Chapter Text
The view of the stars in all its glory never extended to him.
Jazz's helm ached with the pressure of being slammed against something incredibly solid, a dent that was unlikely to be fixed in a cycle or two. By the time his optics decided to shutter awake once more, right there in the heat of battle, he found himself dazzled.
Visor partially cracked, he could only hope its pieces weren't under the dying frames of comrades. Hypersensitive optics were not suited for a naked view of the stars, yet Jazz found himself staring upwards through the slits in his visor.
Beautiful.
Illuminating.
Blinding.
Gasping and hurling forward, desperate to shield his optics by cupping his servos, Jazz found himself thrown haphazardly back down. The pain hadn't registered yet, perhaps because his processor was occupied by the need to make sense of the flurry of colours and lights around him. Stars, as enraptured as he was, were far too bright. And all at once, the irritation dissipated. The canopy of the very universe above the dying planet of Cybertron now laid itself no more to Jazz's frail optics, as a shadow stood above him.
The broad shoulders of a mech covered the intrusive lights, yet made it almost impossible to make out any discernable features. Jazz's optics cycled once, twice, thrice before it settled on the irrefutable, unfortunate symbol on their translucent chest plate – a Decepticon.
Their red visor didn't glisten in the darkness, making it incredibly easy and tempting for Jazz to settle his gaze there.
“H… hey there, mech!” Jazz exclaimed as well as he could given the excruciating, building pain in his chassis, “You mind ‘scusing me?”
A slight tilt of the stranger's helm may not have been noticed to the average optics, but Jazz relied on the stillness of the mech to cover the universe's light.
“I'm not really, well, keen on fighting in my current state,” he continued with little outward inclination to care about the situation they found themselves in, “I ‘spose you don't wanna fight now, do you?”
It was then that he noticed the outstretched arms struts of the mech, and it was a wonder he hadn't realised sooner, as a blaster pointed right at his very spark.
His vents hitched.
The war had been raging on for too long now, and Cybertron was bordering complete and utter decimation. His chassis deflated as he let out a huge ex-vent, as if it were stored up in his tanks since the early days of wartime recruitment and witnessing the constant cycle of spilled energon and death.
Optics travelled up from the reloading blaster, to the deep navy of its handler's frame and the glinting red visor of their hidden face. He settled to stare right there, hoping to see something beyond.
“What's your na– name?” Jazz coughed, pressure mounting on his chassis. Over the telltale sign of the blaster powering up and the incoherent yells of the dying, Jazz couldn't really tell if he was heard.
“If you're going to kill me, I'd– I'd like to know your name!” When the mech didn't respond, Jazz scoffed, “What? You only give it to mechs who put up a fight?”
The mech's visor flickered, a distinct blue running through it. That likely meant yes. Jazz resisted the urge to roll his optics, mainly due to the surge of pain embedding itself in his processor by merely staring at the scrutinising, scarcely glinting red above him.
Why are Decepticons so obsessed with honour by power?
Now, focus. There were two options before him:
- Lay down and take it. His processor and depleting energon reserves yearned for rest, and it would not complain if that was permanent.
- Fight.
And as much as everything in him wanted to do the former, an urge in him stood above it all for survival – something that has been driving the war for millennia now. The heightening ticking of the blaster looped in his processor, dizzying any code to stand up and raise his fists like Optimus had drilled into everyone.
‘You must survive,’ Optimus had commanded – an astoundingly ridiculous thing to command as no mech would choose to die miserably and alone on the battlefield, but coming from Optimus Prime himself seemed like a divine message. Jazz had recalled the grim determination embedded in his optics, mouth undoubtedly tugged to a deep frown beneath the battle mask. ‘Do not fall with cowardice or gentleness. You all deserve much more than… this.’
It had been one of his more depressing pep-talks, yet the one Jazz's mind had settled on as the grounding force to shove his servo to the decayed soil below and attempt to haul himself up. Somewhere where the dust hadn't settled was their wise, selfless leader, fighting with the sparks of every death weighing on his conscience and dragging him to the Well. Jazz refused to be another weight to pull him down.
But it's almost comedic how hope and determination alone cannot change the outcome. The blaster was still on his chest, and its heaviness wore him down.
Grinding his derma to a fine powder at this point, Jazz braved the task of staring up to meet the undecipherable gaze of the mech atop him. The beauty of the stars were enrapturing, and Jazz could finally gaze upon its reflection in the deep red visor of the mech. It took a nanoklik to let the swirling colours settle, but when it did, he found something there.
Curiosity.
Jazz tried to speak but practically spat static at the rate he was spluttering, his injuries unforgiving to the noble task of a last stand.
