I got such a kick out of a lot of reviews of the last chapter! XD I never expected so many people to be fans of Bluestreak! ...or perhaps you're just terrified for what's going to happen to him. lol~ Either way, your sentiments for him brought a grin every time I saw them. =P For those who are fans of the bot or those who just happened to be scared for him… um, yeah, be terrified. Be very terrified for him. *evil grin*

Oh, and anyone who is a follower of the larger War Eternal series that this story belongs to, you may or may not pick up on special cameo in the chapter. *winks*

My sincerest thanks to the most amazing people in the world: Optimus Bob, A Lurker, renegadewriter8, Reality Bores Me, Christina, BoredTech, MandaMelon, FoghornLeghorn83, Midnight Marquis, Gatekat, Bluebird Soaring, CNightJoy, Daklog73, Peacewish, Kai-Chan94, Anasazi Darkmoon, femme4prime, Fiera Sabre, abarai-san, Faecat, phoebe turner, JenEvan, PrancingTiger86, kathy3meme, smoking caramels, Nightblooming Orchid, Got Buttermilk, Juzu, 1bloodtempest, Sideslip, chaitea16, Jinx, and DitzyMusicLover! Yes, it's true, you're all very amazing people. You are the few, the rare, and the beautiful- you take the time to leave a review! Each and every single one of you have my eternal thanks for your thoughtfulness, insightfulness, and kindness~ Thank you!

Special shout out to DitzyMusicLover, who is my 600th reviewer. This chapter is dedicated to you! ^_^

Read, Review, and Enjoy~

Chapter 19

Cybertron's geography and politics were relatively simple to understand on a planetary scale. The planet had 12 main territories, each sharing an equal portion of the planet. During the Golden Age and before, each territory operated as its own separate state run by lower-level Council members. Monoluna and Diluna, the two moons of Cybertron, were governed by a ruling body called the Luna Society. All forms of government pertaining to the moons and territories answered to the Council Pantheon, who in turn answered to the Prime.

The capitols of each territory were located in the center of the territory. Geographically, the capitols were curious land formations- massive, multilayered columns that rose up from the surface of Cybertron like cylindrical mountains. The summits of the massive columns were huge enough to contain cities atop them larger than some colonies. For each territory, their political power was concentrated in the capitol. When the war began, the political power of each territory fell, but the gigantic land masses remained. Because of their peculiarity, the columns were perfect defensive positions to build fortresses.

Each former capitol now served as a stronghold for either Autobot or Decepticon forces. The Autobots had strongholds in Iacon, Epsilon, Tyger Pax, Crystal City, Alta Trius, and Centaurie Tetrax. The Decepticons had control of Kaon, Straxis, Simfur, Axiom Nexus, Vos, and Polyhex. However, those 12 bases did not constitute the entire surface of Cybertron, only their capitol regions. The territories themselves that surround the bases were extremely large expanses of land. A bots could drive for days at top speed and perhaps not make it from one end to the other. These large expanses of unclaimed land beyond Autobot and Decepticon compounds were wild lands where living things were scarce and rules no longer applied.

Autobots, Decepticons, and Neutrals were forced to fend for themselves out in the ravaged land. Anyone could set up a miniature base, and outpost, or a camp anywhere they liked. There were Decepticons in so-called Autobot territories and Autobots in Decepticon territories. Neutrals existed wherever they could, scraping by on a meagre existence. It was a dangerous life. There were no guarantees. At any moment, fire and mortar could rain down from the sky and ravage whatever was unfortunate to exist on the land below.

Jazz's engine growled loudly as he rushed through the debris-strewn streets.

Dawn was beginning to break and he could see the grey horizon rushing up to meet him. He couldn't count the number of nights he'd sat on that dilapidated rooftop outside of Iacon's compound, letting the edge of the world seduce him. Some nights had passed when the urge was so strong, he could feel the sensation like a physical pull. But also in his chest had been a warring sensation to stay where he was. It was a novel feeling he hardly understood. Once or twice, he'd entertained the idea of staying in Iacon, truly making a go at being an Autobot instead of pretending in order to feed his morbid fascination with Prowl?

Primus, that sounded so damned stupid!

The time for such fantasies had waned. He'd been taught a long time ago that to have a home was to have something that could be taken away from him. To feel anything for any bot or place was to have a weakness for someone else to exploit. Oh, the lessons he'd been taught about such things until they were living, breathing black oozing things in his mind and spark. He was made to never forget.

Leaving had been the best thing for him.

Cold air rushed over, around, and through his frame while he drove at top speed. The roads beneath his wheels were uneven, cracked and strewn with burned out wreckage. He felt prickling up and down his armour as dust, dirt, and flaked rust abraded his sides. He swerved and weaved at breakneck speeds, as if he were trying to outrace the ghosts lingering in the shadows lining the streets.

He determinedly avoided thinking of Prowl.

