Preparations
Title: Preparations
Verse: G1
Rating: T
Characters: Jazz, Prowl
Warnings: Angst, saboteur-related damage and destruction.
Summary: Jazz and Prowl have developed their pre-mission routine for a reason.
Written got the prowlxjazz September challenge: week 1, prompts #2 & #9 - ‘Worth dying for’/‘Worth living for’
The door opens without a sound, closing just as quietly. The four mechs in front of me tense nonetheless. None of them turn to look at the mech now resting his doorwings against the wall, arms folded and optics intent. But they wouldn’t be Special Ops if they didn’t know he was there, sound or no sound. And they wouldn’t be Ops if they couldn’t read a simple pattern.
All my careful explanation and warnings… the fact that I’m ordering a five-mech, team mission to take out a single base… they knew this was a dangerous one. I don’t think it struck home until now though.
My Ops team know they’re in real slag when Prowl decides to gatecrash my briefings.
The mech says nothing. After the joors of arguments, prep work and planning there’s nothing more he can add. It’s down to me now, and there’s nothing in his steady gaze that so much as hints at doubt or uncertainty. He simply watches, an enigma to my team and slagging hard to read, even for me. Silent or not, his presence has changed the atmosphere in this briefing, and I’m glad of it. If my people are going into this, I want it to be with optics open.
I let my own visored gaze sweep the room before bringing the meeting to a close, open in my assessment of the team in front of me.
“Last call, mah mechs. If yer not in, speak now an’ there’s no harm, no foul. Ah ain’t takin’ anyone who don’t wanna go on this one. Take a step back an’ ah’ll say no more ‘bout it.”
Not a one of them moves. It’s a long few klicks before Bumblebee tilts his head to one side, body angled so he can watch Prowl’s reaction as he voices the question on his mind.
“Is it worth it?”
I smile without humour, and not just because Bee might as well have been watching a rock rather than Prime’s stoic lieutenant.
“Gotta make that call fer yerself, Bee, mah mech.” I pause, my voice and expression both calm. “But fer me? Yeah. This one’s gotta be done, one way or another. Ah’ll do what it takes.”
There’s no more hesitation after that.
“Go prepare,” I tell them. “Ten breems. Here. Ready to roll.”
My team scoots, and Prowl shifts slightly as they file past him, exchanging a brief nod of acknowledgement with each mech. I wait until Prowler and I are alone in the room before I meet his gaze and let my shoulders slump. He knows as well as I do what I just told young Bee, and what his mere presence here told them all.
In ten breems, I’ll be leading my mechs from this base and into the fires of the Pit… because this one’s worth dying for.
Prowl and I start in the labs and storerooms, chatting quietly about nothing in particular, stopping at each door just long enough to take a good look inside.
Beachcomber gives us a placid smile, offering to show us his latest samples and accepting without offence when I decline. Perceptor doesn’t even notice we’re there. Wheeljack is a little less sanguine. His servos are full of something volatile and I wave him off with a deliberately exaggerated expression of fear. He offers a wan smile in response. His vocal indicators flash a worried pink despite the smile, and he shuffles his burden, freeing one hand to wave vaguely in return.
Both Prowl and I are well aware that the repair bay is empty, but Ratchet tells us so anyway when we look in. His addendum of ‘and you’d slagging well better make sure it stays that way’ is directed firmly at me, and his familiar scowl can’t hide the glimmer deep in his optics.
Ironhide just grunts when the two of us cross through the command deck. He leans back in the monitor chair, attention more on us than on the screens. It’s got to be said: old ‘Hide is just plain lousy at hiding his emotions. Right now he’s pretty much vibrating with worry and it steps up a notch when he sees the two of us together. His optics threaten me even as they wish me luck. He doesn’t try to keep us there though. He knows I’ve got a lot of ground to cover, and not a lot of time.