“Le-let me fight.” Gripping the blaster with whatever remnants of strength he had, he finally demanded, “I ain't dying without fighting.”
“Unadvisable.” The mech finally stated, words menacing beneath the voice modulator he wielded, “Wasted effort. Superiority misplaced.”
The urge to scoff and exaggeratedly roll his optics was powerful, and perhaps he was on the other side of the weapon steadily pointed at him.
“Okay, woah, claiming superiority? That- khh- seems a bit self-obsessed now,” Jazz almost prided himself at staying coherent through the static, “And besides, I-I-I'm not keen on layin’ down and taking it. If I'm bound to be shot, I'd rather go kickin’ and screamin’. Plus, it’s a beautiful night,” His gaze was unwavering from the mech’s visor, twinkling with the reflection of the galaxy, “Nobody should die on such a beautiful night.”
The mech paused, tilting his helm once more.
“Words of the traitorous Optimus Prime?”
Jazz grinned.
“Nah, words of me.”
“Query: Beauty and life do not correlate.” The mech loosened the blaster much to Jazz’s jubilation, yet it was still locked in position. The strange cadence he spoke in didn't deter Jazz at all. In fact, it made formulating a response that much easier.
“Yeah they do. You even look up?” Jazz refused to tug his grin downwards at the sheer gall of this mech's unwavering stance, refusing to follow his line of sight to the stars, “I-I'd like to appreciate this view, maybe with some, khhh, ener-energon and company. It wouldn't be a bad last-sight before offlining, but don't you feel li-like there's so much beyond this war when looking up?”
When he didn't move but didn't shoot, Jazz slowly motioned to his visor.
“I don't know if you've got a face under that mask, but seeing the stars with naked optics really puts things in-in perspective. I've never seen such beauty…” Trailing off, he sent a wayward smirk his way, “You really should try it sometimes.”
And in a strange way, Jazz wouldn't mind if he were the one to end it for him, with the beauty of the universe a physical embodiment in him. Primus, his processor must be fritzing from all the blows to his helm!
It was only then that the mech wavered – a small, imperceptible tilt of his chin upwards, sending Jazz into motion.
Grabbing the blaster like a lifeline, a surge of adrenaline and fuel rushed to his aching limbs, likely as one last ‘huzzah!’ before the lights went out. Shoving it out of the clear view of his chassis, he stumbled to his pedes. With no cover from both the blast and the blaring light above, Jazz found himself a walking target with little protection. A certain rush fills your system when faced with the unknown of death, and Jazz was balancing on a fine line of utter exhaustion and the urge to laugh hysterically.
He was standing.
And there was no gaping hole in his chassis.
One eye was practically blinded from the energon streaming from his helm, yet his other had a clear view of the mech standing a few steps away – he had stepped back.
“Y–you didn’t shoot yet.” Jazz couldn’t even mask his shock with the cocky, slag-eating grin he wore a few kliks ago – in all honesty, he hadn’t expected to make it up with full consciousness. While every part of his processor and spark yearned for life, he was acutely aware that the situation left his chances incredibly, incredibly slim.
“Query.” The mech continued, unaffected by Jazz's final stand that it was almost annoying.
A few nanokliks passed, and he remained rooted.
“Yeah? What is it?”
Perhaps the two were insane for engaging in a strange, borderline cordial conversation under such a scenario. If either of them were concerned about this, it didn't show on their faces nor movements.
“What does the Autobot want?”
Caught off guard, Jazz rubbed his chin. “Uh, we-well, the energon reserve here, last large deposit on Cybertron y'know? Ain't that why you guys are–”
“Correction: What do you want?”
Jazz was taken aback.
He opened his intake and closed it again.
In any other tone, it would've been a perfectly acceptable question to ask an enemy; usually dripping with malice, insincerity and darkened humour. But the mech before him was… genuine. His monotone suggested no further intent outside of mere curiosity, though it may have been Jazz's processor attempting to humanise him.
What do I want?
A question he hadn't thought of in a long time. No, he's lying – he's been actively avoiding that question like a rust-plague. Any hope was bound to get crushed and destroyed with a gaping hole in one's chassis, and he's seen mechs with dreams of glory merely be reduced to a statistic. He wanted to spit, splutter and glare. Come up with an Autobot-like battlefield retort and yank an arm-blaster off of a decapitated opponent to shoot that damned visor that seemed to itch and prod at the seams holding Jazz together.
But he didn't.
A slow, tentative exhale left his mouth instead.
“I want to survive– no, I want to live.”
The silence that followed was interrupted by Jazz smacking his lips, tasting the bitterness and shame of the words.
