Jazz felt fear.
He put on a good show, but he was not the invincible warrior he played in front of his Mecha.
He was scared. Scared of the future. Scared of his duty. For his duty. So, so many lives depended on him. He was a commander. A leader. 'Bots looked up to him for strength, guidance, reassurance that somehow, somehow, they were all going to be okay. So it was easy to push that fear away, to hold it deep, deep down inside, to pretend he had it all under control.
Because he did have it all under control. Here, where he was. Trapped and immobilized somewhere deep inside a sea of enemies-
He wanted to be there.
But somehow, frozen and defenseless with his weapons offline, he was having a hard time holding onto that belief, and that frightened him. He could feel the terror seeping in, leaking through the little chinks in his mental armor. It itched.
Frozen. Trapped. Defenseless.
The words echoed painfully in his helm and he twisted, jerking on his restraints.
He had been there too long. Memories were resurfacing, biting at his heels, and he wasn't running fast enough anymore.
He was overcome entirely by the horrible need to move.
But that didn't appear to be an option.
For awhile, the minibot went still, relaxed, forced himself to go blank.
A cold, damp-looking ceiling stared back, unsympathetic to the traitorous spark speeding up beneath it.
Click-click-clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick.
The sound came from inside his head. It wasn't real, it couldn't be real, his audio receptors-
Clickclickclickclick-ik-ik-ik-ik-ik-ik-ik-ik-ik-ik-ik-ik-ik-
He clamped gown on his glossa to keep himself from whining.
He wanted the other mech back- the red one, the one who'd asked him all those questions-
"How many detonators did you plant?", he'd asked. Only asked.
It hadn't been a true interrogation; not really. He'd-
No. He snapped back at his mind, forcing the thought to end.
"Three," he'd offered freely. "S'posed to be five, but we ran outta' time."
"What were they intended for?"
An escape. They had been meant to go off in time for them to make their exit.
"Diversion."
Only it hadn't worked out that way. A miscalculation, plain and simple. An early guard switch- such a small detail. So important.
A few more predictable inquiries, and he'd been left to himself once again.
"Someone will be with you in a few joors. Get comfortable."
It had been a few joors. It must have been. He was positive- Mostly.
Not at all, actually. He'd lost faith in his chronometer awhile ago.
He'd tried Circuit Boosters before. A long while ago, now. It had been incredible. Coming down had been like… like this, actually. Sick and fidgety and burning.
Jazz snarled, kicking out against his bindings, and he yanked, nearly popping his arms from their sockets, but nothing budged.
Again, he held in a keen, despairing and enraged at his own frustrations.
The sudden sensation of hands on his chassis was unexpected and startling, and he jerked his helm to the side even as he flinched away.
The only thought in his mind was that he was back there, and Primus he couldn't- couldn't- and he wanted to get the frag away- and out of nowhere, a sharp pain zapped down his arm, and he couldn't even move his frame anymore.
A medic's code scrolled across his HUD just as his chains released. He dropped instantly, expecting to meet the floor, but his descent was interrupted by a sturdy pair of white arms.
A humming buzz bounced off his sensor horns- The mech had spoken to him.
Get a fragging memo out, he wanted to growl, but his mouth refused to move.
It was probably just as well, as a klick later he was hefted up into a red chestplate. From there, he was carried a short ways, then plopped down on a reasonably soft surface.
Maybe under other circumstances he'd have resisted the humiliating treatment, but at the moment he was truly just relieved he had something to focus on.
That wasn't to say he didn't resent it, though- the relief only served to soften the blow.
Internally, he pushed and struggled against the override with all he had, but all he achieved was a mounting helmache.
Over the urgency in his spark, he could vaguely feel the way his helm panels were pried away and snapped back on.
"Oh, stop that," A low voice grumbled as his hearing returned. "If you fry out your primary cortex, I'm not fixing it for you."
Then he was flipped over onto his side, and the remaining segment his right leg was lifted parallel to the ground.
