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Chapter Text

I was born to lose
That’s why I’m staring down the barrel meant for you
That’s what I was born to do
Watch me smile and bite the bullet

‘Cause you know I’ll be your soldier
Hide you from the smoke just till it’s over

It's so quiet out here.

The ship passes silently through the void like the asteroids it's lazily weaving through.

The little warning light blinking at the right of the control panel does nothing to draw the attention of the pilot. Nor do the clouds of space-dust passing by, nor the alerts peppering the edges of his HUD, warning him that his systems are under immense stress. He needs to recharge, he's running on fumes.
He pays none of those things any heed, keeping his gaze fixed forwards, optics wide behind his visor, his spark remaining calm thanks to his many stellar-cycles tirelessly practicing the art of 'processor over matter.'

Prowl can't stop for anything. Not until he's sure he hasn't been followed.

It's not the first time he's had to run for his life. It certainly won't be the last, if he has anything to say about it. But Prowl knows in the pit of his tank that even if he does make it out of this alive, he'll never be safe again.
They'll chase him to the ends of the universe for what he "did."

His ship is fast, but old. The High Guard have the latest fighter ships. Real war machines, built for long pursuits and quick neutralisations. If he'd been caught back on Cybertron he might still have been put in stasis cuffs and given a trial - an unfair one, but a trial all the same.

Out here, it's shoot on sight.

For now, at least, he's lost the fleet in the clouds of dust and asteroid debris and he can focus on trying to figure out where in the Pit he's actually going to go. He's never even been this far off-planet before.
His gaze flits into the reflection of the cockpit in the windshield, the tiny cargo bay behind him and the little pod nestled there. He lingers on it, in-venting deeply to cool the thinning energon thundering through his cables.

Yoketron's dying words are so fresh in his processor he can replay them exactly.

'It cannot fall into their hands. Please, you must take it away from here, far away. All of Cybertron depends on it.'

Prowl had begged for answers but his Master's spark was dimming rapidly, his life-force slipping through Prowl's fingers as he held him close.

'You will know in time, my son. Primus has shown me what is to be. Take this... it will explain everything. Listen to it only when you are sure you are safe...'
Weakly, Yoketron pressed a small holo-disc into Prowl's servo. Prowl closed his fingers over it, and watched helplessly as the light dimmed from Yoketron's optics.

The Council... is not to be trusted...'

It still doesn't make sense.
He hadn't even had time to ask who had taken them. Who had killed him.

All Prowl knows now is that, somehow, all of Cybertron depends on that little pod.

Prowl may not have much faith in Primus, but he has faith in his Master. Yoketron would not tell him to do something so drastic if it wasn't vitally important.
Still... he can't quite bring himself to process all of it yet. His mourning had been cut short by the High Guard storming the Dojo, and the thought of watching that holo-disc right now makes his empty tank churn nauseously.

It doesn't help that he could be blown into scrap at any moment.

[PROXIMITY WARNING]
The computer blares, and Prowl's focus sharpens. He can't see through the thick dust of the asteroid field, so he brings the ship to a halt and keeps his attention on the sensors, watching as a large object passes by only metres from the hull of the ship.
Most likely a small asteroid, he tells himself.

When he's clear of any imminent collision, Prowl presses forwards again, squinting for any sign of an end to this dust cloud. It's giving him cover, but at the cost of not knowing where he is - or where the High Guard fleet may be hiding.

Despite himself, his processor wanders.

At the very least, this is something.
Prowl actually has a mission now - a goal to work towards, as treacherous and thrust-upon him as it is. It's far bigger than him, but what else could he have done? He has no allies left.
His life on Cybertron had never exactly been ideal. A life spent as an outcast on the verge of society. A life of feeling disconnected from his home planet and his fellow Cybertronians. A life of prowling around in the shadows - he'd even been named for his chronic aversion to others.

What else was he to do when other Cybertronians had always treated him like nothing more than a petty criminal?

Training under Yoketron and learning to guard the Protoforms was the closest Prowl had ever felt to having a real purpose and sense of belonging since his creation. Now, Yoketron is dead, the Protoforms are gone, and he's out in the middle of space being pursued by the High Guard.

But at least he has that little pod. Something to protect other than himself. It's not ideal. But it's something. A use, a purpose.
For once, he's important, he's needed - or, at the very least, his survival is. And Prowl has gotten very good at surviving.

It's when the dust finally starts to clear that Prowl finally sees a lifeline.
He sees the stars first and then, in the distance, what looks like the vague silhouette of a space bridge built on a lone asteroid.
Perfect.

With a quick scan of his surroundings, Prowl leaves the tenuous safety of the dust-fog and pushes the ship towards the bridge. The distance closes quicker than he'd anticipated.
It seems, for a few moments, that he's made it. If he can just open the bridge up to some far-flung corner of the galaxy, they'll never be able to find him. He can figure the rest out later.

The relief doesn't last long. Of course it doesn't.

[MULTIPLE MILITARY-GRADE SHIPS DETECTED]

The computer blares and the warning lights flash, followed immediately by three blinking lights on the proximity sensor screen, hot on Prowl's tail.

Then another voice fills the cockpit, commanding and calculated, as the High Guard establishes a forced connection with the ships comms.

"Halt - you are under arrest for the murder of Master Yoketron and the theft of military property. Surrender now or we will be forced to open fire."

In response, Prowl flicks on the boosters.
Try to hit me then, he thinks as his ship careens forwards.

A glowing array of blaster fire fans out over the top of the ship, just barely missing him. He dips down and swerves, trying to conceal his ship within the darkness of the void, but stealth can only get him so far with these high-speed pursuit ships and their tracking software.

Another strategy comes to him just then. Holding his vents, Prowl pulls the ship into a sudden vertical u-turn, watching through the windshield as the pursuers come into view, and then pass him by. He sails past them, and they follow.
Prowl flies straight back into the asteroid field, submerging his ship in the dust once again.

He'd been tracking the positions of the asteroids within the dust as he'd passed through earlier, and so knows the exact path to take to avoid them, navigating blindly through the maze of collision hazards.
Blaster fire illuminating the rocks from behind him indicates his pursuers still following him - good, that's what he'd been counting on.

This plan might just be crazy enough to work.

Carefully, Prowl backs the ship up until the proximity sensor detects a rock at the rear of the vessel, roughly the same size and shape of the ship, and he cuts all power, shielding him from the other ships' tracking software.
He'd spotted this particular rock earlier and noted it for its vague resemblance, but he hadn't expected it to come in so useful.

Maybe someone really is looking out for him down there.

They haven't caught on to his position yet, so he takes a moment to in-vent and steady himself. He only has one shot at this.

He gives himself five nanokliks.

Prowl's processors slow as he starts the internal timer.
Five.
He flips the ship's power back on.
Four.
He maneuvers the front thrusters to reverse and the rear thrusters to accelerate positions.
Three.
All four thrusters burst to life at equal power - keeping the ship stationary, but sending the rock behind it flying backwards from the force of the rears.
Two.
He cuts the engine again and watches the proximity sensor as the fleet detects the movement of the meteor and follows it.

One.

Now or never.

As the fleet follows the dummy target, Prowl starts the engines back up and dives the ship down, escaping from the other end of the dust cloud and beelining for the Space Bridge.
If they've noticed his trick by now, he's already given himself a headstart good enough that he'll be at the Bridge before they can shoot him down.
Hopefully.

Just as he'd suspected, it was only a temporary solution, and soon the fleet reappears on the scanner, honed in on his position once again. They're gaining on Prowl, but not fast enough to cut him off.

He doesn't bother landing the ship as he comes within range of the asteroid, running to the back and dropping out of the airlock. Thankfully the bridge's station has artificial gravity installed and he lands on the rock, sprinting towards the control panel.
Not looking back but hearing the approaching boosters of the High Guard fleet, he works quickly. Thankfully Prowl had learned basic space bridge controls in his early schooling, and bringing up the old knowledge from his processor is easy - he almost never deletes education files.

Punching in random coordinates far from any Autobot bases, Prowl glances up to see the bridge flickering to life, its gigantic prongs humming with power.
But he's out of time, demonstrated when another barrage of blaster fire rains down on top of him and he rolls out of the way just barely in time. The rock where he'd been standing explodes into rubble, and when the dust clears he realises with a sinking spark that they hadn't been aiming for him.