Prowl was the biggest part of his problem. In the span of a vorn, that damned tactician had somehow grown on him… like a fungus. Messed everything up. Everything was wrong now. He was making promises to bots he could never keep. As much as he liked the idea of a challenge… as much as he liked the idea of going head to head with Prowl… he knew that it was better to cut his losses now than to get involved in something that would only drag him down later. He'd been fooling himself for a vorn, but it was high time he woke up and moved on.

Burning heat seared through every inch of his frame. He could feel his engine revving at its maximum, and he stilled pushed to go faster. He was rocked to the core from the vibrations. Sure, he was built for speed, but not sustained speed. He wasn't built to go so fast for so far for so long. The problem was compounded by the unavoidable potholes he drove into. With each jarring impact, he felt something rattle loose inside him. Superimposed screens in his vision informed him of imminent overheating and structural damage if he kept up the abuse. Never one to listen to advice, Jazz kept up the abuse.

There had been a moment after Prowl had dozed off that Jazz had almost stayed. He'd been tempted to just sit there and let the poor mech recharge, keeping watch to make sure he didn't accidentally fall off the roof. He'd sat for several long breems just watching the mech sit there, crooked and slumped over, his doorwings drooping, his vents humming with soft cycles of air. A part of Jazz had wanted to stay so badly that it scared him.

A bigger part of Jazz knew that nothing good would ever come from staying.

He felt bad for leaving Prowl in the dust with their training incomplete. It was one of the very few times when he felt bad for breaking a promise. He'd been so close to figuring out the mystery of the initiation beatings, but that was never to be. Jazz had a sneaking suspicion that even if Prowl had figured things out, he never would have been able to help the bot in the way he needed.

One broken bot couldn't fix another.

The sun finally crested the horizon, spreading faded dawn light over Cybertron's dead surface. Jazz came screeching to a halt as the end of the world came rushing up to him. He met the horizon in a red-brown cloud of rust. In a flash, he was on his feet, standing on the horizon. He stared past his feet to where the ground plunged down, down, down until the bottom was obscured by cloud and shadow. To his right was one of the old lifts that used to take bots from the upper levels of the capitol to the lower levels; there was no power supply to run the pulley system anymore. To his left was a makeshift lift that could be operated by hand.

His ticket to freedom.

He hesitated before stepping aboard, looking back the way he came. He'd driven too far to see Iacon's stronghold anymore. All he saw was twisted dark shapes of hollowed out buildings and the ghosts of the dead that lingered in them. He turned away and released the lock on the rattling lift, slowly lowering himself into the wild lands.

Prowl sped through Iacon's main gates, letting every Autobot he passed jump out of the way rather than swerve to avoid them. An angry cloud of pebbles and debris spat from his back wheels, coating the armour of unsuspecting bots. He sped in this nearly-reckless state to the main building of the Iacon compound. Without a doubt, this was the building Powerglide and Skydive would have flown to. Prime was on duty in the command center; for something like this, Optimus Prime had expressly stated that he wanted to be informed of any and all kidnappings and/or hostage takings. It did not matter the time of orn or night, he wanted to know.

Prowl sped up the ramp, skidding to a furious halt so forcefully that he left black slash marks from his tyres in the ramp. He wrenched himself to his feet, shoving transforming parts of himself into place as he rushed into the building. Several members of his own division attempted to gain his attention, but they were staunchly ignored until they took the hint and went away. Prowl's tense figure and brisk pace drew more than a few curious stares.

Anyone who saw his faceplate, the stormy expression taking residence there, quickly looked away.

In his head, he received an open summons from Optimus Prime to all available commanders. A meeting was to be convened immediately. Powerglide and Skydive must have delivered their less than pleasant news. As the Head Tactical Adviser, Prowl was required to attend. He veered in the hallway so sharply that Windcharger was nearly bowled over.

He passed the twins in the hall, not even bothering to spare them a glare. Sideswipe was forced to jump out of the way lest he get run over. The red mech opened his mouthplates to object to the rude treatment, but swallowed the words when he saw Prowl's optics. Prowl was not even out of audio range before Sideswipe leaned over to his brother and whispered, "Oh damn- he's got his scary stare on."

Prowl's mouthplates curled in distaste.

Scary stare.

He'd heard the term used many times amongst bots who'd thought he couldn't hear them; the term usually referred to the characteristics of his stare when his emotional center was turned off. Objectively, there was no change in the shape, colour, or constitution of his optics when he turned his emotional center off, and he did not dare tell anyone when he did it, but for some reason bots seemed able to sense when they change came over him. They didn't like it when he stared at them without any hint of emotion in his optics.

Anyone who thought he had turned his emotional center off was wrong.

It was on.

He could feel the storm inside him. It was like sandpaper scraping his insides. He just couldn't figure out what he was supposed to be feeling. It was almost like suffering from a backlash, but without the immense physical shock to accompany it. He suffered the discomfort of whatever he was feeling, but the discomfort was minor in comparison to anything he had felt before. Personally disturbing, yes, but not as severe as any case suffered in the past. There were too many emotions rushing around inside him to rationally understand where one ended and another began.