The first time Prowl dragged me on an impromptu pre-mission inspection tour of the base, I thought the mech had a screw - Pit, a whole circuit-board! - loose. I spent the whole time rushing, needling poor Prowler, trying to get into his processor, even as I tried to keep the mission clear in mine. There’s no need for that anymore. Even Ironhide knows that this is routine now, though I’m guessing he puts the habit down to Ops superstition rather than anything more rational. Prowl and I know better, even if we leave our reasons unspoken. We know what we’re doing here, and words only get in the way.
“Hi, Prowl! Hi, Jazz!”
Speaking of words…
“What are you doing here? I thought you were off-duty? I’m kind of glad to find you. I’m going out on patrol now, but I’ll be back in a few joors and I was wondering if you wanted to come over, I’ve got some of the twins’ high-gr… Ah, you didn’t hear that, did you, Prowl? I mean I’ve got some high-grade I, ah… found… somewhere, and you’re welcome to join me?”
“Not for me, Blue.” My visor is bright with amusement. “Gonna be off-base mah-self.”
I glance back at Prowler, seeing the laughter I cherish dancing in his deep blue optics, even as his face-plates remain impassive. Young Blue doesn’t let the grim expression put him off. Ironhide might be eyeing Prowl warily, but Bluestreak knows our second in command isn’t above the occasional clandestine cube, even if he’d rather not know its origin… officially, at least. Even so, Prowler gives a small shake of his head, clearly not in the mood.
“Okay.” Like Beachcomber, our Blue doesn’t know how to take offence. His broad smile fills the room as he heads for the door. “See you when you get back.”
Ironhide snorts, throwing a nod in my direction before he turns back to his monitor. Still grinning, I glance sideways to take in the ghost of a smile that Prowl won’t show anyone but me. Even with the knowledge of my mission hanging over us, there’s something uplifting about Bluestreak’s utter confidence in my return. I file the memory of his room-brightening smile alongside the much rarer quirk of Prowl’s pale lip-plates.
We drift onwards, past our locked offices, exchanging greetings with our Prime before heading into the crew corridors. Most of the rooms are locked - ‘bots on monitor duty, on patrol or simply recharging. A few doors are propped wide, an open invitation to anyone who wants to stop by. The mechs inside smile and call out to me as we pass. I let a lazy smile linger on my lips and exchange a few words here, a little banter there, aware of Prowl, wings and posture deliberately relaxed, trying not to look too imposing beside me.
There aren’t many mechs in this crew who’ve been with us as long as Ironhide, Ratchet and Wheeljack. Most of them probably haven’t picked up on this routine yet. They see Prowl and me side by side on the battlefield, in our offices, even in the rec room when I can manage to drag Prowler down there. They haven’t twigged to the fact that this slow meandering survey is out of the norm for us, or connected it - as Ratchet certainly has - to the chances of me ending up slagged in medbay by the end of the orn.
The twins are an exception. Sunstreaker is alone in their room, cross-legged on the floor and cleaning his weapon with as much attention to its smooth function as to its aesthetics. He glances up through the open door, and I see his optics dim as he takes in me and Prowler, side by side and talking quietly. He expels a gruff vent, turning a forbidding scowl on us that’s belied by the fact that his door is open and welcoming. Master of the mixed message, our sunshine.
“Going somewhere interesting?” is all he says, not even looking me in the face-plates.
“If ah told you, ah’d hafta kill you.” My quiet chuckle is genuine, the death threat only marginally so.
Sunny nods and puts down his rifle, optics coming up to meet my visor. “Need an extra servo… or fist, for that matter?”
My laughter fades. I meet his gaze without flinching and with only the slightest hint of apology. “Not this time, Sunny.”
It’s a few moments before Sunny looks away, picking up his rifle and cleaning cloth with no visible hint of emotion. “Sides is planning a party for next orn.” His optics dart to Prowl for a moment, daring him to make something of it, before dropping back to the task at hand. Prowler’s doorwing twitches, but he stills his vocalisor, letting Sunny go on. “You’d better not be late.”
