Jazz could have rolled up the steps and transformed at the temple door, but that would have caught the attendant's attention. So he walked, helm down, visor lowered, looking like an unimportant lower noble. He ran the risk of someone recognizing Maestro and calling him over, but his black chassis blended into the shadows thrown by the street lamps, so no one picked him out of the handful of mechs on the sidewalk.

For all anyone knew, he was a high-class entertainer, shined up all pretty to meet a client.

You don't have to go through with this, Red Alert said.

Jazz walked past the steel facades of buildings he'd never wondered about when he was rolling on the street—he hadn't realized how long the roads were before. Mechs with fancy frames and polished chrome didn't notice him as they stepped out of their private transports and went inside. Jazz wondered what that was like—riding in someone else, showing off how they didn't need their altmode. Never putting wheels on the pavement, throwing grime up on their rims.

This won't do anything more than slaughter a handful of low ranking temple bots.

Jazz waited at the corner, just across from the temple. He was alone under the light. Only the poorest bots conserving fuel would walk.

He glanced over his shoulder. An Empty busily scrubbed dried tar and oil from the foot of the skyscraper, restoring the white quartz and wiping the windows clear. Solvent scoured the surface to a gleaming finish. The Empty also splashed themselves liberally in their haste, conveniently cleaning their own hands, cords, and frame. Their faceplate was gone, exposing bare cables that shone a lustrous copper. They no longer had their chassis, long ago sold to pay off debts. All they had was their inner components and spark case.

Jazz…you're going to die. Red Alert made a strange noise in the back of his vocalizer. For nothing.

The light changed. Helm down, Jazz crossed and began up the steps. Readied the knife in his hand. And gave a small smile.

Have a little faith, Red. It ain't sending a message if I don't go through the front door.

The attendant at the door finally noticed Jazz coming up to the door. The temple bot lifted his registry, adjusting his robe, and opened his mouth to welcome a worshiper.

The knife sliced through the bot's vocalizer. Jazz followed the slashing motion and put his arm around the bot's shoulders, pulling him in. From outside, it looked like they'd simply walked side by side.

A severed vocalizer wasn't perfectly silent. The bot made small screeches in the back of his throat, clutching at Jazz's hood as he was gently set down behind a pew. Jazz scanned the room quickly—there were a few temple bots at the far, far wall, murmuring to each other. A handful of bots sat farther ahead, alone and spread out in their seats, praying and facing forward. No one had noticed.

Jazz watched the temple bots leave through the back of the apse. As the heavy door closed and echoed through the aisles, Jazz flipped the knife in his hand and punched the blade through the attendant's spark. He looked down to make sure—

Target of Opportunity
Narthex
Privileged Frame Class
Reparare α - Ω
Motor Pool: Iacon
Sparked to Iacon Tem…
Data Stream Terminated

The information stopped as the life faded out of the mech's optics. Jazz flipped the catches on either side of the mech's hood, raising the cloth a few inches and slipping his hands under. It was easy to find the energon tank—he'd helped Orion pull tanks from corpses for an orn, afraid to make a sound, and now he quietly pulled the fuel.

Frowning, he hesitated only a moment before inspecting the dead bot's clothes. White with gold trim, the bottom layer was a long robe that went to his pedes, embroidered with the familiar stylized sigil of Sentinel Prime. Jazz didn't think he could wear either of them—the attendant was a good helm taller than he was. The robes would drag on the floor.

But the dark red stole on top, with gold embroidery of the Prime's faceplate sigil…that was just short enough. He put it over his shoulders and raised the hood. It would do.

Then he pushed the gray frame under the pew, out of sight. Adjusting the unfamiliar cloth, he pulled the energon tank underneath, holding it close.

With a deep vent, he walked down the long aisle. His spark beat so fast and strong that it felt like his helm would burst. None of the worshipers looked at him as he passed by. There were no other temple bots. Alone among the faithful, Jazz kept his steps steady and even until he was climbing the steps to the altar.