He was angry… at who? Who was he supposed to be angry at? Jazz for leaving, or himself for not being able to stop him? Did he feel disappointment as well? It could have been disappointment, but he couldn't be sure in amongst everything else; disappointed in himself that he failed in his mission to make Jazz into an Autobot. Disappointment bled into bitter failure and failure tumbled into shame. His shame bred frustration with himself that he could not be better than what he was- if he had been a better tactician, a stronger Autobot, a more interesting Cybertronian, perhaps he could have lured Jazz to stay. Frustration turned into contempt for his own shortcomings, which then turned into disgust for his inabilities. Disgust ultimately turned into the bitter bile of self-hatred, the emotion Prowl was most familiar with.

Mixed through the maelstrom was a permeating sense of confusion.

Why, exactly, was he reacting so chaotically to the prospect of Jazz being gone?

To add insult to injury, Prowl was further taunted by the knowledge that everything he felt was far out of proportion to what it should be. A symptom of his damned handicap- Emotional Maximum Output syndrome. EMO. How he hated that degrading title.

"Prowl!" someone called. "Prowl, slow down!"

He skidded to a stop and spun around. Behind him was Elita One trotting with Blackhawk at a brisk pace, their faceplates mild. They had no idea what kind of news they were about to receive from the Prime. Prowl almost wished he did not know, that he was as ignorant as the others. It would be one less thing to bother him while everything else warred within him.

Since Elita One was not only the commander for the femme division but also the Prime's sparkmate, Prowl stiffly bowed for her as she approached. The formality was waved away in favour of the three of them walking together to their destination. As a trio, their pace did not slow. The urgency in Prime's call carried their feet briskly through the halls. Prowl's especially curt behaviour became obvious to his companions as he continued down the hall with little regards to others, letting Autobots jump out of his way without paying them much mind.

They were upon the door of the meeting room in record time, but before they could enter, Elita laid a hand to Prowl's arm to stall him.

"Is everything alright, Prowl?" wondered the femme, her narrowed optics suspicious as she searched the tactician's gaze. "You seem unusually agitated."

Blackhawk lingered by the door, his own concern mildly etched on his faceplate.

Prowl cast his gaze to the floor. Of their own volition, his fists closed at his sides. "I am fine, Elita One."

Elita let her hand fall away, her expression remaining unconvinced. "Do you know something about why Optimus called this meeting?"

"Yes," Prowl replied. He would not lie to the Prime's sparkmate if he could help it.

A subtle frown pulled at the femme's mouthplates, but she was far too polite to order Prowl to divulge the knowledge. She would find out soon enough.

Blackhawk revved quietly, casting his mismatched gaze down the hall curiously before refocusing on Prowl. "Where is Jazz?"

Prowl's gaze shot up from the floor, flashing sharply before he looked away. Without saying another word, he passed into the meeting room and took his seat. It was intensely rude of him to leave them as he did, but his abruptness could not be helped. He did not think he could keep his composure if he spoke at that moment.

There were several commanders already present, Optimus Prime among them. Mirage sat in his usual seat, while Ironhide and Ratchet sat together, Wheeljack relaxing in his accustomed spot next to Ratchet. If anyone noticed Prowl's behaviour, they said nothing about it. Indeed, a number of them simply assumed the same thing that Sideswipe had- that Prowl had reverted to that intolerable state he occasionally suffered. Ratchet, however, was much smarter than the others when it came to understanding the many subtle moods of Prowl. He knew right away that something was the matter beyond a simple turning off or on of an emotional center. He was also smart enough to say nothing of it in front of everyone else.

It was only a matter of breems before all of the available commanders had gathered in the room. Optimus Prime did not sit at the long table like everyone else. He stood at the far end and paced, his faceplate drawn into tight lines of concern.

"I am afraid I have just received some unfortunate news from two of our aerials," he began. "The recon team we sent out to investigate the rumour of a Decepticon camp set up in the Iacon-Axiom Nexus territory boundary has been attacked."

Several commanders drew back. They could easily guess the dark conclusion that such an announcement would herald.

"I sent Hound on that team," Mirage intoned, indignant that any bot of his could botch a mission. Or perhaps it was something else… Mirage and Hound had once been lovers before the war, after all.

Ultra Magnus shot the Master Spy a hard look before turning his attentions back to the Prime. "What do we know of the attack?"

Optimus finally forced himself to stop pacing, coming to stand behind his chair. His grasp on the top ledge of it was severe. "Powerglide and Skydive learned of the attack while they were flying back from Alta Trius. They came upon the recon group in Iacon territory. The team was apparently discovered while scoping out the Decepticon camp. Most of them managed to get away and are making their away to a Neutral Camp in Iacon as we speak. I've dispatched First Aid with a ship to collect the bots and bring them home."

"Well, that's good that they managed to get away," Wheeljack sighed, glad to know that there had been no fatalities in the encounter.

"You said 'most of them', Prime," Blawkhawk intoned. "Who didn't get away?"

Optimus sighed, bowing his head. He seemed to be having a hard time getting the designation out.