Warm, steady hands probed the amputated area, poking around for Primus-knew-what before withdrawing, only to return with a small bundle of wires.
Jazz looked on warily as the Medic worked. He could see the mech's head from this angle- it was an older mech, white and red, and he had small nicks and scuffs peppering his arms and scattered across his face.
Blue optics flicked over to meet his own, almost as if sensing his thoughts, and a frown appeared on his face.
"There are two this could go," the mech stated simply. A hand was returned to his thigh. Jazz tracked the movement carefully, mentally bracing for anything.
"One, I could go in and strip all the components leading to this limb and rebuild the whole system from scratch. It would take time, and it would be painful, and I'd have to go in through here," a finger traced from his abdomen to his throat, "To here."
The finger stopped just outside his line of vision and tapped gently over his lower cerebral cortex.
"Believe it or not, I'd much prefer that."
Jazz's spark jerked in it's casing. No, he wanted to say. Ah'm good with not doin' that, but the code stopped him. He swore furiously.
Outside his helm, the medic continued uninterrupted.
"Two, I could splice your remaining components onto a recycled piece and let you hope to primus it's a compatible model."
His frown deepened. Jazz didn't like that look; he didn't want that look anywhere near his delicate parts.
A war raged internally between spark felt thankfulness that he was to be repaired at all, and a deep, strut-crippling anxiety that threatened to put him into a lockdown.
The Medic seemed to sense this, too; his expression appeared to soften fractionally in response.
"Because our resources are limited, I'm going to go ahead and start with the splice. Fortunately, there seems to be an abundance of scavengeable frames laying about."
It felt like it should have sounded accusing, but it was said in such a matter-of-fact tone that Jazz could hardly work himself up to take it personally. It was a war, after all, and he had mecha to provide for. It wasn't like he'd been trying to kill anyone. Had the mission gone according to plan, he'd be back at base right now, in and out clean. No fatalities on either side.
A spike of pain jolted the minibot out of his thoughts- A dangling fragment of subdermus had been severed. He looked up to the white mech again.
Perhaps he saw the fear in his optics then, because another mystery something stabbed into his arm and his vision went hazy.
"Trust me kid, you aren't going to want to be awake for this."
[Medical Override initiated: Entering Statsis]
Oh Primus, he was burning all over again.
Stepping in line beside the Autobot CMO, Prowl kept his optics blank and level with the poath in front of him. He could literally feel the stress and tension radiating off the older mech. His door wings shifted to hint at sympathy, but the gesture went unacknowledged.
It was Ratchet that spoke first.
"He's not hostile."
The tactician quirked a ridge, skeptical.
"You had him inhibited for the entire frame of your encounter."
"And I'm telling you he's not hostile," the medic snarled in return.
Prowl simply flicked his wings, affronted by the tone.
"Please explain."
They stopped in front of the medbay. Prowl complied with the older mech's gesture to step to the side, out of the way of the doors; he didn't want to obstruct the pathway for anyone needing it.
"He was frantic when I went in," the medic confided. "Didn't even notice me come in. As soon as I told him to stop fighting my overrides, he did. Same as any other rational 'bot."
"You think he can be reasoned with?" Prowl inquired. That would be something. He had gleaned little from his own ill-fated meeting with the prisoner, besides a few small personality aspects. Mirage had informed him that the mech was cooperative in his interrogation as well. On top of all that, he was apparently in a leadership position over a considerable number of unaligned fighters…
The Tactician's battle computer whirred contentedly with the potential directions this could go.
"Did you learn any other pertinent information during his repairs?"
The medic grimaced. It was obvious he wasn't pleased to be used as an informant.
"No. Nothing relevant to your purposes," he conceded. "However, there are several systems checks I'd like to perform. There are a few anomalies I've come across that are concerning, but not life threatening. Which are confidential, of course," he warned, shooting a nasty look at the Praxian.
Prowl met the stare stoically, betraying no outward emotion.
"We shall see."