And no one looked. No one cared. Did this happen all the time? He spotted a small workstation of buttons at the altar, a golden cube, a datapad. He bent and slid the energon under the altar, then attached the trailing wires to the floor panels—one on either side.

He didn't know how he knew. He'd never downloaded instructions on making explosives. But whatever his master had uploaded into him, Jazz knew that when a mech stood here at the altar, one pede on either panel, the circuit would close and the energon would ignite. That much energon meant that the altar and whoever was near it would cease to exist. Probably wouldn't do much good for the mechs in the first few aisles, either.

And if a job's worth doing, Jazz said, backing away, it's worth doing with style.

Just…just try to get to the nave, Red Alert said. Oh Primus, how are you so calm about this?

Jazz didn't answer. As if he had every right to be there, he turned and went through the only door he saw, a small passage at the back.

A long white hallway stretched in both directions with nondescript doors on either side. He saw bots moving at the far end, another couple of bots talking well out of hearing range. Following Red Alert's map in his mind, he turned left and started counting doors. After five, he opened the door on his right, went into the darkness, and locked the door behind him.

Where am I? Jazz asked.

Archive access, Red Alert said. Give me a moment to find the lights…

Jazz adjusted his visor settings. No need. I'm picking up some ambient light, standby-glows.

In the gloom, he now made out silhouettes of terminals and shapes of workstations. Heading to the back wall, he pulled a chair and sat down.

Now what? Jazz asked.

Just plug in, Red Alert said. I can access it through you.

Getting a bit too comfy with my cortex, Jazz said.

Why not? Everyone else is.

Ouch.

Jazz inserted a cord, turning on the screen and connecting to the mainframe. He had the strangest sensation that Red Alert was sitting next to him, scrolling through the material himself. Jazz looked and saw nothing, but when he turned back to the screen, he would have sworn he saw motion and Red Alert's frame.

Relax, Red Alert said. It's just a ghost, your sensors picking me up over the connection.

It's unsettling is what it is, Jazz said, putting his hand out into the air. How long is this gonna take?

…not as long as I thought, Red Alert said. Maybe an orn. It doesn't look like they downloaded everything in the archives to here.

You just hitched up and figured that out already? I thought the archives were huge.

They used to be. No. It's definitely not all here. It's not all here.

Across the city in his hidden base, Red Alert cursed and smacked his fist against a panel.

Damned slagging liars, they deleted it!

Deleted what?

A lot, Red Alert said. I was hoping…I thought maybe…

Red, I am aft-deep in a temple full'a priests and warbuilds. How 'bout you get a lot more detailed, huh?

I was looking for…oh, it sounds so stupid when I say it out loud. Red Alert slumped in his seat, watching the data transfer happen far too quickly for what he'd hoped to download. I had hoped they would know where the Primus conduit is.

Jazz waited for an explanation. He started to tap his pede impatiently, then stilled himself when he heard mechs passing down the hall. He put a hand on his blaster, listening until they walked on.

You say conduit like I should know what that is, Jazz said.

You probably would if I called it the Matrix.

Jazz frowned.

That's in the Prime, he said slowly. Everyone knows that.

What if I told you that's a lie? Red Alert said, with the weariness of knowing Jazz wouldn't believe him. That the Matrix vanished and no one knows where it is.

Jazz didn't answer. The Prime wielded the artifact linking him back to all the previous primes in an unbroken link to Primus, the creator of everything. It wasn't just the dogma taught at the temple—it was the basis for their whole society, their government. The Prime served his function just as everyone else did. To attack the Prime's divine right to rule was to attack everything that made Cybertron work.

Then what's in the Prime? Jazz asked.

Nothing, Red Alert said. Sentinel Prime is empty. Hollow.

That didn't sound right to Jazz. The Prime held the will of Primus, followed the godhead's program and did the will of the first. To not hold the matrix meant that there was no holy plan. That the Prime was simply…doing whatever he liked.