"Bluestreak," Prowl answered for the Prime. It was impolite to speak for his leader, but at the moment, he was not very concerned with manners. "Bluestreak is the one who did not get away."

All sets of optics flashed his way.

"You already knew?" Ironhide rumbled, arching an optic ridge.

Prowl nodded. "I was outside the perimeter of the base when Powerglide and Skydive came in. Skydive informed me of the matter before he continued into Iacon."

There were several questioning glances traded between the commanders, all wondering why their head tactician would be out in the middle of the night. Prowl did not meet any of their gazes. He did not offer any explanation. Since the matter was not as important as the one at hand, it was dropped in favour of moving forward with Bluestreak's situation.

"Do we know if Bluestreak is still alive?" Elita One asked.

"Powerglide and Skydive indicated that the recon team believed Bluestreak was still alive, but they could not be sure," Optimus sighed.

"If he's alive now, he won't be for long," Ratchet intoned darkly. "When he's scared, he talks. When he talks, he annoys. If he annoys the Decepticons, they'll kill him."

"Unless they're looking for a ransom," Wheeljack intoned, trying to look hopeful. "They'll keep him alive if we trade for him."

"Nothing has been transmitted here or to Axiom Nexus's base from the Decepticons. If they wanted to trade, someone would have said something by now," Blaster said with a solemn shake of his head. "It's not too late to still have a ransom note, but our chances aren't looking too good."

"We can only hope that Bluestreak manages to stay silent in order to stay alive long enough for us to rescue him," Optimus said.

"That doesn't give us much time," Ratchet pointed out.

In the politics of war, commanders were expected to live much longer in captivity than a low-ranking warrior. Enemies could funnel information from a commander, taking their time to torture needed knowledge out of someone, such as in the case of Prowl's captivity. Bluestreak was not a high-ranking individual. He was not privy to vital information. Rationally, he had little value to the Decepticons unless they were looking for ransom. If Bluestreak annoyed them, there would be very little incentive to keep him alive. And Bluestreak would annoy them; there was no question about that.

"Damn this," Elita One sighed quietly, her gaze directed to the table.

Despite his low-ranking status, the sniper had many friends amongst the Autobots, plus the favour of a few of the commanders. All who knew him were fully aware of his unusual quirk. He talked a lot. An obsessive-compulsive talker. It wasn't so much that he talked to hear his own voice, but more so as a nervous habit and a coping mechanism to combat the many horrors he'd been forced to witness since the war began. He talked in order to keep his demons away. Aside from the talking, he was a very sweet mech and a talented sniper. It would be a great blow to many bots if they were to lose Bluestreak.

"I can send a bot out immediately to scope out the area to determine if Bluestreak is alive or not," Blackhawk said.

"And risk having him captured too? That would be so helpful," Mirage countered scathingly.

"Mute it, Mirage," Wheeljack snapped.

Mirage scowled.

Blackhawk did not grant the Master Spy the satisfaction of being effected by his words. Instead, he regarded Optimus Prime with a slight inclination of his head. "This would actually be a perfect mission to send Jazz on," said the saboteur. "Jazz has been with working with my division for a while now. I would trust him to run a solo mission. Out of all of us, he knows the Decepticons the best and should be able to get in and out without being noticed."

"That's an excellent suggestion," Optimus agreed, relief evident on his faceplate. "I have no doubt that Jazz would be well suited to such a mission."

The bots who normally would have objected to such a suggestion remained silent. Ratchet had his own reasons, which he was not inclined to share with anyone. Ironhide and Mirage merely sealed their mouthplates together and seethed in silence. They were never listened to anyways, so there was no point in saying anything of the matter this time.

Those who were normally in favour of Jazz's integration into Autobot life, namely Elita One, Blackhawk, and occasionally Wheeljack, looked content with the decision.

Prowl's shoulders dropped, doorwings noticeably drooping.

Wheeljack's crystal fins flashed dimly as he realized something important. "Where is Jazz, anyways? I haven't seen him for a couple of joors…"

"It's odd that he didn't come with the summons," Blackhawk noted, his gaze sweeping the room as if Jazz were lurking in some shadowed corner. Despite the fact that the saboteur was not a commander, he did attend many of the commanders-only meetings. At first, it had been a very reluctant arrangement. It did not take long for Jazz to work his peculiar brand of charm, making it a regular scene for him to attend meetings and contribute input. His current absence was noted by everyone. Because it had become the habit of many Autobots to understand that where Prowl generally was, Jazz was usually close at hand, the commanders turned once again to regard their tactician. Surely Prowl would know why Jazz hadn't come. He, of all bots, would know where Jazz was lurking.

Like before, Prowl did not meet any of their gazes.

Elita One leaned across the table. "Prowl, do you know something?"

Prowl glanced at the femme, knowing that answering the question was now unavoidable. He sighed, "Yes, I do know something."

Optimus glanced between his mate and his tactical adviser. He leaned heavily on the back of his chair, focusing his gaze solely on Prowl. "Bluestreak's life is at stake here, Prowl. Tell us where Jazz is. The longer we wait to do anything, the greater danger Bluestreak will be in."