“Injuries excessive.” The mech stated coldly with a deceptively (ha) perceptive gaze rolling over the excessive energon flowing on his frame, “Chances of survival: 11.35%. Chances of survival next battle: Slimmer.”
And Jazz merely burst out into hysterical laughter. Energon threatened to fall from his optics at the rate he was heckling, hunched over and attempting to hold himself upright.
“Is that– Is that meant to deter me from fighting to live?” Jazz sighed, chest warm from the genuine humour in the situation, “C'mon mech, I've faced worse odds and I'm still here, ain't I?”
“Unfortunately.”
Jazz would bet an inordinate amount of Shanix that the mech was rolling his eyes beneath that visor, and he swallowed the urge to forcefully pry it off to see.
The mech didn't notice and continued.
“You are implying that life is not your online status. You – ‘like to appreciate this view, maybe with some, khhh, ener-energon and company’.”
And if Jazz wasn't impressed by this mech before, hearing his own voice being played back to him from the mech really took it away! It was disturbing, yes, but somewhat spark-warming to know his prior existentialism wasn't overlooked. He could merely nod.
And it was finally then that the mech lowered the blaster and placed it back firmly in the crevices of his bulky arm modifications. He turned on his pedes, facing the scuffle of dust kicked up in the far distance from a showdown of leaders.
“W-wait!” Jazz almost kicked himself at the embarrassing speed he threw a wrench in an incredibly lucky situation, but he had to know.
This mech was a Decepticon and did everything a Decepticon sought to do: beat him with ease through resources, size and overall strength that Jazz lacked, held him to the offending edge of a blaster, and almost shot.
But the ‘almost’ clawed at him.
Why–
“Why did you let me go? I asked for a– a fighting chance, are you not going to fight?”
The mech paused, shoulders tensing slightly with a slide raise.
“Challenge: Issued?”
“NO!” Jazz frantically waved his servos, “I don't want to fight! But you had a chance to shoot me! Don't you want your weird aft Decepticon honour?!”
A tilt of his helm, Jazz had picked up, seemed to indicate confusion he cannot formulate into cohesive statements.
“I thought.. you were going to give me a chance, reveal it was a ploy and…” He motioned to his chassis with a deflated, sorrowful look, “... Y'know.”
“I do not.” The mech then made an imperceptible noise akin to static, but Jazz could hope it was an exasperated sigh. “As previously mentioned: Chances of survival are slim. You are not a threat to the Decepticon cause.”
As if that was meant to make him feel better! He may as well have punched Jazz across his already battered face at the harsh nature of the insult.
“I am…” The mech paused, monotonous voice taking a strange twinge that Jazz could no longer even guess, “Curious to your wish. Your hope: Foolish but intriguing.”
“Huh, my wish got you curious?” Jazz grinned, though it was not snarky or filled with underlying malice, “How's about this– I survive today and tomorrow. Primus, maybe ev-even the next few centuries! And then, my stony-faced friend, I'll show ya good livin’!”
“Chances of meeting again: unlikely.”
“Unlikely? Pshh! As I said, I defy the odds!” Jazz turned around on his pedes, yet his strained optics never wavered from the mech's navy frame, almost searing the image into his processor.
“Next battle: No mercy.” The mech nodded, “Soundwave superior.”
“Soundwave, hm?”
Jazz liked the way the words rolled in his mouth, yet he couldn't shake the suspicion that he heard that name before. Maybe in one of Wheeljack's Decepticon rundowns, or Ironhide's tentative warnings. All he learnt was that he was given a chance today, and he got the impression that Soundwave wasn't readily handing those out. So he grasped it with desperate servos, unwilling to let go.
“I'll give you a good fight next time. You'll see.”
Soundwave shuffled slightly with foreign restlessness.
“Designation?”
This caught him off guard once more.
“M-my name? You want my name?” Biting back a hearty laugh, he tapped a digit on his chin with faux contemplation. “Little ‘ol me? An insignificant Autobot who didn't deserve it earlier?”
“You did not. Halt your annoyances.”
“Well aren't you a funny one Sounders? I'm just pulling your pede!”
The nickname bristled his plates, but this was only shown through a sharp glint of his visor that almost blinded Jazz's already exhausted optics.
“My designation is Jazz. Don't you forget it!”
Jazz transformed with little grace or efficiency, ready to skid away to the base. The worry that Soundwave may rescind his generosity and shoot him in the back like a typical Decepticon was prevalent.
But, once again exceeding all expectations, he merely observed with caution and made no move of hostility. Through the rear view mirror of his alt-mode, Jazz observed the mech rooted to the spot until he disappeared over the horizon.
Soon enough, the stars had fallen and were replaced by the waning crescent of the rising sun. Jazz quite longed for the quiet, calming presence of the stars.