Jazz would have sworn that he didn't believe in functions. He'd changed his own function, after all, from entertainer to assassin, and there was no destiny, no fate. To come against the hard possibility that the Prime had no function was the next logical step, and yet this logic felt broken.

Then…where's Primus? Jazz asked, flinching at how he sounded like a lost sparkling. Where's the matrix?

Considering everything this so-called prime has commanded, Red Alert said, I don't think the matrix would work for him. Or…I hope it wouldn't work. A fake prime doesn't deserve it.

Jazz frowned as Red Alert kept tilting the world more and more on its edge.

'Fake'? he said. Then who's the real Prime?

I don't know, Red Alert said. You'd think it'd be obvious, wouldn't you? The mech who holds the one true conduit of Primus should be obvious, should be leading Cybertron. And yet there's nothing…

Red Alert gave a long vent. Jazz had the distinct feeling that Red Alert had flopped down on his workstation, cradling his helm in his arms.

I don't know. I can't believe in miracles anymore…

Jazz didn't know how to respond. Every sparkling knew how the world worked—Primus created everything, and everyone came from the Well of Sparks, and the Prime safeguarded Cybertron. That was his function. As long as everyone did their function, it would continue to work.

He wondered if his master knew anything about this and wished he would tell Jazz anything beyond the name of his next victim.

The download finished obscenely fast. Red Alert choked at seeing how much information didn't exist in this database, mourning how much might have been lost.

There used to be so much more, Red Alert said, staring at the tiny amount of space taken on the hard drive. So much more…stories and records. I never thought they'd just delete it…

Jazz propped one pede up on the workstation. You were a temple bot, weren't ya?

After a moment of silence, Red Alert let out a vent, slumping back in his seat.

…temple archivist, he said. Did your visor tell you that?

Didn't need a visor to see how worked up you are, Jazz said. Giving a damn about what used to be here. Giving a damn about Primus.

Red Alert 'hmm'ed.

Primus is the reason for our existence, Red Alert said. And he set upon Cybertron a link between us and the divine, a spark for the Prime to carry as a direct conduit to him and his power.

But the Prime ain't got that 'spark,' Jazz said.

A false prime, Red Alert nodded. The matrix is out there. So is the Prime who should wield it.

Where?

I don't know yet, Red Alert said. But I have to believe that it exists. So the true Prime has to be out there, too.

'Faith', Jazz scoffed. You helped me get in here, and you know what's about to happen.

The temple was sparked to help mechs understand Primus, Red Alert said with the smoothness of having repeated his reasoning to himself over and over. The temple instead spreads functionist heresy for a false prime. Let them burn.

Jazz gave a low whistle.

Damn, mech. You're worse'n me.

Oh? You're the one who'll pull the trigger.

Yeah, and you're the one who didn't have to—

Sudden static roared with searing heat—the walls bent in—ceiling panels cracked and clattered down—the walls flashed red hot, then began to cool at the edges—the static dulled to the rolling of flames and the groans of weakened steel.

Jazz found himself on his hood. In the silence that followed, he was keenly aware of his own vents, his hands and knees scraping the floor. He'd been wrenched from the workstation and his wiring yanked clear, disconnecting him from the temple mainframe. The phantom Red Alert was gone.

And then the screaming started.

The cries were muffled by distance, but they were distinct and clear. His rigged explosive had worked perfectly.

Showtime, Jazz said, drawing both blasters. He pressed his audio against the door, listening to mechs running past. He counted several seconds, letting more and more come, temple attendants who didn't know what had happened.

He leaned back and kicked the door open with all his strength. The door flew off its hinges, smashing an attendant into the other wall, and then Jazz stepped into the corridor, already aiming and firing.

The damage surprised him. Steel and supports melted and peeled back, revealing the power of an ignited tank of energon. The altar was gone, as was the first three rows of pews. Panicked mechs climbed over each other in a crushing jumble to escape while others lay still, crumpled in their seats with ripped faceplates and sparks from torn sockets. As the heat and smoke spread, frames ignited and burst, adding to the carnage and confusion.