The gruff words are an order, a plea and a prayer all wrapped up in one. I accept them in the spirit they’re meant.
“Ah’ll do mah best, Sunstreaker. Ah’ll do mah best.”
It had started the orn as a Decepticon base.
But then, I’d started the orn as a fully functioning mech - peak of fitness according to Ratch.
As labels went, neither was going to win prizes for accuracy. Not now.
I grit my denta and reach out, finger servos scrabbling for a hold on a jagged shard of wall-plating, ignoring the way it cuts into my palm as I pull myself forward across the debris field. A flat panel shifts beneath me, its surface warped and bubbled in the heat.
A tall figure beside me. Doorwings held high. Tremors barely visible as their owner tries to project a calm he doesn’t feel.
Another hand-hold, another cry of pain as I drag my torso across the wreckage. There’s a pool of fluid burning in my path - fuel, lubricant, I don’t care. Going around isn’t an option. I get my hands under me, trying to push myself up and over it, only to scream in torment as my arms give way and my chestplates splash down into the flames.
Ironhide’s concerned look threatening all kinds of pain if I end up worrying him like I have in the past.
I haul myself through the fire, useless legs trailing behind me. Burning oil drips from my Ops-refined plating. A flame licks at the transformation seam in my left calf even after I’m clear. I take a moment to bat at it, not feeling the fire but knowing I can’t let it take hold. My legs might be shot to the Pit, crushed by a falling console and lacerated by the metal shards littering the ground, but I’m still kind of hopeful that Ratch’ll put them back together. No point making his job any harder.
Ratchet, looking around his empty repair bay. Looking up at me with the grim certainty it won’t stay that way.
I tear my palm a little wider as I crawl across the jagged shards of a viewscreen. My arms aren’t going to hold out much longer. They’re leaking energon from a thousand small cuts, not just the three long slices left by flying debris in the initial explosion. If I’d not flung them across my head and neck, it wouldn’t just be my arms showing those jagged tears. Grim humour shakes a choking laugh out of my frame as my processor drifts back a mere handful of orns, to Prowler scowling at me and threatening to mount my helm on his office wall. Much as I’d been bugging him at the time, I’m pretty sure he was joking. Getting decapitated in the ruins of a Decepticon base would be a Pit of a way to ruin his day. And mine.
Humour barely visible on pale faceplates. A small smile that took me vorns to recognise and longer still to claim for my own. Steady blue optics watching my every move, drinking in the sight of me.
Those leaking arms of mine are going numb, and not because I’ve blocked the sensors as I did in my legs. I force them to move regardless, flinging out a white forearm, watching in vague bemusement as scratched black finger-servos scrabble for a grip. Things are drifting a bit now, but I pull myself onwards one mechanometer at a time. I reckon I must be getting towards the rendezvous point, and I’m still hopeful Bee and Raj made it out before the big bang, even if Mac and ‘Shifter weren’t so lucky. Maybe I’m fooling myself. Or maybe I’m just praying for it to be true.
“You’d better not be late.” Order. Plea. Prayer. Sunstreaker’s words, echoed in his brother’s expression as Sides caught up with us in the rec room.
“Doin’ mah best,” I mutter, vocalisor choked with static. Another deep vent, another few mechanometers. I keep going, not letting the pain stop me and not worrying, for once, about Decepticons finding me in these ruins. No one closer to the blast than me made it out of there. And that was everyone. I’m honestly not sure I’m going to make it out either. Maybe I’m already dead, and just haven’t figured it out yet. It would be so easy to stop and accept my own sacrifice.
Wheeljack’s vocal indicators, flashing pink in front of my fading vision. He warned me the reaction rate was unpredictable. Prowl knew too. My choice. Won’t stop them taking the blame.