The control panel lays with a gaping hole in its center, singed metal and sparking wires, and the portal above warbles and flickers, its size fluctuating like an unstable star.
Primus knows where it leads now, but the fact it hasn't closed means he still has a chance.

The fleet closes in, and Prowl transforms, his bike-mode darting through the barrage of blaster fire. He detects one of the ships going for his own, where the pod is unguarded, and he acts quickly.
As another ship swoops low to try to hit him at close range, he drives towards it full-speed, threading the needle between the blaster-fire.
At the very last second before he collides with its hull, he rears up in a wheelie. Prowl watches with some satisfaction as the pilot's face distorts from frustration to shock as he drives over the windshield like a ramp, transforming and kicking off from the roof.

With some help from his back-boosters, he soars towards his ship and catches the rim of the airlock. Clambering inside, he runs to the cockpit and immediately puts the thrusters into full-throttle, darting out of the way just as two of the ships try to ram him on either side. Their hulls scrape each other, metal plating tearing open with a screech and both of them spinning out.

Prowl has no time to celebrate, the one remaining ship still in hot pursuit, and just as he enters the gravitational pull of the bridge's portal, his ship jolts violently.

The ship’s screens blaring with emergency warnings, Prowl whips around to see the far wall of the cargo bay blown open, the pod having been knocked into the cockpit. He locks the controls, leaps from his chair and dives on top of the pod, shielding it with his frame just as another shot hits the ship and blows out the power.
The blinding glow of the portal engulfs him and the wrecked ship rattles and groans as the transportation commences.

The High Guard can't follow him now... but they've doomed him all the same.

As the ship passes through the bridge, Prowl clings the little pod to his chest and tries to crawl back up to the cockpit, but one of his legs was caught in the blast. Without having to look, he can tell it's bad.
His energon levels are dropping rapidly. Static dances at the edges of his visual feed. He can feel the ship accelerating out of control, even with the engine out of commission.

Prowl realises with a sinking tank that he's been sent into the orbit of a planet, and his ship is entering the atmosphere. It won't survive the fall unless he can regain control and slow the descent.

Gritting his dentae through the pain, Prowl drags himself up into the pilot seat (carefully sitting the pod between his knees) and tries to reactivate the computer. He's nearly blinded by the blueness of the planet below, but he has to focus.
The screens flicker and glitch, sparks flying from shrapnel-holes in the control panel as the computer tries desperately to come back online. As it does, the speakers crackle back to life.

[ER--R E--OR - MA--IVE DAM-GE TO INT--NAL NA-IGA-ION SYST-- ZZZ - ZZTT ]

Well, if it's just the navigation systems that are damaged, Prowl can work with that.
He thinks so, at least.

In-venting deeply to calm himself and cool his internals, he pushes the blaring signals from his pain receptors to the background of his processor.
Processor over matter. He can do this. His systems are weak, his fuel levels dangerously low, but he can do this...

All of it; the noise, the pain, the fear, it all slowly ebbs away into a faint hum as Prowl retreats into his mindscape, his optics offlining and his HUD going blank.
He pictures the ship in all its detail, and himself within. He pictures the pod in his lap.

He pictures the little curled-up form inside of it, its body so fragile, its purpose so great.

"Mmmmmmm..."
His voice box hums, his engine rumbling as all of his remaining power flows from his limbs and his pistons into his helm, into the wires and motherboards within.
It's not long before he feels the familiar static buzzing in his helm - the feeling of inner-peace as his spark and his processor become one.

In his mind's optic, he tries to grab hold of the ship. It's a great effort, far more ambitious than anything he'd ever managed during his training, and he isn't sure he could even do it at full capacity.
But he has to try.

Energon bleeds from his nasal vent as the strain of the task further damages him. But Prowl's focus never breaks, not even as the computer starts to screech garbled warnings about approaching terrain.

With one last mental tug he feels something snap into place.
He comes out of the trance with a gasp and through the static of his audials he hears the computer speaking more clearly this time.

[EMERG-NCY CRASH-LANDING PROT-COL ENGAGED. PLEASE E-TER THE STASIS CHAMBER.]

The ship lurches, nearly throwing Prowl from his seat as it pulls up from a death-spin into a more controlled descent. The mostly-functional boosters fight back against the inertia of the fall valiantly, but Prowl knows the landing will be violent.

Weakened and bleeding, he scoops the pod up again and crawls over to the stasis pod on the other side of the cockpit.

The door opens, and Prowl doesn't have the time nor energy to enter a duration for his stasis, he just has to hope the ship will automatically wake him up once he's recuperated. He climbs inside and lays against the berth, venting unsteadily, watching through the glass as the ship rattles and sparks with the effort of keeping itself together.

Before the stasis takes hold, Prowl glances down at the pod in his arms. He holds it close to his chestplate, and despite himself, he opens the tinted glass to peek inside.

The last protoform lies there, curled up, smaller and more delicate than any of the military-grade protoforms Yoketron had been guarding.
He doesn't know why it exists, or why it's so important, but he's known since the moment he'd laid eyes on it that it will be his duty to protect this protoform until his spark extinguishes.

Now he has nothing more to live for.

"You'll be okay, little one." He murmurs weakly, closing the pod again and offlining his optics as the chamber begins to freeze.

"I promise."

The last thing he feels is uncertainty in his spark.

"What do you mean, he got away?!"

Sentinel Prime stands in the centre of his command room in Fortress Maximus, glaring down at the unfortunate bots under his scrutiny with a disdain one might expect from someone looking at toxic waste.

The High Guard pursuit fleet stands before him, two of them visibly injured and their squad leader looking like a kicked sparkling.
"He managed to enter an abandoned Space Bridge in the northern asteroid fields, sir, it was too dangerous to follow him, the Bridge was unstable and--"

"I get it, I get it, shut up."
Scowling, Sentinel turns away from them and back to his command terminal. Glowing holo-screens show headline after headline of the incident from the cycle before - the carnage of the scene, memorial photos of the victim and, right in the centre of it all, the bot responsible, his blue visor staring coldly at the viewer.
Sentinel grits his dentae up at the mugshot.
"What a joke - three of our 'best' Academy pilots and you couldn't even capture ONE suspect."

The Prime turns to his second-in-command and sneers.
"If you want something done right you do it yourself, right Lieutenant?"

Said Lieutenant sits at his own terminal, servos gripping his kneeplates, staring forwards at the screens. He's uncharacteristically silent.

Sentinel doesn't like that. He snaps his fingers impatiently.
"Hey, Cybertron to Jazz? Does everyone in this Primus-forsaken place have Scraplets in their audials??"

Jazz turns towards him, face unreadable. Moreso than usual with that visor of his.
"What's up?"

Throwing his servos up indignantly, Sentinel turns away from all of them, huffing and rubbing his helm.
"I give up. Pilots, you're dismissed, report to your medic. And don't even bother showing up to drills tomorrow until all three of you have scrubbed your quarters ceiling to floor. If I hear of even a nano-speck of rust or dust in there during inspection, it's half-rations for all of you."
There's a beat of silence before Sentinel whips around and yells.
"What am I, a nanny-bot? GET OUTTA HERE!!"

The pilots scurry away with their helms lowered, and Sentinel turns back to the screens, optics narrowing as he studies the pictures of the suspect.

"This guy's a real piece of work. Those protoforms were supposed to be reserved for our military. What are we gonna do now if there's dissent on Cybertron?"

Jazz's grip on his legs tightens.

Sentinel seems to catch himself just then, and he turns to Jazz with a feigned look of sympathy.
"And a murderer, no less. Sick son of the Pit, if I'd gotten my servos on him... I'd avenge Yokaton ten times over!"

"Yoketron." Jazz corrects flatly. “Master Yoketron.”

"Right, right. You knew the guy, didn't you?"

That unfitting quietness about Jazz seems to deepen. Then he speaks in a low, dim tone.
"He was my Master. I learned everything I know from him.”
He rubs his helm. “More than any of that he was my friend.”

Now it's Sentinel's turn to go quiet. Jazz would be relieved if he didn't have such an aching hole in his chestplate.

It takes a while, but Jazz hears pedesteps approaching his terminal, and he feels a servo land on his shoulder and squeeze.
"I'm sorry," Sentinel finally says, looking Jazz in the optics, and in a rare moment for him it seems sincere. "I... know what it's like. To lose someone."