Jazz felt his spark twist.

That could have been Orion. Ariel. Dion. Or himself. They were just regular mechs.

They were functionists, Red Alert said.

Cold sparked bastard, Jazz said, firing into the crowd of stunned attendant bots. They don't know what the temple is.

They would turn you in for heresy, Red Alert said, even colder. Get out alive, Jazz. You're the only one worth anything in that pile of rust.

And Jazz's way out was through the temple, killing anyone he could. So he killed.

Any mech with a red Target of Opportunity tag had a heavy round put through their spark, their helm, their oil tank. Dense bullets went through thin chassis, ripping mechs in halves and fragments before going through the mech behind them, and sometimes the mech behind that. Three rows deep, Jazz mowed down the faithful in front of him.

Smoke filled the hallway now, and it was impossible to see what was happening so close to the initial blast. Jazz turned and fired at the mechs coming to help. Plasma bolts ripped through their lightweight frames like tinfoil—a full charge meant an almost endless stream of liquid fire igniting their oil, rupturing their energon lines, turning their inner components so hot that their optics glowed and smoke poured from their mouths.

Which way now, Red?

I...I...so much energon...

Cry later! How do I go up?

I...run forward, turn right...oh Primus...

Jazz started running, dodging their fallen frames, stomping flat the helms of mechs who reached weakly out at him. Turn a corner, keep firing, then down a hall that Red Alert had marked for him. Cameras lined the ceiling, and he blasted each one even though Red Alert assured him that he'd disabled the system.

The lights flashed and went dark, and the electricity hummed to silence. Had they turned off the power or had the fire destroyed the temple systems? Smoke spread through the seams of the walls and the ventilation shafts as the fire climbed behind him. Red Alert directed him up a stair case. At hearing a door below him slam open, he sprayed the stairs with plasma, melting the way behind him as he climbed. Where was he going? How high was the temple anyway?

This floor! Red Alert said suddenly. The pontifex is at this level!

The what?

The head temple bot. If he hasn't tried to escape yet...

The door wouldn't open. Jazz wasted precious seconds melting it off its locks and hinges, and he knew he was being stalled. What for, he wasn't sure. Warbuilds, probably. Had they scrambled the jets?

All the more reason to hurry, Red Alert said. Now down to the last chamber—

Jazz was through, charging forward, blasting the two temple bots at the door. He didn't bother making sure they were dead. They hadn't even been armed. Just two of the faithful buying their master time.

Inside the chamber, he found more bots in front of him, all wearing the same temple insignia. They went down quickly, splashing the walls with energon. Two more bots huddled against the windows, too afraid to stand or try fighting. But there was no one in robes fancy enough to single him out as the pontifex. Only a large meeting room, a portrait of Sentinel Prime in glowing lights at the edge of the chamber, a private berth with the stylized sigil of the Prime.

The chamber isn't the same, Red Alert said, at a loss. They changed it—there never used to be a meeting room…I don't…

He knows I'm coming, Jazz said. The temple controls the warbuilds. Up is his best bet.

But the escape route up is hidden, Red Alert said.

Jazz grinned. I'll make my own way.

A dead bot lay before him. He wrenched out one of their energon tanks, flung it at the ceiling, and fired a round right through it.

The resultant blast sent him backwards off his pedes, throwing him against the wall. The far windows exploded out with one of the frightened bots screaming down to the street. And the ceiling lay in smoking ruins, tattered at the edges, revealing a jet hovering in the sky only meters above them, transforming to root mode as the temple landing pad vanished. Grasping the jet's hand was the pontifex, dangling in the air, pedes flailing ridiculously in his billowing white and gold robes.

PRIME TARGET OF OPPORTUNITY
Pontifex Primus Divinum
Privileged Frame Class
Reparare α - Ω
Motor Pool: Iacon
Sparked to Iacon Temple
PRIME TARGET OF OPPORTUNITY
Loading data…

Jazz aimed—

—the jet turned to protect the temple official, flying to the side—

—and Jazz fired both pistols not at the pontifex but at the jet, emptying his plasma cartridge, firing an automatic burst of heavy rounds. The jet's heavy armor protected his spark, but the sheer barrage cut through the jet's elbow joint. The pontifex jolted once as the cables sheared, weakened, slipped, and finally snapped clean off.