Prowl forced himself to meet the Prime's steady gaze. He could hardly believe the words he was saying: "Jazz is gone, sir."

There came a stunned silence. Several bots looked as if they were not sure if they had heard the statement correctly.

"What do you mean gone?" Ratchet demanded.

Prowl kept his gaze fixed on the Prime, unable to bring himself to look at anyone else. "The reason I was outside the compound tonight was to be in Jazz's company. He expressed to me that he was unsatisfied with staying in Iacon and that he wished to leave. So he left." To his own audios, his voice was stilted. Stiff and brittle.

"So you just let him leave?" Ironhide exclaimed incredulously. "You didn't even try to stop him? That bot practically knows all of our secrets and you just let him be on his merry way?"

A cold gaze was settled on the weapons specialist. "Jazz was never a prisoner here. He came of his own freewill, and he left in the same fashion."

"Well isn't that just dandy for him," Ironhide growled.

"He will keep our secrets. I have no basis for this assertion, but I am confident he will not outright betray us." Prowl shuttered his optics for a moment, then he forced his gaze to remain neutral. "There was nothing I could do to make him stay."

"Do you know where he went? Is there a way to get in contact with him?" Optimus pressed.

Prowl thought briefly of the tracking device stashed in his subspace pocket, only to dismiss the idea as quickly as it came. Even if he did not completely understand Jazz's reasons for leaving, he could respect them. There were many capable warriors in the Autobots ranks who could make up for the loss of one Neutral. They had gotten along just fine before he had come to them, and they would carry on just fine without him now that he was gone.

"Prowl?" Optimus prompted, bringing the tactician's mind back from the ether.

"He snuck away in a moment of my distraction," Prowl admitted, embarrassed to find himself distracted again. "He left no indication of where he was going." He cycled cool air through is vents, hoping to cool the rage of emotions warring inside him. "We are perfectly capable of formulating a rescue without Jazz's assistance. We have done so in the past and I have every confidence we can do so now."

There was hesitation before anyone spoke next. The difference in Prowl's behaviour was now marked by all bots present. With the news of Jazz's leaving, there was no doubt of the cause of the tactician's agitation. Even if the Autobot commanders knew Prowl and Jazz were not intimately engaged, as the rumours would suggest, none of them were stupid. They knew a friendship when they saw it… even if it was a really messed up friendship.

Blackhawk was the first to speak. "Yes, of course, we mustn't waste time. I can send Nightbeat out immediately."

Optimus nodded. "In the meantime, the rest of us must stand on guard. Alert your divisions to the situation so that they will be prepared at a moment's notice to move. It is unfortunate that we do not have Jazz with us anymore, but we have no time to linger on the matter. Bluestreak's life is on the line."

With those dark words hanging in the air, the commanders rose from their seats and quickly exited the room. The only mech not to move so quickly was Prowl. Optimus Prime also stayed behind, watching the tactician carefully. Prowl sensed the Prime's stare, turning to him.

"Sir?"

"I realize that Jazz was your friend, Prowl…" Optimus said quietly.

Prowl jerked back at the term friend, but did not refute it. "I will not allow my personal life to affect my duties, sir. You have my word that Bluestreak is my priority." He made a beeline for the door and was gone.

Optimus sighed. "That is not what I was going to say," he said to the empty room. He'd simply intended to express his condolences over the loss of the saboteur.

Completely by chance, Jazz happened to stumble upon a developed Neutral camp. Several joors after his drop into the wild lands, he was sorely in need of something to make the burning in his axles stop- preferably a strong high-grade. He knew there was nothing to be done for the discomfort in his chest, suspiciously lurking around the spot where his spark resided.

Upon discovering the camp, it had been Jazz's first instinct to disguise his spark signature and sneak in, giving himself free reign of the supplies the bots managed to save. But then it occurred to him that there was no need for any such deception. He was just as Neutral as any of them, bearing the white optics and lack of faction alliance.

Even if some bots in the camp knew the designation "Jazz" and all the nightmares associated with it, it was unlikely that they knew the faceplate attached. Jazz had absolutely no intention of letting the camp know who he really was. The two possible outcomes of such a scenario were not the most pleasant; either a mass panic in order to get away from him or a mass attack in an attempt to kill him. Jazz was in no mood for pandemonium or a fight, so anonymity was his friend today.

Honestly, he was in no mood for anything except assuaging the disturbing ache in his chest.

Keeping moving. Don't stop. Get as far away as he could.

Go back. Stay there. Accept that things were beyond his control.

Slowing down to a rolling halt, Jazz transformed and shook out his frame. The hard drive had done its fair share of damage. Not the worst he'd ever suffered, for sure, but enough to feel the ache. He appreciated the soreness. It was a nice distraction from thoughts he did not want to think about.

Jazz would not think of the storm-grey tactician he'd left in his dust.

"Hey there, stranger," someone called, breaking Jazz from his reverie.