Jazz levels a long, sad look up at Sentinel.
"...thank you, sir."

The two bots share a brief moment of silent understanding.
Of course it doesn't last long. After a beat, the sincerity dissipates and Sentinel's expression returns to its usual smug default. "Y'know, I bet you want revenge on the slagger who killed him. I wouldn't mind assigning you to the case - let you hunt him down yourself."

Jazz cringes internally.
“What an honour.” He says without a hint of emotion.

“Yeah! You’re a competent bot, Jazz, unlike those glorified trainees they’ve got piloting the new pursuit ships. You’re much better off out in the field than sitting here filling out datapads all day. What do you say?”

Ex-venting slowly, Jazz turns back to his terminal and rests his elbows on the desk.
“Respectfully, sir, I’m gonna have to decline. I feel like personal feelings should never interfere with that kind of work. I’m too involved with the victim and the suspect.”

Jazz knows he’s said too much when Sentinel’s grip tightens on his shoulder.

“Involved with the suspect? Interesting.”

“We were fellow students, I mean.” He corrects. “Nothing more.” He lies.

“You, uh, knew him well, I take it?”
Sentinel walks away, servos behind his back. He’s got that suspicious tone in his voice, so Jazz treads carefully.

“We sparred and we worked together. That’s all she wrote, boss.”

“Did you ever notice anything off about him?”
Sentinel presses a few buttons on his terminal, bringing Prowl’s mugshot front and centre so that Jazz can’t avoid looking any longer.
“Anything sinister?”

Jazz really doesn’t appreciate the fact he’s being interrogated in his own office, while mourning no less. But, benefit of the doubt, Sentinel is on-edge and just wants to get to the bottom of the situation through whatever leads he can find. That’s exactly what Jazz wants, too.

“He kept to himself. Not really a big talker. Really took his training seriously. I know our Master was fond of him, it… it doesn’t make sense.”
He looks down, clenching his servo into a fist. “They were close. Master Yoketron took him off the streets, gave him a home. They never told me what had happened to him, but he was a shell of a bot when I met him. Must’ve led a hard life before the dojo.”

“Oh? You don’t know what he was up to?”
Sentinel turns back to Jazz with a serious expression that turns his tank.

“You haven’t read his criminal records yet, have you, Lieutenant?”

The onemost thing he’s been trying to avoid. Jazz ex-vents and speaks more firmly.
“...not yet, sir. With all due respect, I’ve been emotionally preoccupied.”

“Understandable.”
Shaking his helm, Sentinel’s stance softens a bit and he clears the holo-screens. Not a moment too soon - Jazz can’t stand the photos any longer.

“It’s been a hard couple of cycles for you. I should have been more conscious of that.”
He studies Jazz for a moment longer, then relents.
“Take the rest of the night off. Tomorrow if you need it, too.”

At this point in his career, Jazz can tell when Sentinel is doing something to avoid being written up about his leadership skills by a bot who actually knows his workplace rights, but he appreciates the thought all the same. He stands slowly and nods at his Prime.

“Thank you, sir.”

As Jazz gathers up the datapads he’d been avoiding looking at, he feels a servo on his shoulder again. Sentinel smiles down at him far too sweetly.

“But keep my offer in mind, Jazz. I’ll keep the position open for you. He may well be dead for all we know, but the moment you want to go make sure, I’ll sign off on the mission and you'll be on your way. No questions asked.”

It takes everything in Jazz’s processor not to scowl.
“Sure thing.”

Jazz leaves without looking back, but he knows Sentinel is watching him. Judging.

He can’t help himself. On his drive home, Jazz makes a detour.

The dojo is still cordoned off and heavily guarded by enforcement bots. Jazz doesn’t need to flash his High Guard badge - they stand aside with brief nods of acknowledgement as he transforms and walks slowly up the steps, his spark feeling like a dead lump of metal in its chamber.

His former home lies in ruin. It’s like a battle raged through the building.

He looks down each hallway as he walks through the ground floor like a ghost, remembering all of the days he and Prowl shared here. It may have been stellar-cycles ago, but it feels so recent he could reach out and touch the memories.

This is my new student. Prowl. He'll be staying with us from now on.'
Master Yoketron had a servo on the smaller bot's shoulder.  Jazz could sense the unease in the stranger.
'You will be responsible for showing him around the dojo and teaching him our routine, until he's ready to begin his training. He has been through much turmoil - be sure he feels welcome here.'

Jazz bowed. 'Yes, Master.'
He was relieved, really. He had a talent for being welcoming.

Yoketron left them, and Jazz straightened, studying the sleek, dark bot before him. He looked like a stealth build, a perfect candidate for a cyberninja.
Jazz smiled and waved a servo casually, his posture relaxing.
You don't gotta worry about formalities with me. Name's Jazz. Where'd Master Yoketron find you, anyway?'

The way Prowl reacted told Jazz he probably didn't have much practice with pleasant conversation.
'Doesn't matter, I'm here now.' He murmured.

Jazz chuckled. 'Mystery-bot, huh? That's fine, I can dig it. C'mon, let's get the tour over with so we can refuel, I'm runnin' on empty.'

Prowl gave him a puzzled look, like banter was a foreign thing to him. Jazz liked this bot already.

It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes any sense.

Without even consciously choosing his destination, Jazz ends up standing in the students’ quarters. They’re relatively unscathed compared to the rest of the place, but they’ve been ransacked. The berths are flipped, the lockers torn open and their contents spilled across the floor. Whoever had done this had been thorough.

He enters the room, the familiarity and unfamiliarity of it all only making his spark heavier. A servo brushes against the small altar to the Allspark, and he glances down at it. A small offering of energon sits in a bowl, untouched by the one who’d rampaged through the dojo and murdered his Master.

Prowl wouldn’t have touched the offering.
But he wouldn’t have done any of this. Not the Prowl that Jazz had known.

Jazz sits down before the altar, crossing his legs and removing his visor.

He closes his optics and murmurs a small blessing, a prayer for Yoketron’s spark. For Prowl’s salvation.

Finally, he allows himself to cry.

Chapter Text

With the shadows
Longer to me than a Light-year
Moving so slow I could die here
Say you can hear me say,
Will you halt this eclipse in me?

Now I know why
I woke up here on the shoreline
Coughing up blood in the twilight
Everything looks the same,
Will you halt this eclipse in me?

It's loud here... but in a peaceful way.

That's the first thing that comes back to him; his audio processing.
Odd, muffled sounds come from all around. Trills, creaks, rustles, like whispers from an unseen audience.

Then his HUD boots up.

[Activating Post-Stasis Awareness protocol, please stand by.]
[Approximate stasis duration: 42.5 Stellar-Cycles.]
[Stasis recharge and healing processes interrupted - partially incomplete.]

It takes a moment for him to even be able to discern the runes, his processor having been in recharge for so long.

[IMPORTANT REMINDERS]
[Designation: "Prowl"]
[Alignment: Autobot]
[Location: UNKNOWN]
[Fuel level: 89%]
[Frame damage: Minimal (Left Leg status: 89% functionality, minor cosmetic damage)]

[Objective: Protect protoform]

...that's right, he'd been fleeing Cybertron. With--
The Protoform!

Prowl speeds through his processor's status checks and finally forces his optics online, but he has to close them again, the brightness streaming in blinding him momentarily.
The chamber is unfreezing, feeling returning to his frame. Straining his pistons, Prowl manages to twist his neck. It's stiff, almost painfully so, but he needs to know that the pod is still there.
Finally he arches his helm down with a grunt, and squints open his optics to see the pod still cradled safely against his chestplate, its cargo nestled within. He vents a sigh of relief, smoothing a stiff servo over the glass.

It's okay, it's safe. They both survived the crash.

Now he can try to figure out everything else.

As functionality slowly returns to him, Prowl glances around, trying to discern what he can. The glass of the pod is cracked (likely the cause of the incomplete recuperation) and there's some strange green... growth obscuring most of it.
Light streams into the chamber from small gaps in the green, but the occasional shadow flutters by, casting brief shadows across Prowl's form.
Things are moving out there. Things are alive.

Finally, the ship's voice, faint and barely discernible, crackles to life.