Jazz didn't even watch him fall. The jet reached for the pontifex and missed, watching him vanish into the smoke. Even if the jet had dropped immediately, he couldn't have found him before—

A soft, muted thud, terrible and final, came from the street.

Optics wide, disbelieving, furious, the jet hovered back over the holy chambers and slowly came down, planting his heavy pedes on the floor so that the whole level shook. Blue with gray and red edges and a bold yellow cockpit, the jet glared at Jazz with red optics.

Thundercracker
Diaclone Jet Frame Class
Aggressive Defense—Warbuild
Sparked Takara Depot 24
Slaved to Functional 1b
Civil Incidents: Abandoned Post, Aided Assassination of Priest, Treason
WARNING: HEAVY ARMOR, HEAVY ARMAMENTS
Loading data…

The jet was easily twice Jazz's size, perhaps three times, but his low angle made it easy to see the purple decals that would have normally been hidden under his wing struts. And Jazz also saw the restraining bolt, a glowing circle welded to the jet's internal components beneath his cockpit, pulsing with the code that kept the jet from disobeying his masters.

Thundercracker aimed his turrets, both of them as long as Jazz was tall.

With Red Alert screaming in his audios, Jazz leaped to one side and fired.

The jet's rounds chewed through the wall and probably through the rest of the temple behind them. When the jet stopped, looking for Jazz, he instead found smoke trickling up out of his cockpit.

The jet vented in sharply. The restraining bolt was destroyed. He put his hand on the disc, wiping it free as the magnetic lock failed. Ugly burns and rivets crumbled out of his internal components, trickling energon as he yanked the wiring out.

"You're welcome!" Jazz yelled from somewhere out of sight. "You still wanna shoot me, Decepticon?"

Thundercracker startled. Opened his mouth to answer—but there were sounds of mechs coming up the stairs, not little temple bots but Enforcers and other warbuilds. Warbuilds that he knew and would have to fight if he stayed. With a disbelieving shout, he turned and flew out the window, taking a last second to grab the other frightened temple bot and throw him into the air off the side.

Jazz was alone. Denta grit, he crawled out of the wreckage of the ceiling, shaking off the dust and soot.

Jazz, they're coming— Red Alert started.

And we're going, Jazz said, stepping to the edge of the destroyed windows. He paused and looked down.

Below, the carnage stretched out into the street. Through the smoke billowing out in waves, the dust cloud spreading to thinning edges down the streets and lanes, he saw the broken pontifex and his attendants. The wounded faithful limped and crawled and ran in scattered directions. Energon and oil streamed along the pavement, dragged out in streaks, glowing and edged with flames.

Someone was yelling. A streak of plasma fire flew past his helm. He whipped off the torn robes and threw the ruined cloth over his shoulder, blocking himself from sight as he transformed, spun his tires and launched himself out into the air. His spoiler provided just enough lift to let him glide a few meters, turning his fall more horizontal than vertical, as a memory exploded on him.

—Tone fell out of the sky, riding a dead jet, screaming, screaming—

When he began to tumble, he transformed again, sent out a grappling hook and just barely caught the edge of opposite skyscraper. He swung low, with so much strain on his shoulder that he felt the joint tear and strain—then he disengaged the hook, bringing it back in, transforming, catching the air in his spoiler, and landing all four tires on the street.

Not the hardest landing he'd ever suffered. Two tires ruptured. His rear axle crushed inward. His suspension cracked and his steering locked. Something else tore inside of him as his diagnostics went haywire and he began to overheat.

There was no time to feel the pain. Indistinct shouts followed him as he sped down the street through the business district, dodging the wounded spectators.