Jazz looked up and noted the two warriors that hailed him. They were two among many dotting the outskirts of the encampment; some of the warriors were loyal to the camp and others paid to be there. The two that approached Jazz were unthreatening in their manners even as they sized each other up with polite wariness. One never knew when danger was rolling in under the disguise of a smile. Jazz determined that the Neutral warriors were trained to fight, but more interested in protecting than killing. One boasted of a sword that marked him as a traditional diffusion fighter, the rival fighting style to circuit-su. The warriors themselves took note of Jazz scrupulously, but apparently saw nothing threatening in the silver minibot. One enquired to Jazz's business, to which Jazz replied honestly that he was just passing through. Another warrior wondered if Jazz had encountered any trouble during his solo drive through the wild lands; Jazz had encountered no more trouble than the normal case of bad roads and too many ghosts.

With pleasantries exchanged, Jazz was allowed into the camp.

It was strange not having immediate suspicion sear through him like laser beams.

To give his wheels a break, Jazz remained in bipedal mode, setting off at a moderate pace through the modest camp. The camp was not one of shanty huts and tarp tents, but an area staked out amongst the wreckage, employing buildings that were not too terribly destroyed as shelter. A meagre power source had been found, hooked up to a few scarce lights shining from inside otherwise haunting dwellings. The streets had been mostly cleared of debris. No dead frames were in sight. It was a large camp, by the looks of things- perhaps one or two hundred Neutrals. The place looked relatively undisturbed, as well- left alone from assault long enough to have a routine to life established. Bots in the street were walking around with purpose, going about chores to keep the camp running smoothly.

Despite the fact that a planetary war raged in all direction, the camp survived as some kind of soot-smeared oasis.

Jazz could not linger in this place for too long. Despite the quaint appeal of the place, he had no urge to stay; it did not draw him as one particular place did. Jazz had no desire to suffer the uncomfortable draw toward Iacon any longer than he had to; if he put enough distance between that damned based and himself, hopefully his fragging connection to the base would snap.

He would not bother himself longer than he had to by staying close.

The sound of brief laughter drew his attention. Turning on his heel, Jazz watched as a discreet door in the side of a crooked, pockmarked building creaked open and two bots wandered out. They had their arms around each other, laughing at some joke. Curious of the scene, Jazz made his way closer to investigate. Upon closer inspection, the pair of bots were slightly inebriated, and they greeted Jazz with abandoned salutations. Jazz decided they were beneath his notice and ignored them accordingly.

However, the alley he wandered into was worth his attention. It was a shaded, narrow passage between two buildings- one standing and the other collapsed over the alley to form a triangular tunnel. One might assume that such a place filled with dust and debris would carry a musty scent, and it did, but there also lingered a strange drugging sweetness. Jazz attributed the unusual smell to leaching scents from whatever it was that laid behind the door in the wall, which sat so discreetly in its doorframe that it was nearly perfectly camouflaged unless you were looking directly at it. The door itself sat crooked on its hinges, its shape warped from extreme age. When looking directly at it, Jazz got the curious sense that the door was not supposed to be there. It looked too random to be purposeful, but too purposeful to be completely random. Above the door was a splash of faded graffiti in old Cybertronian script. It read Mac's.

The door opened, forcing Jazz to take a step back as a bot exited. The door snapped closed behind him. Jazz remained in the alley, transfixed by the small scribble of graffiti.

He'd known a place called Mac's once, but that had been a very long time ago. It had been owned by a very kind bar tender who had often taken pity on him after he managed to drag himself away from Xerxia. More often than not, Jazz had been allowed to hide for a few orns on a cot in the back of the bar until he healed. It was impossible to even begin to think this was the same Mac's he'd once known. This was the wrong territory and the wrong time. The original Mac was most likely long dead, his establishment nothing but dust. Nevertheless, it was a curious thing to come upon a place that bore the same name.

Unable to resist peeking inside the place, Jazz opened the door and stepped inside. It took a moment to adjust his optics to see properly. There were only two dim lights hanging from the ceiling illuminating the large, low room. Despite its deceptively plain outer shell, the inside of the place had survived hard times in relatively good condition. Booths lined the walls while tables and chairs were paired around the floor. A long counter stretched out along one of the far walls, lined by stools that looked older than Cybertron itself. A handful of bots sat scattered about, talking in low voices. Several white gazes looked up to inspect the newcomer, and then looked away when they had their fill.

Still feeling rather restless, Jazz sidled up to the bar and wondered if the place sold high-grade.

From a rusty door to the side came a tall figure painted in blacks, browns, and golds, a bot so thin that his spindly legs did not look stable enough to hold him up. He had four arms instead of two, standard design for a bar tender. The arms were bizarrely thin, like the rest of him. Jazz could only guess that the poor bot had donated so much of himself to others in need that there was hardly anything left. Even if that was the case, the expression on the bot's faceplate was far from bitter. He looked to be the type of bot who had a perpetually pleasant expression, mixed somewhere between curiously bemused and bemusedly curious.

