Work Text:
Jazz is tired.
Tired of putting that facade he has in the halls. It's just him now. There's no one to perform for.
Well, that's a lie. He's always performing, even for himself. As long as this war goes on, he'll always be performing.
Were he not, he doesn't know if he'd still be here.
Jazz misses performing. He misses the anticipation of being on stage, the weight of the crowd's optics on him, the warmth of the lighting overhelm.
He was never alone on stage even when it was just him. There was the crowd, their rapt attention or the ebb and flow chatter while he strummed a melody just to fill the atmosphere.
He may have appeared alone, but he never was.
Until now.
He shifts, resting his helm on the vent wall.
Below him, mechs roam the halls; Jazz listens. Listens to the bots in the halls switching shifts, hearing them talk with each other as they pass by, oblivious to his presence just above them. Their laughs, almost drowned out by the hum of the base's cooling systems, don't fail to reach his audials.
He's even turned down the sensitivity to as low as he's willing to go, and he still can't escape it. He lowers them another notch, but they echo in his processor.
A scowl settles on his faceplates.
Friends. Amica Endurae.
What's the fraggin' point?
What's the point of the putting yourself out there like that? Of forming these relationships only to find their grayed out frame somewhere on the battlefield or covered by a tarp in the medbay?
That's if their lucky. It's usually just a sinking feeling, a spark stopping moment when a mech realizes they can't recall having seen them in too long.
Jazz knows the feeling all too well. Shame it never gets any better.
He lets his optics fall shut, lets his systems idle, settle like they haven't in a long time. It's nowhere near his baseline specs, but it's something. The feeling of calm that usually accompanies it doesn't come.
Instead, aches he didn't even know he had make themselves known. His hips, shoulders, doorwing hinges; the prickle spreads in all directions, invading his frame and worsening.
A notification that he fully expects to be a warning from his frame is actually a comm. A comm from Blaster that's been sitting for almost an entire vorn. He eyes it, wary. He doesn't know if he's ready for what's on the other side.
An indefinite amount of time passes before he plays it.
Hey, Jazzy-mech! Just checking in to see if you're down to join us for the next show we got coming up. Keep me in the loop!
Tension he didn't know was lining his frame seeps out with a too-loud hiss of hydraulics. It's not what he feared — an indescribable mess of sounds, of a vocalizer fizzling out, static filling the line until the spark fades from existence.
He should respond. Let him know that he's still alive and in one piece, but he doesn't have it in him right now. Maybe sometime soon. Soon before the inevitable happens.
Blaster's offline optics, frame gray, lacerations marring his frame, energon pooling under him, ports melted to slag-
He opens his optics.
He's still shrouded in the familiar, tightness of the vents, and something about that brings him a sliver of comfort.
But the image remains seared into his processor and optics.
He's seen offlined mechs before, of Decepticons, Autobots, and mechs he called his friends. Yet the anger he felt earlier comes back stronger than before.
What's the point of this war anymore? What's the point of fighting? Of losing everyone and everything he ever cared about?
Cybertron is gone. Dead. Nothing more than a hunk of floating metal now. Everyone he's truly cared for is. Primus, he doesn't even know where. Offlined, probably. Just like the rest of them. Offlined or out of reach - not who they used to be.
He shuts down that thread before his processor can provide him with an example he'd really rather not think about right now.
He takes off his visor, and the weight of it in his servo is far from satisfying, lightweight and barely noticeable. He thumbs the top right corner, the crack that's been growing for longer than he knows. It's only a matter of time before it breaks.
He imagines it shattering. Watches himself throw it and it shatter into to hundreds, thousands, of minuscule shards. Irreparable, but replaceable. Like himself and everyone else in this fragged up war.
But the image doesn't curb his anger. The weight is unsubstantial. He wants something that'll hold up in his throes of his anger, something sturdy, someone that understands him. Knows him. He wants-
He covers his optics with his free servo, feeling the ache growing behind them. His processor is still holding onto that slagged image of Blaster, and it remains in his subconscious as another mech takes his spot.
Red and blue. That fragging battle mask. A shell of the mech he used to know. Of his Amica Endurae.
It would be far from the first time he let his emotions get the best of him while hiding from prying optics in a ventilation shaft, and he knows it won't be the last.
Or. Maybe it will.
His vision is blurred when he drops his servo. His processor just won't let go of that damned battle mask. The smile that used to be. The mech that no longer exists, lost when the Matrix forced itself on him.
The sharp edge of his visor digs into his palm, but the pain is a welcome distraction from the track his processor was on.
It's then that rapid pedesteps fill the air. Urgent and heavy, easily more than three, coming from his left, the base entrance, to what's likely the medbay.
Even without his visor, he can make out the graying frame on a stretcher. He can't make out the three bot carrying them.
Jazz watches in disinterest as they move, their voices low and almost indecipherable.
It's only a matter of time before word of that spreads; he doesn't doubt that there are plenty of mechs watching this play out.
A small, static-tinged sound escapes his vocalizer. He clips his visor back into place. Seems like it's time to get back to performing as the Autobot Morale Officer. The break was nice while it lasted.
His frame creaks as he moves, shifts onto his front so he can move through the shafts. He ignores the sharp pains that flare up as he does and pulls himself in the direction of the medbay for a reason he can't quite pin.
Or at least that is until he's staring down at Ratchet face-on in his office.
He just sat down, just poured himself a cube of bright, glistening high grade. He's got this kinda familiar, distant look on his face — guess that mech didn't make it.
Jazz waits. Watches. Watches him take small, slow sips of the old blend. Primus, he could use some of that real bad right now. Maybe he could ask.
He forces a smile onto his face and pushes open the vent, and it almost makes his expression genuine at how quickly Ratchet's expression goes from startled to annoyed.
"Jazz." His gaze doesn't linger on him, and for that he is grateful. Ratchet could see right through him if he wanted to.
"Hey, Ratch." He stands, hoping the amount of effort it takes doesn't show on his face. "Hope I didn't scare you."
Ratchet just grumbles something indecipherable and pulls a cube from subspace, fills it halfway with high grade, and slides it toward him.
Huh. He's not complaining, though.
Something creaks as he sits, but Ratchet shows no real sign of caring, only sending him a glare that's lacking most of its usual heat.
The high grade is cool in his servo and warm in his tanks. If he tries hard enough, Jazz can almost imagine that things are normal, that the times are better, and the war hasn't already taken and torn apart everything he's known and loved.
He stares into the energon, wishing that the reason he was still fighting this war was here next to him.