[STASIS... END... CHAMBER OP... ENING... ZZz ztt... ]

There's a hiss of air, and the glass shudders, attempting to slide open in its damaged, weathered state. It stutters open a crack, then jams.
Sighing, Prowl opens his chestplate and gently stows the protoform's pod away in his cockpit. He then forces his groggy legs to move and he leans forwards, sliding his fingers between the gap in the glass. With some effort, he manages to pull it aside, and the light from outside floods his optics.

He stands there for a moment, stunned.
The ship lays in ruin, the ceiling riddled with holes where light streams in. Many more things seem to have gotten in, too.

The cockpit has become an alien landscape.
Green covers nearly every surface, different shades and textures of it, glistening like precious stones. Things are moving everywhere. Prowl can't keep track of it all, so he steps out of the stasis pod to investigate.
The ground is... soft. He looks down to see the floor of the ship has been overtaken by the same green growth that had obscured his stasis pod. It's wet, too. Feels almost like a sponge.

As he stands and observes, little flying creatures flit about and chitter amongst themselves in a language Prowl has never heard the likes of. Something that looks like a wet stone hops across the floor and lets out a sharp, strange sound. Thousands of tiny organisms wriggle and chirp amongst the green.

It's all organic.

It's beautiful.

Prowl's awestruck gaze wanders over to the control panel, where something looks back at him. One of the flying creatures, larger than the others and a striking black. It tilts its sleek head at him.
It looks like a techno-avian, just... without the techno part. An avian, he supposes.
Prowl notices it's sitting on the button that deactivates the stasis.

He supposes this must be one of the dominant species of this planet. Awkwardly, he clears his voice box.
"Uhm, thank you for releasing me. You must be a local."

The 'avian' blinks.
‘CRAWW.’

Ah, its voice doesn't register on his translation matrix. Just an animal, then.

Still, he has nobody else to talk to.

"You're organic, I take it? First one I've ever 'met.' It's actually forbidden for me to interact with you. But that doesn't matter now, hm?"

The creature ruffles itself, revealing the black mass of its body to be made up of many thin layers of shimmering purples and blues. Its form is so much more complex than he'd thought upon first seeing it.
"Fascinating."

The creature opens its pointed mouth (beak?) to 'speak' again, but the response it gives only stuns Prowl further.
‘KLIK - KLIK - Fass-nating.’ In a near-perfect mimicry of Prowl's voice.

Prowl manages a smile.
Wherever he's ended up, it's a treasure trove.

But he has a mission to uphold, and that starts with finding somewhere to hide. This is too open, too exposed - it may have hidden him and the protoform while they were in stasis, but now that he's back online, he'll be easy to track.
"I'd love to stay and chat, my flying friend, but I have to figure out where I am."

The avian studies him with one beady eye.
‘Fass-nating.’

As Prowl moves to leave the confines of the ruined ship, he hears a flapping sound, then feels a gentle tink as little claws latch on to his chassis. He glances to his side to see the black avian sitting quite happily on his shoulder, looking expectantly at him.
Well, he supposes just one stowaway won't do him any harm. It might be useful to have a native guide, as seemingly primitive as this creature is.

When Prowl steps out into the bright open air of the planet, he's only further awestruck by its beauty.

The atmosphere is crisp and nutrient-rich, more than any he's ever tasted before. His vents whirr, circulating the cooling breeze through his systems, and it feels oddly cleansing.
Everything is green and alive. Tall growths stretch in all shapes and sizes towards the blindingly blue sky, where more avians soar and sing in their kingdom of freedom, bathed in the warmth of a singular golden sun.
The sprawling limbs of the growths are like great cities, housing all manner of organic life, and Prowl watches thousands of tiny shimmering creatures scuttle around, their segmented shells and limbs almost reminiscent of Cybertronian chassis.

His gaze is fixed up at the brightness and beauty of above, but as he walks forwards, he feels something crunch under his pede and hears a small, feeble yelp.
Prowl startles and looks down. His spark sinks.

Lifting his pede reveals a small creature, limp and lifeless. A sickeningly bright red liquid oozes out from where the sole of his pede had crushed it, puddling around its broken form and soaking into the soft terrain.
It almost looks like a tiny, sleek turbofox. Well, he supposes it's just a 'fox', in this case.

"Oh... oh, no."
He stoops and reaches out, gently touching the creatures' skin. It's soft, and gives off a fading warmth. But the poor thing is definitely dead.
"I'm sorry." He murmurs, stroking its flank. "I didn't... see you."

Prowl realises something then that makes his tank churn.
This planet is beautiful. But equally fragile.
He has to be very, very careful.

Guilt weighs at his spark as he steps back and glances around helplessly.
He's not sure of the traditions surrounding death on this planet. Back on Cybertron, the dead are smelted down to become the protoforms and frames of the next Sparklings.
But organics can't be smelted... likely not in the way Cybertronians are, at least.

He's brought out of his thoughts when the avian on his shoulder takes off from its perch and swoops down, landing next to the not-turbo fox. Prowl watches silently as it circles the dead animal, its head cocking.
Then his vents hitch as it stoops down and digs the pointed tip of its beak into the fox's wound, prying it further open.
His instinct to stop the avian from desecrating the corpse is overridden when it plucks a strip of organic matter and consumes it.
Of course... organics feed on other organics. That's how the dead are disposed of on this planet.

He remembers learning about organic predation in his schooling. His peers had reacted with disgust, but Prowl had never understood their aversion. Different life-forms would naturally have different methods of survival, it was simply a fact of the universe and all the thousands of different ecosystems within it.
He'd always thought the idea of predation was similar to the idea of ones greyed frame being repurposed for the next lifeforms to inhabit. Giving up ones' body in death to sustain the life of others.
He'd always wondered why his fellow Cybertronians couldn't see that connection like he could. All but one of them, at least.

Even so, Prowl can't bring himself to watch the avian consume the fox, not when he's the one responsible for its death.
He utters a small prayer to the Allspark to guide the fox to whatever afterlife it may choose, and leaves the scene to let the natural process take its course.

As Prowl wanders through the green landscape (keeping a much closer optic on where his pedes land) he starts to think back. The events that led him here are still foggy in his processor thanks to the stasis, but he remembers the gist of it.
He still isn't sure what he should do. There isn't much he can do. There's no way to contact Cybertron from here, even if he wanted to. Even if he had anyone to contact.
...maybe once, he had. But Prowl doubts the one surviving bot he'd ever called a friend will still think of him in the same way. Not after... everything.

He stops in his tracks as something specific comes back to him.
Opening the storage panel in his left forearm, he finds the holo-disc Yoketron gave to him before he died.

Prowl had failed to watch it before he'd crashed, and he needs answers and guidance now more than ever.
Closing the storage panel, he glances around. He knows the likelihood that he's being observed out here by anything more than the local flora and fauna is slim, but he can't take any chances.
He transforms, his T-cog taking a moment to remember how to do so, and drives swiftly but carefully through the green tunnels of vegetation.

As he searches for a spot that feels safe, Prowl discovers that wherever he is, it's some sort of secluded landmass in the middle of a gigantic ocean of unknown chemical makeup. He finds the edge of the land easily, seeing nothing but sparkling blue for miles and miles, stretching into the horizon.
Digging deep into his education database to find his limited knowledge on extraterrestrial geography, he pulls up a tiny file tucked away in the folder labelled "planets with high moisture content" and discovers it's known as an "island."
This island is relatively small. Not many places to hide. But he searches for one regardless.

The sun is sinking low towards the horizon by the time Prowl finds the highest point of the island, a small mountain in the centre with a sheer cliff looking out on the green below. It's not exactly hidden, but it's bare of the taller greenery, leaving him with no blind spots to worry about.
As he approaches the summit, he transforms to base mode and walks slowly to the edge of the cliff, optics widening at the view before him.

The sun setting has turned the entire formerly blue sky into a striking gold, casting that same glow across the land and sea alike. Streaks of distant perspiration paint the sky with a rainbow of purples, pinks and oranges.
Prowl zooms his visual feed down to the shoreline. White avians fly low across the liquid gold beneath, diving in and out in a display he can't even put words to.

The sight makes something ache in his spark chamber. Though he hadn't been created in time to see it, he was sure that Cybertron in its prime had never been so beautiful as this.

Deciding this is as good a spot as any, Prowl sits down, his pedes hanging over the edge of the cliff. He takes another few moments to stare out at the view, watching the golden sun sink further into the horizon, sending a corridor of blinding, holy light reflecting across the sea.
Steadying his vents and fortifying his spark, he lifts his arm and opens the storage panel, producing the disc. He takes it gently and slots it into the disc drive on his other arm.

