the sights of his gun-barrel. All of the doors in the main corridor were sealed shut with his own personal overrides, all save one. Jazz kept his hand on the wall, dragging one pede and leaving a trail of mud, oil and energon on the floor, taking deliberate steps that came slower and slower.
Think he's gonna make it? Ironhide wondered over the officer's channel.
He always does, Ratchet said. On his datapad, he entered the worst injuries he'd spotted on his own monitor. He must be on empty. Fumes'll let him go for a few more minutes, then he'll drop.
Ironhide watched Jazz fall to one pede, knocking his dented shoulder against the wall, then painfully push himself back up and keep walking.
Come on, kid, he thought. Only two doors now—
Jazz's pede groaned in protest and cracked down the middle. With a whine of static, Jazz fell to his knee again, and the hairline fractures in his visor gave way. Bits of blue polycarbon slipped free and shattered on the floor.
Ironhide stiffened. Blaster—
There's no one to see, Blaster responded. I've already shut down recording. There's just...oh slag.
Ironhide looked up. At the far end of the corridor, Bumblebee had come back when Jazz fell, probably afraid his friend had passed out. And although he was too far to see details, there was no mistaking Jazz's deep red optics nor that precise shade of scarlet. Bumblebee was a fellow Spec Ops bot, practiced at making instant identifications and just as instant kill shots. He'd know exactly what that shade meant.
Bumblebee froze, watching Jazz give up on the pede and instead crawl towards the medbay, dragging his leg and leaving bits of crumbling armor behind. With a screech of static that died to nothing, Jazz finally disappeared past the door.
Well... Blaster sighed. That's gonna make life interesting.
I'll handle him, Ironhide said, holstering his gun as the medbay doors slid shut and locked. He headed down the hall, adding his own override to the lock. Is Ratchet okay?
Ratchet is fine, the medibot cut in, followed by a pause and a soft grunt. I was right. He went right over when he heard me. I'll call Prowl down later for his debrief. Ratchet out.
Ironhide faintly smiled, not even breaking stride as he headed to where Bumblebee stood, confused with one hand pressed against his mouth. The smaller bot didn't notice him at first as he stared at the door.
"Come on," Ironhide said softly. "Let's talk."
"Is he...?" Bumblebee whispered, looking up at him in shock. "Did they do something to his optics?"
Ironhide blinked, staring at him in surprise. Then he chuckled.
"Your boss is a lot better than that," he said. "Walk with me. I got a lotta doors to open, and then I'll tell you a story."