Jazz! There's—

I see 'em, he said, already spotting the Enforcers spread out in a wide neat around the crystal park and along the high rises. One of his sonic arrays was cracked and sparked wildly, but the other rose obediently and began to blast a dazzling display of light and sound.

When wires cross
And hope is lost
I'm falling down too far
Falling fall beside me
Falling fast
flying free

His sonic array cleared a path for him, overloading Enforcers so that they collapsed. On a prayer, he drove through their shots, through their net, ignoring the rounds that landed on the pavement and wincing as a handful of plasma bolts grazed his sides. There were sirens behind him trying to keep up—he turned a pin-tight corner, wrenching his wheel against its well and denting the steel, then slammed back to top speed and headed through the tenements, into the familiar entrance of the underlayer of Iacon.

This time, when he'd pulled far enough ahead and transformed, climbing into a pile of ancient debris, his pursuers did not find him. He held his vents, shut down his coolant and oil cycles, everything that could make noise, listening to the Enforcers roar by. He heard a few painful crashes, the squeal of tires when the old cables and support struts gave way suddenly. And then he was alone.

He didn't wait. He climbed out from under a rusted sign, leaning hard against a support strut as his back shuddered in pain. He headed along a different route, further into the darkness. Maestro vanished. His normal coloring reappeared, white and black. He would come up a few miles away, slowly limp back home. His self-repair functions did what they could—he waited until his axle wasn't crushed, until he could stand upright without keening.

But Jazz had to listen to the reports about what he'd done. As he waited in the quiet, lonely underlayer, the news had the breaking story of an explosion at the temple, with burnt, corrupted photos of torn, mutilated worshipers.

By the time he was back on the surface, the story had become multiple terrorists attacking the temple and its congregants and the Pontifex and attendants crashed on the street, grayed out with licks of flame in their burned optics.

As he rolled slowly along the access roads, avoiding the highway, "multiple terrorists" had become "forces from another city-state" intent on "attacking Iacon and stealing its energon for itself." The senate had convened and were openly speaking of retribution.

By the time he reached the Neon Eclipse, his master's intent was obvious.

War. His master wanted to cause a war.

Jazz transformed up onto the sidewalk, putting his arms around himself, not really hearing Beachcomber welcoming him back. The club was quiet—Blaster sat at the bar while his cassettes worked a prepared playlist, and the patrons spoke in sotto murmurs under the notes of minimal ambient electronica playing on auto. The Neon Eclipse was winding down into the off-shift hours as the party-mechs went back to their berths and the older workers came in to relax.

Firestar and Moonracer set out the chairs to turn it into a lounge. Jazz didn't watch, painfully aware of his pedes, one in front of the other, to keep him going. He felt frozen and burning at the same time. He turned to head to the elevator, but then he stopped for a long moment.

His processors were all fragmented. His frame ached and wouldn't move right. He wouldn't be able to lay down and rest, not for a long while.

So he stepped up onto the stage, taking the mic. Low strings accompanied him almost immediately as one of the cassettes brought on a low, steady beat, just enough to give Jazz an entrance.

I've been falling through the empty spaces
I've been falling behind the hopeless races

I've been drowning in the pain
Spark's falling down like rain

His voice was rough over a stressed engine. He gripped the microphone like a lifeline, ignoring the club. He didn't want to see their faceplates with their names and frame types and whatever else his master wanted him to know.

I scream out loud and call it songs
Need to turn but this road is long

He hadn't told anyone what he was going to do, no one but Red Alert. It didn't matter. Maybe Blaster knew. Maybe Mirage knew. His mechs were smart. They could guess. He didn't want to see them. He looked at his fingers curled around the microphone. They were soot-stained, scratched, splashed with energon that had gone dark with road grime. One of his fingers was missing, torn at the root with the wires exposed. When had that happened?

He finished the song and started another. And another. And another. He didn't want to stop. When the songs stopped, the smoke and energon and screams would be there instead. If he didn't keep singing, he might start purging. Why would his master want this? What did A3 gain from all of this?