The hologram appears before him like a ghost. Yoketron stands before him, standing proud as ever, optics creased with a sad fondness.

'Prowl. My son, my only successor. If you are seeing this transmission, it means my spark has reunited with the Well.'

Prowl's helm falls forwards, the grief flowing back into him, and no amount of trying to redirect it will stop it this time. He has no immediate threats to worry about, no danger... he can't avoid it any longer.
"I'm sorry, Master. I'm sorry. I failed you..."

'I had hoped it would not end like this, but try not to weep for me, my student. I am with my ancestors, and with Primus. You must not sacrifice the future to dwell on the past.'

Nodding to himself, Prowl wills his optical lubricant not to flow and looks up again, forcing himself to look at his Master. The only guide he'd ever known in his tumultuous life.

'You have been entrusted with a very precious thing, and an important duty. Far more important than I had ever believed, when the protoforms were entrusted to me. But my meditation has shown me visions - Primus Himself has sent me a message.'

Prowl remembers now. One of the last things Yoketron said to him as he died. 'Primus has shown me what is to be.'
Swallowing the sudden tightness in his intake, Prowl leans forwards, listening closely. Yoketron's form flickers slightly.

'I have seen our future. Cybertron is in grave danger. I know not what threats lie ahead. I only know that, should we fail to act, our planet, and any affiliated with our kind, shall be exterminated.
But there are sparks, like yours, whose light will shine in our darkest hour. That which shall shine the brightest...'

Yoketron reaches out of frame of the hologram for a moment, but he returns, and Prowl's optics widen at the small, familiar form he's cradling.
Prowl touches a servo to his chest, where his cockpit cradles that same form.

'...shall be born of this protoform. I have seen glimpses of its fate... it shall be born of two worlds, but it will call the Blue Planet home. And it shall be guarded and guided by a warrior of black and gold.
That warrior is you, my son. I see more warriors alongside you, but their faces and names evade me. Many sparks becoming one, with the Saviour at their helm.
You will teach this being all that I have taught you, and perhaps some things that I haven't. I only wish that I could provide clearer answers.'

"Wh-- that can't be all! Where did it come from?! How am I supposed to give it a spark , I'm stranded here!" Prowl interjects, though he knows the recording won't respond.
He's desperate. He doesn't want to believe what he's hearing.
"Tell me, Master, please tell me more, I'm lost! I need you..!"

As if his past self could read Prowl's processor, Yoketron sighs and shakes his head.

'I know this must be difficult to understand, Prowl. I do not know all of the answers myself. But I trust in what Primus has shown me.
What I do know is that I trust you to do what is right, my son. You are my successor. My greatest student... the crowning achievement of my long life.
The being that this protoform will become... our Saviour... she will light our darkest hour.'

Yoketron smiles knowingly, and the hologram begins to fade.
Prowl's optics are streaming again, and he can't will the moisture away this time.

"Master--! Don't leave me! Please!" He reaches out in some vain attempt to cling to the formless apparition.

Yoketron's optics close as he bows his head and, once again, slips from Prowl's grasp.

'I love you, my son. I believe you will save us.

'Til all... are one...'

The hologram vanishes, leaving only the dimming sunset for Prowl's streaming optics to stare at.

He stands up shakily, his processor's discipline fading in the wake of the rage, confusion and grief surging through his spark.
Prowl lets out a scream that echoes across the island, sending the avians out of their green canopies in a flurry of chitters and squawks.

[Northern Asteroid Fields, 42.5 Stellar-cycles and 3 days ago]

It was too quiet.

The bridge hadn't been approached in the days since it had happened, the entire asteroid field labelled off-limits. Jazz wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing.

His ship drifted through the dust, the same dust that Prowl had used to shroud his escape. That was just like him, Jazz could believe that part.
What he couldn't believe was that Prowl had managed to get the old space bridge working on-foot while fighting off three High Guard fighter pilots in their pursuit ships. Prowl was a stealth bot, not a warrior. At least, not to the degree the pilots had exaggerated (likely to save their own hides the shame of having been defeated by one mech.)
But he couldn't deny all three testimonies, he had to see for himself. Sentinel had looked all too proud of himself when Jazz had approached him after his short hiatus with a request to be put on Prowl's case. He'd even offered to tag along. Of course, Jazz had declined. The jackaft.

The datapads containing Prowl's criminal records sat, still unread, beneath the control panel, and Jazz's gaze wandered over to them.
The look Sentinel had given to him when he'd mentioned the contents of the files still sent a shudder through Jazz's frame. It couldn't have been THAT bad... right?

No. He couldn't let that distract him from his real mission out here: finding Prowl.
Not to take him in, but to take him home.

He was sure Prowl hadn't done it. There was absolutely no way that Yoketron's star pupil would commit such crimes against him, and against the dojo he'd called home for so long.
No amount of past misdeeds would ever be able to convince Jazz that Prowl wasn't a changed bot, a GOOD bot, who had always been sickened by the idea of taking a life.
He deserved to be given a fair trial. Jazz would testify for him. He was sure he could find former students of Yoketron who would speak highly of Prowl, too.

When he emerged from the dust and saw the bridge in the distance, Jazz sped towards it. After scanning the area for any hazards, turning up an all-clear, he landed and alighted from his ship, stepping out onto the asteroid.

The bridge's spires looked warped, like the unstable portal caused by the pilots' happy trigger fingers had tried to suck the prongs in as well. It was rare for an unstable bridge to try to consume itself, but not entirely unheard of.
After sweeping the entire asteroid for any signs of life, Jazz returned to his ship with his fears confirmed... Prowl wasn't here. He'd been sent into some random corner of the galaxy. Great.

Refusing to give up hope, Jazz entered his ship again and dialed a specific code into his communication centre. It rang for a while, before someone finally answered.
A grouchy-looking red-and-white medbot with some gnarly battle scars. He squinted into the video feed.

"Hello..? This is the starship Orion, who's calling at this hour?"

Jazz managed a smile, appreciating the spunk of the older bot, before flicking on his video feed.
"Hey hey, sorry to crash the party, gentle-mechs. This is the High Guard recon ship Delta-4, got a space bridge that needs fixin'. Think any'a you fine bots could direct me to someone who could do the job?"

The medbot grumbled and leaned back in his seat, glancing to the right.
"Prime, we've got another job offer."

A voice offscreen responded quietly. Then, the video feed switched, revealing a tall, bright-eyed red-and-blue bot. Jazz recognised him from the Academy's files... and from the many times Sentinel had called the Orion to belittle him.

"This is Optimus Prime. Who am I speaking with?"

"Name's Jazz. You don't know me, sir, but I know a Pit-of-a-lot about you. Honoured to finally meet you."

Optimus looked puzzled for a moment.
"Erm - the... honour's all mine, Jazz."

Trying not to smirk, Jazz leaned back casually in his seat.
"I'll shoot over my co'ords, and my commlink. And uh, you fellas can keep this one outta the books. This is official High Guard business."
He hadn't been granted permission by Sentinel to fix and re-activate the bridge, but Jazz had never done things by the book.

A brief look of concern passed over the Prime's face as he cast questioning glances around his unseen crew. His gaze lingered in the direction of where the old medbot was sitting, and from his look of disquietude, it seemed the other bot was either adamantly warning him against the job, or enthusiastically agreeing. Jazz would put money on the former.

"Ratchet, it's High Guard business!" Jeered another younger-sounding bot Jazz hadn't seen yet, confirming Jazz's suspicions about the grumpy medic's (entirely warranted) trepidation.
"We'll be paid out the aft! We'll be helping the cause! We might even get promoted! C'mon, Boss Bot, take the job!"

"I like that guy's thinkin'," Jazz snickered as he typed his coordinates into the terminal and sent them over to the Orion (along with a rather generous quote for the job.) "Yeah, you mechs will be set for a while, no worries."

"He likes my thinking! Guys, GUYS, the High Guard bot likes my thinking!"

Optimus seemed conflicted. But eventually, after receiving Jazz's offer, his optics widened and he relented.

"Uhm - if it's High Guard business, I suppose we'll have to check it out."

Ratchet growled, and the young off-screen bot cheered. "WE'RE GONNA BE RICH!!"
A fourth bot sighed deeply and muttered. "Bee, he can still hear you."
"Oh slag, for real?"