Don’t blame Shockwave for thinking the auto defences on this place made patrols unnecessary. Three slagging vorns this place has kept the chasm bridge pinned down. Always before it’s been a thorn in our side. With the war going against us, each avenue of retreat choked off in turn, it’s become more than that: a knife to our back-plates. If we’re going to get our people out, regroup and retaliate before our base becomes our trap and our tomb, then this place had to be wiped off the map.
Four mechs, standing between me and Prowl. Knowledge in each pair of optics. This mission… this cause… was one worth dying for.
I believe that. There’d be no shame deactivating here. No regret that I took the risk. It would be easy to give in to the steady energon drain from a dozen wounds… so easy.
Deep blue optics dimmed with half-concealed concern. White servos brushing mine as they hand me a last cube before I set out.
I crawl onwards.
Beachcomber’s lazy grin.
Pain lancing through me.
Bluestreak’s broad smile.
Not giving up.
Prowl’s silence, speaking volumes to me… only to me.
“Jazz!”
Bee’s voice rises over the crackle of flame.
Hands ghost over my plating, gentle but still trailing agony in their wake. I give myself over to the pain, sure now that the fires - both internal and external - will be gone when the darkness fades. Confident that I’ll wake with Ratchet swearing at me… with Ironhide leaning, arms folded and scowl firmly fixed on his face, against the wall… with Wheeljack fussing over my newly-repaired legs struts… with Sunny and Sides already conspiring to ease the tedium of my repairs with a prank or two. With Prowl watching over me, words unnecessary between us.
There are two words I’ll give him, necessary or not: Thank you.
Every time Prime speaks, every time I face a Decepticon in battle, or pick through the debris of shattered lives, I know I have a cause worth dying for.
It’s Prowl who gives me something more, who’s there every time, walking beside me, making me take the time, not letting me go until he’s sure the knowledge is fixed in me, processor and spark.
As I sink into the haze of memories, lost amidst images of my friends and the play of emotions through my spark, I know I have something far harder to find - something that’ll drag my battered frame through a thousand explosions and out of the Pit itself.
I have something worth living for.
Verse: G1
Rating: T
Characters: Jazz, Prowl
Warnings: Angst, saboteur-related damage and destruction.
Summary: Jazz and Prowl have developed their pre-mission routine for a reason.
Written got the prowlxjazz September challenge: week 1, prompts #2 & #9 - ‘Worth dying for’/‘Worth living for’
The door opens without a sound, closing just as quietly. The four mechs in front of me tense nonetheless. None of them turn to look at the mech now resting his doorwings against the wall, arms folded and optics intent. But they wouldn’t be Special Ops if they didn’t know he was there, sound or no sound. And they wouldn’t be Ops if they couldn’t read a simple pattern.
All my careful explanation and warnings… the fact that I’m ordering a five-mech, team mission to take out a single base… they knew this was a dangerous one. I don’t think it struck home until now though.
My Ops team know they’re in real slag when Prowl decides to gatecrash my briefings.
The mech says nothing. After the joors of arguments, prep work and planning there’s nothing more he can add. It’s down to me now, and there’s nothing in his steady gaze that so much as hints at doubt or uncertainty. He simply watches, an enigma to my team and slagging hard to read, even for me. Silent or not, his presence has changed the atmosphere in this briefing, and I’m glad of it. If my people are going into this, I want it to be with optics open.
I let my own visored gaze sweep the room before bringing the meeting to a close, open in my assessment of the team in front of me.
“Last call, mah mechs. If yer not in, speak now an’ there’s no harm, no foul. Ah ain’t takin’ anyone who don’t wanna go on this one. Take a step back an’ ah’ll say no more ‘bout it.”
Not a one of them moves. It’s a long few klicks before Bumblebee tilts his head to one side, body angled so he can watch Prowl’s reaction as he voices the question on his mind.
“Is it worth it?”
I smile without humour, and not just because Bee might as well have been watching a rock rather than Prime’s stoic lieutenant.