This road ain't no one's road
Just where we broke down
This road go on forever
This road grinds you down

He was at his limit. How long had he been singing? Shift change was happening, but few mechs were rising, content to be late to work if they could keep listening. Jazz felt his pedes starting to buckle.

Have mercy
But I'll just spit it back
Have mercy
Night's turned black

He just had to bring this song to a close. He could drag himself to his berth, collapse, pretend Cybertron didn't exist for awhile. He tilted his helm back, taking in a vent for the last chorus.

I finally falling all apart
It's only you can catch my spark

Have mercy
Have mercy

In looking up, he found Prowl in the crowd. And Chromedome. Sitting together, in the back, watching Jazz with hard optics.

Were they here to arrest him? In his clouded mind, he knew they knew. They had to know. Why else would they be back here?

TARGET OF OPPORTUNITY
Prowl
Praxian Frame Class φ
Enforcer—Special Investigations
Sparked to Enforcer Station Keshigomu #2
Currently Stationed: Iacon Headquarters, Senate Attachment
Partner: Chromedome (temp)
Clearance Level: Delta
Addendum: Permanent Medical Program Installed for Spontaneous Crash Syndrome
TARGET OF OPPORTUNITY
Loading data…

The song died in his throat. He backed away from the microphone, stumbling into the wall, and sank to his knees. Fell sideways, curling up. Crying out—but his voice was hoarse, ragged from singing for so long. There were arms around him, lifting him up, holding him flush against their hood. Someone was talking to him, calling his name, but he heard them as if they were a mile away.

Jazz turned inward, away the world.

He plugged into a communication line that he'd never used, forbidden except in the direst of emergencies. In the recesses of his cortex, security measures demanded passwords, passphrases, complete access to everything that Jazz was, all of his systems, examining him like a tool to be cataloged and verified. And when everything lined up and reported back that this was indeed Jazz, he received his answer.

If Prowl's cortex control was impressive, the presence now in Jazz's mind was terrible and loomed like a mountain, throwing a long shadow across his mind. Commands locked him in place, forcing Jazz to focus on his master. It looked at his recent memory, his thoughts, his unconscious desires all in an instant.

And it laughed.

OBEY ORDERS, it said. TARGET OF OPPORTUNITY.

Exhausted, Jazz still refused. Not him.

TARGET OF OPPORTUNITY, it repeated.

Not him! Jazz cried, keening deep in his throat and in his mind. Not him!

TARGET OF—

Why? Why any of this? Why me? Why are we doing this? Why—

Jazz couldn't form the words. Frustration and sickly fear gathered in his spark like rust, eating at him so that he twisted, trying to get away from the dull pulsing of confusion. He demanded an answer to a question he couldn't conceive.

His master regarded him for a long moment, quietly considering Jazz like a scientist might consider a specimen in a jar. Jazz had the sense of looking up, craning his neck to see so high. It was like being in Prowl's cortex, touched and examined at another's whim. Except where Prowl had been gentle, this presence was distant, cold and so vast that Jazz wondered how it could communicate at all with him.

…POOR LITTLE AUTOBOT. YOU WERE BROKEN. NOW YOU ARE BROKEN WORSE.

There was no scorn or sarcasm, only pity over a bent tool.

BUT USEFUL, STILL. I AM WAITING FOR THE MIRACLE.

Jazz's internal chrono glitched and stopped measuring time passing by. He hovered there, held in his master's gaze, venting hard, overheating, his keens growing small as his engines failed and shut down.

Wh…what miracle?

Again, laughter.

I DO NOT KNOW. WE MUST MAKE IT.

Utterly lost, Jazz sat in stunned silence. What could he even ask? His master knew his feelings—what could Jazz even say? Against that certainty and will, he had nothing. Only his sullen, stubborn refusal, a sparkling refusing to do a chore.

…not him.

He would offer his master all of Cybertron in flames if he had to. But not Prowl.

Could a mountain be exasperated? The sense of amusement never faded.

THEN KEEP HIM. IF YOU CAN.