"Hang in there, Jazz." Optimus spoke over the squabbling of his crew. "We'll be there in roughly a joor from now."

"Good mech. I'll be waiting. Jazz out."

Jazz hung up and sighed, leaning back in his seat again and gazing up out at the stars through the Delta's windshield.

He had no idea why Sentinel had such a chip on his shoulder about Optimus and his crew. They seemed like fine bots. Jazz liked their vibe.
Jazz honestly wouldn't have minded bridge repair work himself. He liked working with his servos, and it would likely let him actually put his martial arts training to use clearing debris and the like, rather than pushing buttons in Fort Max all day.
But he was overqualified for the job (though that hadn't stopped the Elite Guard from demoting Optimus to the position... for reasons Jazz had never been allowed to know) and would never hear the end of it from Sentinel if he requested a transfer to a position meant for "lower bots."

Out here he didn't need to think about Sentinel's smug face, at least. He could relax for a joor and push all the scrap from "Cybertron's Finest" out of his processor.
It only made way for new pains in his helm. Jazz couldn't help the nagging thought that Prowl was dead from entering his mind. It was entirely possible the bridge had simply consumed him and his ship like a dying star, vaporising him. Probable, even.
...nah. Prowl wouldn't let himself die like that. Jazz couldn't let that line of thinking cloud his processor.

Instead, he thought back to simpler times.

Jazz knelt before the Allspark's altar and bowed, saying his morning prayers. He could feel the other bot standing behind him, observing in that eerily silent way Jazz had come to affectionately nickname "Prowl-prowling."

Prowl had been with them for seventeen solar-cycles now. He seemed to have recovered from whatever incident had brought him into Yoketron's care, an incident which neither of them had divulged to Jazz.
That was fine by him, he didn't want to pry. And nothing that Prowl had been through would stop Jazz from befriending the aloof mech. He'd made it his personal goal.
Once he'd finished his blessings and set down the energon offering, Jazz stood and turned to face Prowl with a smile.

Alright, rookie. First day of training with me. You nervous?'

Prowl sneered. 'Nervous? To spar with a cocky engine-head like yourself?'

'Ouch, first of all.' Jazz pouted, but his playful smirk poked through it.
'Secondly, it ain't just sparring, Prowler. It's meditation, it's finding one-ness with the Allspark and peace within your processor.'

The snort Prowl let out was almost palpable. He clenched his servos at his sides.
'Oh, please. I don't believe in all that drivel. You die, your spark fizzles out, and then you're melted down for parts. All the spiritual nonsense is just for bots who're scared of death.'

Now that was a surprising response. Jazz felt something new towards Prowl, just then. Pity.
'I'm not scared to die. I'm scared not to live. I wanna make the best of the time I've got, y'know? I feel like this is the best way, for me at least.'
He paused, then continued with a more concerned tone.
'...if anything you sound scared of death, Prowl.'

The exasperation from the younger bot gave way so a sort of... quietness. His gaze shifted beneath his visor. His servos unclenched.
‘...let's just get to training.' He murmured, turning on his heel struts and leaving the quarters.
Jazz wondered if he'd said something wrong.

 

Their first day had actually gone better than Jazz had been expecting.
Prowl may have been inexperienced with combat but he must have been practicing with Master Yoketron, because the bot had tricks up his sleeve.

Of course, with Jazz having been training under Yoketron for about thirty thousand stellar-cycles at this point, he had the upper servo. He went easy on Prowl, but only barely.
Yoketron watched over the entire affair and seemed oddly pleased, even when Prowl was being pinned to the floor. He offered only minimal feedback. Jazz wondered what the old mech was plotting.

After a few joors of it, though, Prowl's stamina was waning. Jazz had him pinned again and the smaller bot barely fought back.

Jazz wouldn't take that. He knew Prowl was stronger than this.

Aw, don't go givin' up on me now, Prowl. Show me you wanna win. Show me you wanna live. If I were a 'Con, I would've finished it by now.'

Something flashed in Prowl's optics, and Jazz caught a fist before it could connect with his helm.
'If you were a 'Con, I would have severed your optic nerves in your sleep.' Prowl snarled.

Now that was new.
Jazz leapt to his pedes, freeing Prowl. The smaller bot stood on shaking leg struts, wiping some oral lubricant from the corner of his lipplate.
Then, Prowl straightened, holding his servo out in a position Jazz was familiar with. Prowl beckoned with a twitch of his fingers.
'I'm not done yet,' He vented. 'Hit me again.'

Jazz smiled, glancing at Yoketron. He noticed the way his Master's optics studied Prowl with an unreadable intensity.
Something was special about this bot. Jazz was all too ready to prove it.

‘That's more like it, Prowler.'

Jazz had almost slipped into recharge when he felt a shift. He sat up briskly, back to full alertness in a nanoklik.

Something was wrong.
He checked the ship's sensors, and squinted at the screens as they claimed to detect the presence of... something. A fluctuation, a shift of some kind.
For a moment he thought it might have been the Orion repair ship approaching, but when he checked the proximity sensors he saw no sign of them.

A rumble. Then a jolt. Jazz stood and braced against the control panel as the entire asteroid shook beneath his ship.
He got a bad feeling in his processor. A flash of light illuminating the cockpit confirmed it, and Jazz squinted up to see the ruined bridge flickering back to life.

That wasn't right, was it? Its internals had been fried. There was no way for it to even receive transportation requests anymore.
Still, there it was, sparking and flashing like it was about to go supernova. Jazz got the nagging intuition that he should leave.
Just as he sat down in the pilot seat and began firing the Delta-4's engines back up, a warning blared on the screens.

[UNSTABLE POWER SOURCE DETECTED, ROGUE EMP WAVES INTERFERING WITH EQUILIBRIUM CENTRES, LIFTOFF: IMPOSSIBLE]

"Oh you're kiddin' me." Jazz muttered, thumping the palm of his servo against the control panel as he tries to restart the engine multiple times.
"C'mon, Delta baby, don't fail me now."

He was beginning to feel the EMP waves himself, but pushed the dizziness aside, focusing on getting his ship working before the whole place blew.

The portal expanded suddenly into a glowing, fluctuating ball. Something large and dark emerged from it.

Jazz reacted quickly. He sprinted to the emergency eject door and slammed the button on the wall.
Flung from the ship unceremoniously, Jazz tumbled onto the surface of the asteroid, then felt the heat and thrum of an explosion.
He covered his helm with his arms and stayed low. Debris and shrapnel crashed around him, some of it bouncing off of his chassis and chipping the paint, but that was the least of Jazz's concerns. For once.

When the dust had settled, Jazz slowly raised his helm. He had to reach up and brush a layer of filth and ash from his visor, but when he did, the sight before him drew a little anguished sigh from his chest.

The Delta-4 was totalled, its middle caved in by a very large piece of space rock, its engine having detonated. More rock had been spewed from the portal and now obscured the space bridge's command centre, but for the moment, Jazz was too busy mourning his ship.
He stood slowly and walked towards the husk of the Delta-4, the white and blue paint desecrated. He placed a servo on what little remained of the hull.
"Goodnight, sweet Jazzmobile." He said with a slight warble and a sniff. He'd spent half his paychecks for the past vorn to pay off that baby.
Sure, he could always save up and commission another, but that ship was HIS Delta-4. There'd never be another one like her.

...today really wasn't his day.

As if the universe had a sense of humour at his expense, Jazz was given about thirty nanokliks to grieve before he heard the approaching whirr of another ship's engines.

He looked up and sighed as the hulking shape of the Orion came into view and descended slowly. A voice came to him over his commlink - it was the medbot, Ratchet.
"Primus above, what happened, lad! Everything okay down there?! Any medical emergencies?!"

"Just emotional ones," Jazz muttered to himself, dusting some rubble and bits of Delta from his chassis.
"Nah, all systems operational," He answered properly with a wave up to the Orion. "You may not believe me when I say this, but it might be a bad idea to park on this rock. Use your docking tube."

"Aye-aye, sir," Ratchet responded with what sounded like an audible smirk. "What would we do without your invaluable wisdom through experience!"
Oh the elder bots and their dry humour. Jazz didn't even have the energy to be annoyed.