“Gotta make that call fer yerself, Bee, mah mech.” I pause, my voice and expression both calm. “But fer me? Yeah. This one’s gotta be done, one way or another. Ah’ll do what it takes.”
There’s no more hesitation after that.
“Go prepare,” I tell them. “Ten breems. Here. Ready to roll.”
My team scoots, and Prowl shifts slightly as they file past him, exchanging a brief nod of acknowledgement with each mech. I wait until Prowler and I are alone in the room before I meet his gaze and let my shoulders slump. He knows as well as I do what I just told young Bee, and what his mere presence here told them all.
In ten breems, I’ll be leading my mechs from this base and into the fires of the Pit… because this one’s worth dying for.
Prowl and I start in the labs and storerooms, chatting quietly about nothing in particular, stopping at each door just long enough to take a good look inside.
Beachcomber gives us a placid smile, offering to show us his latest samples and accepting without offence when I decline. Perceptor doesn’t even notice we’re there. Wheeljack is a little less sanguine. His servos are full of something volatile and I wave him off with a deliberately exaggerated expression of fear. He offers a wan smile in response. His vocal indicators flash a worried pink despite the smile, and he shuffles his burden, freeing one hand to wave vaguely in return.
Both Prowl and I are well aware that the repair bay is empty, but Ratchet tells us so anyway when we look in. His addendum of ‘and you’d slagging well better make sure it stays that way’ is directed firmly at me, and his familiar scowl can’t hide the glimmer deep in his optics.
Ironhide just grunts when the two of us cross through the command deck. He leans back in the monitor chair, attention more on us than on the screens. It’s got to be said: old ‘Hide is just plain lousy at hiding his emotions. Right now he’s pretty much vibrating with worry and it steps up a notch when he sees the two of us together. His optics threaten me even as they wish me luck. He doesn’t try to keep us there though. He knows I’ve got a lot of ground to cover, and not a lot of time.
The first time Prowl dragged me on an impromptu pre-mission inspection tour of the base, I thought the mech had a screw - Pit, a whole circuit-board! - loose. I spent the whole time rushing, needling poor Prowler, trying to get into his processor, even as I tried to keep the mission clear in mine. There’s no need for that anymore. Even Ironhide knows that this is routine now, though I’m guessing he puts the habit down to Ops superstition rather than anything more rational. Prowl and I know better, even if we leave our reasons unspoken. We know what we’re doing here, and words only get in the way.
“Hi, Prowl! Hi, Jazz!”
Speaking of words…
“What are you doing here? I thought you were off-duty? I’m kind of glad to find you. I’m going out on patrol now, but I’ll be back in a few joors and I was wondering if you wanted to come over, I’ve got some of the twins’ high-gr… Ah, you didn’t hear that, did you, Prowl? I mean I’ve got some high-grade I, ah… found… somewhere, and you’re welcome to join me?”
“Not for me, Blue.” My visor is bright with amusement. “Gonna be off-base mah-self.”
I glance back at Prowler, seeing the laughter I cherish dancing in his deep blue optics, even as his face-plates remain impassive. Young Blue doesn’t let the grim expression put him off. Ironhide might be eyeing Prowl warily, but Bluestreak knows our second in command isn’t above the occasional clandestine cube, even if he’d rather not know its origin… officially, at least. Even so, Prowler gives a small shake of his head, clearly not in the mood.
“Okay.” Like Beachcomber, our Blue doesn’t know how to take offence. His broad smile fills the room as he heads for the door. “See you when you get back.”
Ironhide snorts, throwing a nod in my direction before he turns back to his monitor. Still grinning, I glance sideways to take in the ghost of a smile that Prowl won’t show anyone but me. Even with the knowledge of my mission hanging over us, there’s something uplifting about Bluestreak’s utter confidence in my return. I file the memory of his room-brightening smile alongside the much rarer quirk of Prowl’s pale lip-plates.
