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He had just come back from patrolling the edge of their territory, looking for dangerous animals more than anyting else this time of year, when it happened. The other tribe, the Decepticons by markings and jewelry, flew overhead and descended into the center of the village. Jazz let go of his twin’s arm as they drew weapons. They both turned and ran as the village elders knelt submissively in front of them. Some of the others ran too.
Jazz turned toward the grassland that would lead to the Dynobots, and an ally that could help send them away. But he stood out against the grasses this time of year, his white too bright against withered grey, and he felt the burn of a blaster shot before he realized what he was hearing.
Blasters were city weapons, and he wondered how they had gotten them as he fell to the ground in pain.
He heard more blasterfire as he lay in the grass, still so that he wouldn't attract any more attention, and praying silently that he and his family would survive the night. It lasted for an eternity, the harsh burn of plasma and agonized screams, and echoed through the night in a way that seemed destined to bring their allies running.
But no one came. And finally, the camp fell silent.
Jazz stayed still in the grass for several joors longer, and bit his lip when he heard the heavy tread of one of the decepticons approach. He deactivated his visor quickly, and the mech laughed cruelly.
”This one’s dead,” the mech said, in the pidgin language the Decepticon tribe used, and Jazz had never been so glad he had learned it for trading in his life. “Leave him, we’ve got other things to worry about.”
He stayed as still as the corpse they thought he was for another groon. And then, when there was still no sound coming from the village, he climbed carefully to his feet. Jazz kept his head down as far as he could and still run, and then he took off.
He didn’t know if he was hoping for safety or help taking back the village.