When then Orion had anchored itself a safe distance away and the docking tube deployed, Jazz waited by the tube's exit to greet the maintenance crew (and now, he supposed, his rescue crew. Oh, he'd really never hear the end of it from Sentinel now.)

When the mechs emerged from the tunnel, Jazz gave them a sheepish look, rubbing the back of his helm and glancing at the ruins of his ship.

"So... you'll never believe this one, fellas."

Optimus Prime smiled down at him. "Try me."

After a brief introduction to Ratchet, Bumblebee and Bulkhead, Jazz led the crew to the Delta-4 and the rock that had smashed her.

"So," He started, venting deeply. "I'm not an expert on space bridge technology, so forgive my naivete, but I'm pretty sure this bridge was totally nonfunctioning when I landed."

Ratchet cocked his brow ridge at him, and Bumblebee appeared to be only half-listening, staring with a mix of awe and fear at the ruins of the Delta-4. Optimus and Bulkhead were the only ones who seemed to be taking him seriously.

"Looks pretty wrecked to me," Bulkhead observed out loud, glancing up at the crooked spires. "Could maybe still receive some stray signals, but it shouldn't be strong enough to open a portal."

"See, that's what I thought." Jazz agreed, "But, uh... then it came back to life. Opened a portal on its own."

Bulkhead seemed the most surprised of the four. He must have been their expert.
"You're tellin' me that bridge opened a full portal by itself??"

"Yeah," Jazz said, shrugging. "Full enough that it sent that great Pit-forsaken rock right into my ship. She's good as scrap now. And so's the bridge's control centre, by the look of it.”
Jazz shook his helm, placing his servos on his hipplates.
“I really am sorry for all the trouble, you bots.”

Optimus sighed.
"Well, I'm sorry we didn't quite get here in time to save your ship, Jazz. But I promise we'll get this bridge up and running again, as soon as we clear the debris from the perimeter."

Bulkhead nodded and readied his wrecking ball. "I'll get started on the bigger ones. C'mon, Bee, better start quick before anything else can go wrong."

Bumblebee yelped and followed. "Comin', comin'!"

As the younger bots left to begin their work, Ratchet turned to Jazz and studied his frame with the trained eye of a field medic.
"You sure you don't need a patch-up, kid? That must've been some blast. Could've melted something internally."

Jazz offered him a sincere smile.
"No, thank you, Sir. I promise, it's just some cosmetic damage." He chuckled. "Normally I'd care more, but I think today might've straightened my priorities out just a bit."

To his pleasant surprise, Ratchet smiled back knowingly and patted his shoulder.
"Good lad. Scratched paint's nothing to lose fuel over."

It occurred to Jazz that Ratchet reminded him of someone. The ache of fresh grief in his spark was ebbing, just slightly. He wouldn’t mind sticking around with these bots for a little while, Sentinel didn’t need to know.

As Optimus readied his axe and raised his battle-mask, Jazz approached him from behind.
"Heyy, boss-bot!"

Optimus turned and tilted his head at him. Jazz supposed the Prime was perplexed by his casual nature, perhaps due to his status as a Lieutenant of the High Guard.
"Yes?"

"Mind if I lend a servo?"
Jazz reached into the sheathes in his legs and retrieved his nunchucks, spinning them skillfully before catching them under his arms.
"I've got a knack for breakin' things, too."

Eyes creasing in an appreciative smile, Optimus nodded.
"Of course. Welcome to bridge cleanup 101, Jazz. Follow my lead."

Jazz was all too eager to do so.

The work was tedious. Far more engaging than sitting in Fort Max filing datapads, but Jazz quickly learned that once you'd broken one rock apart with your nunchucks, you'd exhausted all the fun there was to be had from it.
But the crew chatted amongst themselves as they worked, which Jazz appreciated. He really didn't want to be swimming around in all the things plaguing his own processor right now.

Jazz learned a lot about these bots in the few short joors he spent with them.

Bumblebee may have been small, but he was full of spunk. He seemed to admire the High Guard to an almost fanatic degree - his optics sparkled whenever he passed Jazz by, which Jazz was flattered by. Bee may have been a little too big for his hitches, but he was funny in his own way, and seemed to genuinely care for his crewmates.

Bulkhead, on the other servo, looked like he might be more suited to wrecking, but he had a brilliant processor in that big helm of his. It was clear whenever he spoke about the bridge and its inner workings - he had not only a wealth of knowledge for space bridge tech, but a passion for it too. It was clear he was doing what he loved for a living, and Jazz was refreshed by that. He was genuinely happy for Bulkhead, not many bots could say the same about their own careers these days.

Ratchet had clearly seen more battles than all of them combined. He'd been around long before the great war, and had likely served the entire duration of it. He didn't say as much, but Jazz could tell simply by the way he carried himself and barked orders at the bots under his watch. Jazz greatly admired him, not least because even after so many millions of years of combat and hardship, Ratchet still had a wry sense of humour.

Optimus was the least talkative of the bunch, but Jazz could glean what he needed to from how he worked. He was a driven bot, dedicated to his work not so much because he enjoyed it, but because his sense of duty ran deep. He seemed much grander than his position as captain of a maintenance crew would demand of him, but with that lingering sense of naivete betraying his lack of experience. Perhaps he’d had big dreams during his days in the High Guard. Jazz thought it a shame his potential had been squandered.

Like Optimus, Jazz didn't talk much about himself. He just kept asking questions, and answered simply when asked in return.
He may have been a higher rank than these bots, but Jazz didn't really see rank. Each member of the team was worth their weight in energon, with good sparks in their chambers, and that was enough for him to respect each of them individually.

It was just when he thought the day was ending on a positive note that Jazz discovered it.

He and Optimus were clearing the rocks from the Delta-4 to see if anything could be salvaged from within, while the rest of the crew were busy chipping away at the landslide that had buried the bridge's control centres.

The rock that had crushed his ship was by far the biggest and hardest of them all. He and Optimus worked on either side of it, chipping away until they'd eventually meet in the middle, but they never got that far.

Jazz's nunchucks struck the rock rapidly, gradually boring into it like sawblades, until one of them jammed. He yanked it out, only for a blinding beam of light to stream out from the hole it had left.
For a moment he was struck dumb by the suddenness of it, but after another few, more precise strikes, chipping away small layers of rock, the opening widened and the glowing intensified.

"Prime," He called, stepping back. "Somethin's up with this rock."

The heavy thunks of Optimus's axe ceased and he walked around to Jazz's side, optics widening at the sight of the blue light.
"Y'know, I thought you'd be pointing out something totally normal, but... yeah, that's not right."

Jazz threw his servos up. "Alright, guess you’re the rock expert."

Optimus chuckled. "I'm just teasing. Uhm, you might want to stand back."

Unsure of what Optimus meant for a moment, Jazz only realised what he was about to do when he reared back with his axe raised.
Okay, maybe the bots that oversaw his demotion from the High Guard had their reasons.

"Are you CRA--"

Jazz crouched and shielded himself as the rock crumbled under the well-placed blow, splitting apart like some sort of jagged maw and unleashing the blinding light from within.

By now the others had heard the commotion and come running, and Bumblebee arrived first,  screeching to a halt with a gasp.
Bulkhead arrived after that, panting, but he stood awestruck at the sight before him, jaw hanging slack.
Then Ratchet came, and his optics widened in horror.

"Primus above."

Jazz felt a pit open up in his tank.
He'd seen this artifact before, but only in ancient documentation.
And on the altars he'd prayed to every day for millennia.

"It's the... Allspa--"

Ratched thundered over to them with his engine stuttering and grabbed Optimus and Jazz by the shoulders, yanking them away with surprising power for an old bot.
"Don't touch it. Unicron alive, what were you bots thinking!?"

Optimus turned to Ratchet.
"All I saw was a light, I didn't think it would have the actual Allspark in it."

"But you still decided to hit the glowing evil rock with a big axe," Bumblebee added. "Not your brightest moment, boss-bot.”

“Is that really the Allspark??” Bumblebee stammered.

Ratchet spoke like he was seeing a ghost.
“I’ve only ever seen it with my own optics once before, but… unless my processor’s finally blown a fuse, that’s definitely it.”

Jazz in-vented slowly.
After all those millions of years training with Yoketron to be closer to the Allspark… and now it’s here, right in front of him, tangible, so close he could feel the energy of it flowing over him in waves. So close he could touch it.
He was speechless.