We drift onwards, past our locked offices, exchanging greetings with our Prime before heading into the crew corridors. Most of the rooms are locked - ‘bots on monitor duty, on patrol or simply recharging. A few doors are propped wide, an open invitation to anyone who wants to stop by. The mechs inside smile and call out to me as we pass. I let a lazy smile linger on my lips and exchange a few words here, a little banter there, aware of Prowl, wings and posture deliberately relaxed, trying not to look too imposing beside me.
There aren’t many mechs in this crew who’ve been with us as long as Ironhide, Ratchet and Wheeljack. Most of them probably haven’t picked up on this routine yet. They see Prowl and me side by side on the battlefield, in our offices, even in the rec room when I can manage to drag Prowler down there. They haven’t twigged to the fact that this slow meandering survey is out of the norm for us, or connected it - as Ratchet certainly has - to the chances of me ending up slagged in medbay by the end of the orn.
The twins are an exception. Sunstreaker is alone in their room, cross-legged on the floor and cleaning his weapon with as much attention to its smooth function as to its aesthetics. He glances up through the open door, and I see his optics dim as he takes in me and Prowler, side by side and talking quietly. He expels a gruff vent, turning a forbidding scowl on us that’s belied by the fact that his door is open and welcoming. Master of the mixed message, our sunshine.
“Going somewhere interesting?” is all he says, not even looking me in the face-plates.
“If ah told you, ah’d hafta kill you.” My quiet chuckle is genuine, the death threat only marginally so.
Sunny nods and puts down his rifle, optics coming up to meet my visor. “Need an extra servo… or fist, for that matter?”
My laughter fades. I meet his gaze without flinching and with only the slightest hint of apology. “Not this time, Sunny.”
It’s a few moments before Sunny looks away, picking up his rifle and cleaning cloth with no visible hint of emotion. “Sides is planning a party for next orn.” His optics dart to Prowl for a moment, daring him to make something of it, before dropping back to the task at hand. Prowler’s doorwing twitches, but he stills his vocalisor, letting Sunny go on. “You’d better not be late.”
The gruff words are an order, a plea and a prayer all wrapped up in one. I accept them in the spirit they’re meant.
“Ah’ll do mah best, Sunstreaker. Ah’ll do mah best.”
It had started the orn as a Decepticon base.
But then, I’d started the orn as a fully functioning mech - peak of fitness according to Ratch.
As labels went, neither was going to win prizes for accuracy. Not now.
I grit my denta and reach out, finger servos scrabbling for a hold on a jagged shard of wall-plating, ignoring the way it cuts into my palm as I pull myself forward across the debris field. A flat panel shifts beneath me, its surface warped and bubbled in the heat.
A tall figure beside me. Doorwings held high. Tremors barely visible as their owner tries to project a calm he doesn’t feel.
Another hand-hold, another cry of pain as I drag my torso across the wreckage. There’s a pool of fluid burning in my path - fuel, lubricant, I don’t care. Going around isn’t an option. I get my hands under me, trying to push myself up and over it, only to scream in torment as my arms give way and my chestplates splash down into the flames.
Ironhide’s concerned look threatening all kinds of pain if I end up worrying him like I have in the past.
I haul myself through the fire, useless legs trailing behind me. Burning oil drips from my Ops-refined plating. A flame licks at the transformation seam in my left calf even after I’m clear. I take a moment to bat at it, not feeling the fire but knowing I can’t let it take hold. My legs might be shot to the Pit, crushed by a falling console and lacerated by the metal shards littering the ground, but I’m still kind of hopeful that Ratch’ll put them back together. No point making his job any harder.
Ratchet, looking around his empty repair bay. Looking up at me with the grim certainty it won’t stay that way.
