"Did they get it?" Smokescreen yelled. "Tell me they—"

"Don't worry 'bout nothing but maintaining cover!"

Jazz wished he could knock his mech a firm smack across the helm, but he didn't dare move. He clenched the edge of Smokescreen's roof with more combat programming than strength. Smokescreen darted from lane to lane, laying new smoke, slamming to the left and right so hard that each pivot nearly jolted Jazz's denta loose.

Where you at, my 'cons? Jazz demanded. Can't shoot if I might hit you!

Don't hold back 'cause of us, Afterburner called back, ignoring the turbulence shaking his cracked struts. I can take another hit if I have to.

Snare roared by, the distinct sound of his engines rumbling so close overhead that he almost grazed Jazz, briefly transforming so he could turn in midair and fire at a jet making its strafing run. By the time they heard the explosion, Snare was flying back up and out.

Fire Jazz fire— Snare yelled.

There!—the dust opened for just a moment, revealing blue skies and the shadow of a jet passing overhead. No time for identifying the target—Jazz shot from the hip with the full blast of his sonics. The shockwave only clipped their wing. The jet barrel-rolled, but there was no satisfying explosion afterward.

"How many are left?" Jazz screamed into the wind.

"Five!"

Bumblebee swerved hard into the cloud, nearly pitting Smokescreen's tail, and swerved just as hard back out. Aircraft fire followed on his aft, shells as long as their hands piercing the road just inches behind him, scorching his finish. Then the jet passed overhead and had to arc back up to prepare for another pass.

"Four—Deadend sniped another one—" Bumblebee yelped as a round punched through his hood. "Frag frag frag—"

Jazz twisted, trying to see the edge of his frame.

"Bee—stay in cover if you're—"

"I'm good, I'm good—it didn't hit my engine—" Bumblebee drifted back to the edge of the cloud, took a deep vent, then zoomed back out.

"Let him draw fire," Smokescreen said. "We got another twenty miles and these bots ain't got much more'n that."

Jazz looked down at the reasons he couldn't fire his rifle and why they were so slowed down. Even a mini-jet wa still a jet, and Spasma was a heavy additional weight on Smokescreen. If Jazz could have leaped down—but Spasma couldn't hold on by himself and he couldn't fly, and there wasn't a jet alive who could keep up with an Autobot on the ground.

The other 'Cons with them—Seawing, Submarauder—struggled to stay under cover. If the jets had known how close they were to the edge, they would have been picked of easily. They weren't jets, but they were built for deep sea combat and Seawing had already lost his radiator, leaning on Submarauder as he began to overheat. Jazz winced. They were both dripping oil.

To their credit, they hadn't whined or asked how much farther. Decepticon obedience, Jazz decided, was good for something after all. For them, the pace was blistering.

To Jazz, he could have run circles around their convoy.

"Terradive's incoming!" Bumblebee yelled. "I'll try to draw him off!"

"Like hell I let the wounded do my own fighting." Jazz let his hand slip down to Spasma's waist and forced him up a few more inches on Smokescreen's roof. "Can you hear me, you nervous wreck?"

More'n I want to, Spasma groaned. Sorry, don't have the energon to talk.

Don't need you to talk. Just need to clamp down and lock your hand in place—

I can't hang on at this speed—

Quit arguing!

Jazz couldn't drag Spasma any further, but Smokescreen obligingly hit a pothole at the right moment, punching them inches off of his roof. Jazz gave out a yell of triumph as he slammed Spasma's hand in place.

Close up tight—you still got a jet's grip—

It'll hurt him—

In ten minutes, it won't matter either way. Now do it—that's an order.

There was no arguing with that tone. Spasma closed his hand into a fist—Smokescreen grunted as the steel crumpled in Spasma's hold.

You okay, Smokescreen?

I ain't thrown up yet, he grunted. But not gonna lie, probably will when we get home.

Won't hold it against ya, Jazz said. Get ready, gonna jump.

Safe landings!

Jazz didn't hear his comrade, too busy sliding off of the hood and landing on two wheels. There was a terrible moment where he went off-road, left behind as the sand slowed him down. But his sudden appearance surprised every mech in the sky, and he had the split-second opportunity of identifying the friendlies—Snare, Afterburner—and then hitting Terradive full in the nosecone.

There was a satisfying burst of sparks, the crackle of electrical shorts through the jet's injured wing, and then the green jet was banking hard left to hit the ground hard with a satisfying burst of flame and thrown sand.

The Autobot cheer cut off as Windrazor swooped in fast, ignoring his comrade's crash to spray missiles in a line straight up the highway, chewing up pavement like an earthquake coming up behind them. Another car came out of the smoke, transformed into altmode, and managed to get off a single shot before tumbling into a crumpled heap.

The bullet tore through Windrazor's cockpit, a perfect shot, but too low caliber to do more than blind the mech. It was Afterburner, coming back from his own overhead turn, that finally drove Windrazor at an angle into the desert.

Dead End—you still with us? Jazz held his vent, detouring to circle around the other mech.

Ow...

Dead End untucked himself from his clumsy roll, coming up on his hands and pedes. With a long groan, he sat up on his knees and stared at the sky.

This...is so stupid, Dead End said, holding his arm that was visibly twisted the wrong way. What's the point? We're not gonna make it back to your—

Oh hell no, Jazz said, transforming and dragging Dead End back to his pedes. He gave him a stim-pack from his subspace, slapping the patch directly on his energon cables. I have put up with your gloom and doom for too damn long to give up on your aft.

They're jets! Dead End wailed. I can't outrun them!

Four last jets, Jazz said, and Afterburner's coming in for another pass. Now get up and go before Windrazor beats him to it.

