Prowl knew too well what terrible thoughts came to mind for Jazz in closed dark places. He had read all of those reports, but never had experienced it while on a mission with Jazz. His friend had looked crazed when he returned to their cell, and that worried Prowl.
It reminded him too much of a mostly offline mech he had retrieved in the early days of the war. Granted, that mech had been a civilian caught in the crossfire of a Decepticon attack on his city, but that expression held the same look of hopeless anguish.
It had been a beautiful night on Cybertron. A perfect night, when the double crescent moons of their planet softly gleamed golden blue in a sky filled with diamond stars. Too perfect a night for the Cons to attack their fellow bots. Some had thought the brightness of the moons might be enough to discourage such an attack strategically. Either way, it seemed like the last night their enemy would have selected to attack a neutral city. And somehow the impossibility of such an attack only added to the horror and autricity.
Scores upon scores of midnight black flying machines rained burning fire on town and mech alike. Fuel depot explosions woke mechs from their recharge, driving them into the streets in fear, only to be mowed down by more crossfire and plasma bombs. Buildings crumbled all around, burying helpless mechs under their smoking ruins. And then things got worse.
Prowl and his response team had landed in the area after everything had fallen into a deadly calm. No living bots could be seen, and even the attacking Cons had vanished into the night sky. Prowl knew they were too late. Their forces had been stationed near the border of Con territory, and even his own tactical processor had not predicted such a bold attack so far inside Autobot held ground. And the citizens of this neutral city had paid for his miscalculation with their very sparks. Prowl was immobilized by the horror of it all.
Ironically, Jazz had been the one bot on his team not overwhelmed nor shocked by the carnage around him. Jazz had been spying on the Decepticons even before the formal declaration of war, and he had seen with his own optics what those bots could do to even their own faction, not to mention other bots who got in the way of their plans for conquest. Jazz simply shook his helm sadly as he surveyed the burning cityscape. "I don't think we've got any fightin' left to do. Let's look for survivors. We might get lucky and find a few for a change." Jazz was always bluntly honest, but such words helped wake up his fellow bots to the real task at hand. Recovery of the fallen, assistance of survivors, and helping rebuild the city if it could be salvaged.
"You are right, of course." Prowl stated simply. " Spread out and check for pockets of survivors. Contact Jazz or I if any are found as they will need full triage by Ratchet. Dismissed"
Prowl and Jazz searched in silence, quadrant by quadrant revealing nothing but broken shells and offlined optics. Prowl's spark felt heavy, and he was almost glad when they turned back to meet up with the rest of his team and hadn't found any survivors. How could a bot live through such an experience and still be sane? It was more merciful that they all fell without suffering, Prowl thought. And just then he heard the sound of movement nearby.
Prowl froze, spreading his doorwings high and sensors wide, trying to hone in on the sound. Perhaps it was just a piece of debris shifting as it cooled? The lunar winds were kicking up, so it was possible things were shifting. But then he heard it again, and by the shocked look on Jazz's face, he had heard it too.
Breaking into a full run, the pair of black and whites tore across the broken ground toward the sensor ghost. Prowl commed the others as they ran, requesting they all converge on the signal in case it was an injured Con or perhaps an unexploded piece of ordinance. As it turned out, neither was the case. It was still a very explosive situation nonetheless.
Under the sheets of metal and piles of debris, a small grey mech was unearthed. He shook uncontrollably from helm to ped, and his once proud doorwings simply hung limply down his back, scraping and sparking against a piece of mental. He was beyond terrified. Jazz had approached him first, speaking softly and crouching down to seem as unthreatening as possible. Prowl followed next, assuring the young mech they were here to help him. The grey mech had only continued to shake and look at Prowl with those hopeless optics. Prowl had simply reached down to offer the mech a hand up, and with surprising speed the younger mech had latched both hands around Prowl's neck in a death grip. Jazz had just smiled at Prowl, and helped support the young mech during their walk back to the transport. Prowl kept speaking with his calm, strong voice, reassuring the young mech he was safe. And when they finally release him to Ratchet and the medics, the grey mech's eyes had regained a bit of hope.
It had taken many, many years for that mech to recover, but anyone who met Bluestreak today would think he was the most hopeful mech in the whole Autobot faction. Jazz always credited Prowl as the cause for Bluestreak's recovery and regained hope. Prowl admitted he had been part of it, as much as Jazz for that matter. But, more importantly to Prowl, Blue was a source of his own hope. That a mech could suffer so profoundly and still thrive afterward always encouraged Prowl. And at this moment, as he watched Jazz's hopeless gaze fade into grey as he entered recharge, he needed that hope all the more.