"Uh, guys," Bulkhead broke the silence, fidgeting uncomfortably. "What do we do?"

Everyone turned to Optimus.
Jazz knew the Prime wasn't used to this calibre of leadership, but... surely he'd have some kind of plan of action for a situation like this, right?
Optimus glanced around at the crew. He gave a helpless look to Jazz, who shrugged, equally stumped.
“Don’t look at me, Prime, this is far above my paygrade, too.”

Stranded, Optimus looked back to the glowing artefact before them.
"...uh," He started.

Ratched interrupted before he could get a word out.
"Leave it. We need to leave it. The Allspark shouldn't be meddled with, boy, it's beyond us."

"But why did it come outta the bridge?" Bee chimed in, pointing up to the ruined spires.
“This all feels way too coincidental.”

Bulkhead rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "...maybe,"
The others looked at him, and he shrank back a bit. Jazz had never seen such a big bot with such a shy spark.
"Maybe it found us ."

Bumblebee's momentary nod of agreement was quickly replaced by a confused double-take.

Ratched growled.
"If it did, it's got Pit-poor choice. Come on, we're leaving it here. I'm not getting involved in--"

"Bots," Jazz said firmly, stiffening. A blinking alert at the corner of his HUD now had all of his attention.
He pressed a finger to the sensor at the side of his visor to bring up his proximity map. He watched the approaching dot, and the sigil attached to it, and he could hardly believe his optics.
This day just kept getting better and better.
"Get in gear. Now . We've got company."

Ratchet's very frame seemed to pale in understanding.
He changed his tune.
"Bumblebee, get back to the Orion and start the engines. Bulkhead, destroy any work you've done to repair the bridge. Optimus, Jazz," Ratchet transformed hastily and opened his cargo panel. "Load the Allspark up. Quickly."

The bots all glanced at each other, but Jazz clapped his servos loudly.
"You heard your medic! Move!"
He didn't like pulling rank, but this was very quickly becoming a matter of life and death.

"Okay okay, sheesh!" Bumblebee huffed, taking a running start before jumping off the edge of the Delta-4 and transforming, speeding away as he landed on the rock below.

Bulkhead saluted and ran dutifully back towards the bridge, wrecking ball already deployed and spinning above him like a mace.

Optimus and Jazz got to work loading the Allspark gently but swiftly into Ratchet's cargo space.
"Jazz, what did you see?" Optimus asked, urgency lacing his voice.

Jazz glanced up at him gravely.
"Let's just say, if you wanted combat back in the High Guard, you'll sure as the Pit see it now, O-P."

"He's right, Prime, this is the real deal, so I suggest we roll."
Clearly shaken, Ratchet took off, speeding towards the Orion as fast as his vehicle mode and the rough terrain would let him.

With a quick glance at each other, Optimus and Jazz did the same, transforming and following the medic.
Being built for speed, Jazz easily overtook both of them and waited by the docking tunnel, ushering Ratchet in, then meeting Optimus as he arrived and transformed.

Jazz spoke in a hushed tone as Optimus approached.
"Prime, I don't want to panic your younger crewmembers, but we're in serious slag."
Optimus nodded, his expression serious and attentive as he gestured for Jazz to continue. Jazz glanced around to make sure neither Bumblebee or Bulkhead were in audial range.
"My scanner picked up a Decepticon warship. Coming in hot. As we speak it's about 4.5 cycles from reaching this bridge. If I know anything about 'Cons, I know they want the Allspark. They must've tracked its energy signature."

The slight rumble of Optimus's engine was the only indication of his fear. To his credit, he remained shockingly calm in the face of such news.
"Right. I'll prepare the ship and call it in to Ultra Magnus, you go get--"

Bulkhead's voice boomed over the shared commlink,
"Uhhh, Optimus, there's a problem!"

Before either of them could respond, there was a metallic groan. Jazz recognised it.
“Oh, slag.”

A flash of light and dizzying burst of EMP energy heralded the revival of the Demon Bridge (Jazz was going to have this entire asteroid demolished when he got out of this mess) and Optimus and Jazz stared momentarily in horror at the portal.

“I’ll get Bulkhead!” Jazz shouted, already running. “You board, make sure the ship doesn’t get too close! Hurry!”

Jazz transformed and sped with a roar towards the bridge, gritting his dentae through the EMP waves washing over him.
He found Bulkhead at the base of the bridge, braced against the partially-reconstructed control centre and struggling to move. Jazz transformed and waded through the tar-like atmosphere, grabbing Bulkhead’s arm and ripping him away from the bridge.
“You still with me?!” Jazz shouted over the buzzing in their audials.

Bulkhead was inconsolable.
“I tried to destroy it, but some stray signals must’ve activated it again! I can’t shut it off!”

“Don’t worry ‘bout that now, buddy, just get your aft in gear! Ship’s takin’ off, we ain’t got much time!”
The more time they spent here the more restless Jazz felt.
The EMP waves were disrupting his proximity censors - he was blind to how close the Decepticons were.

The universe, as ever, delivered its punchline just in time.
Engines roared distantly, then closed in until they were deafening. Something landed heavily behind them.
A new voice spoke, sickeningly calm amidst the chaos of the scene.

“Actually, zhere is no time at all.”

Jazz turned slowly towards the intruder, and as his optics landed on the bot now towering before him and Bulkhead, his spark lurched.
The triple-changer aimed his blaster at Jazz, red optics glaring down at him with cold disinterest.

“Blitzwing.” Jazz hissed, dentae gritting.

Icy clicked his glossa distastefully.
“Long time no see, Jazz.”
His face flipped, and Random grinned maniacally at them.
“Und now ve vill see you no more! HAHAHA!!”
His face flipped again and Hothead snarled.
“But not until you hand over zhe Allspark, Autobot scum.”

Bulkhead was trembling.
“You know this bot..?”

“Know is a strong word, Bulky.”
Jazz’s battle-mask raised, and he produced his nunchucks.
“Don’t worry. We’re not goin’ down without a fight.”

Bulkhead gawked at him.
"I'm a repair bot! I can't fight him!"

"Then run." Jazz said, and leapt at the Decepticon.

[Unknown Blue Planet, Present Day]

‘CRAAAWW!’

Prowl awakens with a start at the sensation of something incessantly tapping his helm.

He sits up, nearly reaching for his shuriken, before he sees a flash of black and realises it’s just his little avian friend. It flutters away as he shifts and perches on the tip of his pede, cocking its head at him.

“You really have a talent for waking me up…” Prowl says groggily, rubbing his helm. He glances around. He doesn’t remember falling into recharge, but he must have needed it by the way his systems boot up far more smoothly than they did after he’d awoken from stasis.

Looking around, he realises he’s still at the mountain peak.
Some time must have passed, too. The island is now shrouded in darkness, more reminiscent of the constant night on Cybertron. His internal clock tells him it’s been 6.5 joors since his nap commenced.
Well, the fact he was laying prone and in the open for so long without being disturbed at least tells him that nobody is looking for him here.

“The solar-cycles on this planet seem to be roughly the same duration as on Cybertron.” He mutters to himself, logging that info away in his new folder labelled “Blue Planet Observations.”

‘Fass-nating.’ The avian responds, its neck-plating (he’d have to come up with a better word for it) fanning out like a beard.

He remembers the holo-message with a hollowness in his spark, and looks down at his chest, smoothing a servo over the windshield where the protoform lies in its pre-activation slumber.
“Our Saviour, he said…”
Prowl huffs quietly, shaking his helm.
“...then I suppose I had better find some way to activate you, hadn’t I?”

Prowl stands slowly, dusting himself off. He can’t sit here and rust away, he’s got a promise to keep.
The avian clicks its beak and lifts off, once again landing on Prowl’s shoulder and croaking.

“What do you think of the name Alarm?”
He smirks, reaching up and gently stroking the avian under its chin.
“Because you like waking me up so much.”

It clicks its beak again. ‘Fass-nating.’

“I’ll take that as an affirmative.”

Prowl looks out at the opposite horizon, where the sky is beginning to lighten again, a pale yellow staining the deep blue expanse of space. He sees the outline of a landmass in the distance.
It’s as good a sign as any.

“The little Saviour can’t well save anyone if she’s inert.” He murmurs. “So we’d better find a way to get her online.”

Alarm caws.
They leave together, and Prowl feels in his spark what might be the dawn of something approaching hope.