"You're new," observed the mech, looking Jazz up and down.

"On the contrary, Ah'm old," Jazz replied, smirking. He came up to one of the stools and took a seat, feeling great relief as weight was finally taken off his aching joints.

"What a coincidence, so am I," replied the bar tender with a smile. From such a short exchange, the bar tender was now convinced that he was dealing with a good bot. Jazz could see the conclusion in his optics and did not bother to correct the assumption. "Can I get you anything?"

"Got any high-grade?" Jazz asked, feeling the need for a little buzz to take the edge off his restlessness.

Spindly shoulders jerked up in a shrug. "A bit, but it's nothing fancy."

Jazz shook his head, the edges of his mouthplates edging up. "Ah don't need nothing fancy."

Humoured light danced in the skinny bot's optics. "That's too bad, because that's the brand name: Nothing Fancy."

A low laugh drifted from Jazz. "Alright, then Ah wouldn't mind Nothing Fancy."

"It's yours, then." With startling grace for someone who looked like a breeze could knock over, the bar tender was gone into the back to scrounge up what he had.

Jazz leaned his elbows on the bar surface and braced his weight, waiting for his high-grade to come. It wasn't a long wait, since the spindly bot was back in less than a breem. The small cube he had in his hands was dusty, the glow of the high-grade a little dull. By looking at it, Jazz knew it wasn't as good a quality as Sideswipe's, but then again, with a name like Nothing Fancy, you couldn't really expect much. In a surprise move, the bar tender tossed the sealed cube in the air and juggled it around between his four arms before sliding it into Jazz's hands.

Jazz laughed again, glancing at Spindly- a designation he decided he would call the mech in his head. "Ah used ta know a bar tender who did the exact same trick," he said.

"We're all programmed with the trick. It's good for getting a smile," said Spindly with a crooked smile of his own. While Jazz cracked the seal and downed half the cube, Spindly took up some dusty and dirty cubes and started wiping them off with a damp cloth. The cleaned ones he stacked on the shelf behind him.

Jazz was left to his own thoughts. He thought of where he might go as soon as he was done in the camp. Maybe he'd head to Vos and catch a flight to one of the moons, or maybe a colony. The thought of striking up his old merchant trade wasn't too repulsive. He probably still had some contacts floating around. But there was no challenge to trading, and since the economy was basically non-existent now, there was no worth in the endeavour either. He could always find a Neutral camp and do… something.

Jazz scrubbed his faceplate with his hand, disgusted with himself.

What the pit was he thinking? Be one of those bored, sorry-looking bots sitting on the periphery of the camp? A half-cocked warrior wasting his orns doing nothing but passing off vapid conversations with dirty, lost bots wandering in from wild lands… Had he really sunk that low? He was better than that. He'd find something else to do.

Unbidden by himself, a flash of storm-grey crossed his mind.

"Damn it," Jazz growled, shuttered his optics. Maybe the high-grade was stronger than it looked.

"If you don't mind my saying so, you look lost," Spindly commented, done with stacking cubes. He had no other duty, so he was free to give Jazz his full attention.

Jazz looked away from the dirt-coloured mech, disliking that he could be read so easily. "Ain't lost."

"Could have fooled me." Spindly leaned in, bracing all four of his too thin arms against the counter. "Generally speaking, a bot doesn't wander in here unless he's lost or hiding from something. So which is it- lost or hiding?"

Jazz wondered if Spindly was referring to the camp itself or just the bar. Deciding that it didn't really matter, he shrugged. What did it matter what he said to the bot? He was going to be gone in a little bit anyways. "Either one, Ah guess."

Spindly gave a soft laugh, but it was a sad sound. "I hear a lot of that these orns, you know? Bots don't know what to do with themselves anymore."

"Ain't that the truth," Jazz snorted. He felt pathetic. There had been a lot of lows in his life, mostly in the early vorns, but sinking to the level of taking advice from a nameless bar tender? This was the ultimate low for Jazz. Rock bottom.

Spindly sighed, patting Jazz's forearm. "I've seen a lot of bots like you in places like these. One thing I've noticed is that a lot of their problems aren't as big as they seem to think they are." There was a brief shrug. "Being lost… well, I think that's just life's way of giving a bot the opportunity find himself."

Jazz pushed away from his seat, tired of the conversation. "That's nice and all, but Ah'm fine the way Ah am, thanks. What do Ah owe ya?"

"For the drink or advice?"

"The drink." Because the advice sucked.

Spindly offered a crooked smile. "First one is on the house."

Jazz revved, spinning on his heel and making his way to the door. He barely caused a stir from the other patrons. He realized that if he kept running, moments like these would probably constitute the rest of his life; never causing a stir wherever he went. He'd become just a background character in everyone else's life. The thought of it left a bitter taste in him.

"Hey, Jazz," called Spindly.

Jazz tensed, his hand on the door. He turned just enough to see the strange bar tender still standing behind his bar. The glow of the dim lights reflected on the mech's blue optics, turning the crystal lenses a curious molten amber.