I tear my palm a little wider as I crawl across the jagged shards of a viewscreen. My arms aren’t going to hold out much longer. They’re leaking energon from a thousand small cuts, not just the three long slices left by flying debris in the initial explosion. If I’d not flung them across my head and neck, it wouldn’t just be my arms showing those jagged tears. Grim humour shakes a choking laugh out of my frame as my processor drifts back a mere handful of orns, to Prowler scowling at me and threatening to mount my helm on his office wall. Much as I’d been bugging him at the time, I’m pretty sure he was joking. Getting decapitated in the ruins of a Decepticon base would be a Pit of a way to ruin his day. And mine.
Humour barely visible on pale faceplates. A small smile that took me vorns to recognise and longer still to claim for my own. Steady blue optics watching my every move, drinking in the sight of me.
Those leaking arms of mine are going numb, and not because I’ve blocked the sensors as I did in my legs. I force them to move regardless, flinging out a white forearm, watching in vague bemusement as scratched black finger-servos scrabble for a grip. Things are drifting a bit now, but I pull myself onwards one mechanometer at a time. I reckon I must be getting towards the rendezvous point, and I’m still hopeful Bee and Raj made it out before the big bang, even if Mac and ‘Shifter weren’t so lucky. Maybe I’m fooling myself. Or maybe I’m just praying for it to be true.
“You’d better not be late.” Order. Plea. Prayer. Sunstreaker’s words, echoed in his brother’s expression as Sides caught up with us in the rec room.
“Doin’ mah best,” I mutter, vocalisor choked with static. Another deep vent, another few mechanometers. I keep going, not letting the pain stop me and not worrying, for once, about Decepticons finding me in these ruins. No one closer to the blast than me made it out of there. And that was everyone. I’m honestly not sure I’m going to make it out either. Maybe I’m already dead, and just haven’t figured it out yet. It would be so easy to stop and accept my own sacrifice.
Wheeljack’s vocal indicators, flashing pink in front of my fading vision. He warned me the reaction rate was unpredictable. Prowl knew too. My choice. Won’t stop them taking the blame.
Don’t blame Shockwave for thinking the auto defences on this place made patrols unnecessary. Three slagging vorns this place has kept the chasm bridge pinned down. Always before it’s been a thorn in our side. With the war going against us, each avenue of retreat choked off in turn, it’s become more than that: a knife to our back-plates. If we’re going to get our people out, regroup and retaliate before our base becomes our trap and our tomb, then this place had to be wiped off the map.
Four mechs, standing between me and Prowl. Knowledge in each pair of optics. This mission… this cause… was one worth dying for.
I believe that. There’d be no shame deactivating here. No regret that I took the risk. It would be easy to give in to the steady energon drain from a dozen wounds… so easy.
Deep blue optics dimmed with half-concealed concern. White servos brushing mine as they hand me a last cube before I set out.
I crawl onwards.
Beachcomber’s lazy grin.
Pain lancing through me.
Bluestreak’s broad smile.
Not giving up.
Prowl’s silence, speaking volumes to me… only to me.
“Jazz!”
Bee’s voice rises over the crackle of flame.
Hands ghost over my plating, gentle but still trailing agony in their wake. I give myself over to the pain, sure now that the fires - both internal and external - will be gone when the darkness fades. Confident that I’ll wake with Ratchet swearing at me… with Ironhide leaning, arms folded and scowl firmly fixed on his face, against the wall… with Wheeljack fussing over my newly-repaired legs struts… with Sunny and Sides already conspiring to ease the tedium of my repairs with a prank or two. With Prowl watching over me, words unnecessary between us.
There are two words I’ll give him, necessary or not: Thank you.
Every time Prime speaks, every time I face a Decepticon in battle, or pick through the debris of shattered lives, I know I have a cause worth dying for.
It’s Prowl who gives me something more, who’s there every time, walking beside me, making me take the time, not letting me go until he’s sure the knowledge is fixed in me, processor and spark.
As I sink into the haze of memories, lost amidst images of my friends and the play of emotions through my spark, I know I have something far harder to find - something that’ll drag my battered frame through a thousand explosions and out of the Pit itself.
I have something worth living for.