Dead End looked at him from the corner of his optic...then vented out and nodded. He climbed painfully back to his pedes and transformed, rolling along and then gaining speed. His wheelwell was dented badly and rubbed against the rubber, but he pushed through the pain and scraped the wheel down to the rim. In a moment, he was at top speed again, pushing hard to catch up with the concealing cover Smokescreen provided.

How's our one raw nerve? Jazz called ahead. Still alive?

Yes, you insensitive aft, Spasma grumbled.

Afterburner?

—struts finally went—barely holding steady—

Get back with us, Jazz said, you can't do anymore good now. Snare?

Still coming around, Snare said, Eagle Eye's right on my tail—

They came over the crest of the horizon. The Ark loomed in the distance, and a long line of Autobots surging toward them. Suppressive fire came first, forcing the jets low, and Eagle Eye immediately turned and ran, the odds no longer in his favor.

Snare vented out in relief—

On your nine!

—only to feel his aft fins chewed up by cannon fire. Snare's guidance system vanished with his stabilizers, and the emergency alarms blared in his cortex as he rapidly lost altitude. Fuel, oil, sparks igniting the edges of his frame—he screamed as another blast tore up his wing. He fought to keep his nose up. In a miracle, he caught an updraft and slid across the sand on his underside, coming to a smoking rest.

MISTAKE OF A SPARK PIECE OF JUNK TRAITOR Windrazor shrieked into all frequencies, his engines roaring louder as he came in for one last attack on the downed jet. I'LL TAKE YOUR HELM TO MEGATRON —

Jazz cursed—they were too far for his sonics, for Dead End, already shooting and peppering Windrazor with ineffective bullets, too far for Sunstreak and Sideswipe's advance fire—

A silver red blur intercepted the missiles, climbing up into the withering fire, and then Afterburner smashed head-on into Windrazor. There was a terrible scream of metal and a fireball, and then shards of steel rained down out of the smoke.

Smokescreen and the mechs with him charged through the Autobot line, racing toward First Aid and Ratchet near the rear. Snare gasped out long vents where he was, sending pings to Afterburner even though he knew there'd be no response.

It was Jazz and Dead End who rolled slowly through the wreckage strewn across the desert. Impossible to tell where Windrazor started and Afterburner ended. The two had similar paint jobs, but the black smoke and tiny piece blended together. Dead End found Windrazor's helm by itself, grayed out amongst the rocks.

Jazz revved his engines once, pushing through the smoke and ignoring everyone else's pings. He'd found Afterburner, or at least half of him. The explosion had sheared his frame so that his arm and helm lay connected by his spark case. The weak glow of energy pulsed, but there was no doubt that he was in his last few seconds.

Jazz sat down next to him, thankful that Dead End didn't speak as the Decepticon sat at Afterburner's side and took his hand. Both of them were venting hard, coughing mouthfuls of sand and smoke out of their filters.

.̵.̶.̷Wi̴iindra̴ zo̴r̵?̵

Jazz didn't bother to look down. Afterburner's optics had burned out.

He's dead. In more pieces'n you.

Afterburner's satisfaction felt strange to Jazz. Death was about to swallow him up, but all the warbuild cared about was claiming the kill. There was no sadness or regret. Just the expectation of rest after a good fight.

...s.̸.̴n̴a̵.̷r̶.̴e̷ ¿

Dead End half-smiled. He'll make it. He owes you one.

Afterburner was beyond words. The pain stopped. There was a brief sense of relief, the sensation of flying up and out. Then he was gone.

Long minutes passed as the medics fussed with the injured. Autobots were dispatched in groups to the farthest perimeters of the base, holding a line of miles in case the Decepticons thought they might follow up on this attack. Ironhide rolled up with Sideswipe, taking in the scene.

"This all of you?" Ironhide said.

Jazz nodded once. "If you didn't forget Snare."

"He's already got medics on him." Ironhide sighed to see the jet in front of them. "I think this was the only one you lost."

The wreckage smoldered. Jazz was about to ask Dead End to stay with Afterburner, then remembered that the defecting 'cons were still just 'cons to the rest of the base. They'd all be ordered to a brig soon enough. He gave each of them a reassuring ping that he wouldn't forget them now that they'd arrived, and that he'd see them all resting in their own berths in the brig before he attended to his own duties. There were relieved pings back, Spasma weakly hoping that Groove wouldn't think he was a creeper for coming here. Dead End pinged last, more out of obligation than anything else.

"We'll put 'em down with Whisper," Ironhide said. "They'll have plenty to talk about, I'm sure."

"'Whisper'?" Jazz asked. "When did that happen?"

"I'll bring you up to speed in a bit," Ironhide said. "Don't worry about your 'cons. Optimus...he's got plans."

Ironhide pointed across the desert. Optimus was kneeling next to Submarauder and Seawing, talking to them as First Aid cycled their coolant. The two seacons stared up at Optimus with fear bordering on worship.

Jazz gave a small laugh despite himself. Despite the dead mech behind him.

Jazz didn't want to look again. And Dead End was sitting with the grayed out frame so Jazz didn't have to. He took another minute to rest, then accepted Ironhide's hand up, patting the sand out of his joints.

"Do me a favor?" he asked, deliberately focusing only on the base.

"Sure?"

"Before you bury the frame, get rid of the 'Con sigil on him," Jazz said.

"What's left of it," Ironhide said. "Anything else?"

"Yeah."

Jazz started pulling together his datapacket, beginning the long process of giving it proper tags, filling in information he hadn't had time to add. He had a lot of forms to fill, and the prospect of hours of debrief loomed ahead of him.

"Paint one of ours."