"Good luck."

"For what?" Jazz wondered warily.

The bar tender shrugged. "For whatever it is you think you're doing."

Jazz snorted, swinging out the door. It was not until he was halfway down the alley before he realized that the bar tender had called him by designation. Running through his entire exchange with the bot, Jazz knew he had never mentioned who he was. Cold suspicion stole through Jazz, mixed with the notion of impossibility. Instead of swinging around and marching back into Mac's, he kept walking away from it. There were some ghosts better left dead.

Upon exiting the covered tunnel-alley, it became apparent that there was a commotion going on outside the camp on the opposite side from where Jazz had entered. Shouting voices and the sound of running bots carried through the air. Curious, Jazz scanned the area to see if he could figure out the issue. If it was a raid, he'd have to get out of there quick. He was in no mood to fight. No Decepticon signatures appeared on his scans, but a small handful of Autobots did. Jazz knew those signatures.

Spurred on into a fast trot, Jazz made it to the far side of the camp to watch as nearly three dozen Neutrals converged on a group of three battered Autobots. The warriors protecting the camp did not offer assistance to the Autobots; their weapons were drawn, watching warily. Whereas Jazz had been Neutral and seen as no threat, the Autobots carried obvious allegiances, which meant the possibility of dragging the war into the camp more than it already was. It was other Neutrals who gathered around Hound, Skids, and Nazkar to help them into the boundaries of the camp. A medic was promptly summoned, beginning field repairs.

Jazz inched out of sight, not wanting to be spotted by the Autobots. He watched the scene play out. Skids and Nazkar were the worse off of the three bots; they did not speak, nor were they able to come out of their alt modes on their own. The roofs and afts of their alt modes had taken heavy damage, trailing smoke and energon behind them. Hound faired better, his armour thicker than his companions'. It took a bit of effort, but he brought himself out of his alt mode with only minimal grinding and sparks. The scout's normally happy faceplate was tense and dark, his optics frightened and stunned and a tiny bit wild.

Jazz searched his memory banks, recalling one group that had been sent out to the borderlands to scout the area. It had been a group of four, consisting of Hound, Skids, Nazkar, and Bluestreak. Jazz searched the crowd for the fourth member of the group. Nowhere among the sea of heads did he see the sniper's light-grey head. He scanned for a spark signature instead, still coming up empty.

"Damn." He craned his head over the crowd, trying in vain to see something he knew wouldn't be there.

It shouldn't have mattered to him. If he was smart, he would have walked away then and there. The Autobots were not his problem anymore. He didn't have to waste his time on them, yet he stayed where he was searching the crowd for anything, even a dead frame.

There came a break in the crowd through which Hound looked up and caught Jazz's optics. As a scout, Hound sense of sight was acute and his ability to recognize bots by sight alone was second to none. His optics widened in surprise, and that surprise faded into an expression of unease. The crowd shifted, putting a dozen or so bots between them.

Jazz really should have taken that moment to leave. He had never intended to be spotted, because that would cause all sorts of unneeded questions. Yet he didn't leave. Instead, he remained as if his feet were rooted to the spot. The next time an opening came, Hound raised his hand in a hesitant gesture, unsure if Jazz would acknowledge him at all. Jazz stared at the raised hand, and then inclined his head in return. Of their own accord, his feet started moving. He weaved his way through the crowd until he was able to crouch at Hound's side.

"What are you doing here?" Hound asked lowly, wise enough not to use Jazz's designation in such a crowded place. His voice was rough, like gravel in a blender.

"None of your business," Jazz replied in a similarly low tone. "Where's Bluestreak?"

Hound's gaze darkened. "Decepticons have him." The medic touched raw neural wires, causing Hound to spasm violently. His hand shot out, clamping down on Jazz's arm. "Blue… he won't last long."

Jazz stared down at the hand that held him like a manacle. Hound's strained faceplate was etched with desperation.

"They'll kill him."

Jazz dug his claws into the scout's hand and peeled the limb off. "Blue will be fine."

Hound shook his head, his whole frame shuddering. "The Autobots… won't get him in time."

For some Primus damned reason that Jazz did not want to think about, those words struck a chord in him. Frag it all. When did he become such a sucker for sob stories? It wasn't his job to clean up after Autobot screw ups anymore. He was free. He was supposed to be getting away from stupid slag like this. But then he thought of Bluestreak, who talked too much and was probably one of the most annoying bots Jazz had ever met... and there was a quality about the bot that was hard to name. He smiled and was always polite. Once you tuned out his talking, he wasn't too annoying. He sort of grew on a bot much in the same fashion that some cancerous tumour might.

Besides, Bluestreak was ex-Security Response… like Prowl.

Aw, frag.

Much to his own surprise, Jazz heard himself sighing the words, "Ah'll get him."

Relief melted onto Hound's faceplate. Maybe the mech was a bit delusional from his damages, but he started to cry. "Thank you. Thank you."

"Whatever," Jazz grumbled. "It's not like Ah had anything better ta do."