#metroplexandcitizens

Ironhide stares a moment, blinking slowly, and then T-poses back.

Soundwave has to fold himself nearly in half to wrap himself around the distressed deployer, but he manages, stroking one finger, nearly the size of Ravage's entire torso, over his head and shoulders and brushing non-invasive comfort over the surface of his mind. "What happened?"

A tiny paw- servo- curls over Soundwave’s plating, claws dulled to blunt fingertips and leaving not so much as a scratch on Soundwave’s plating. “Greyface magic,” he murmurs, optics dimming with the soothing presence of a Soundwave- not his own, as if everything had been shifted an inch to the left, but enough. 

Sideswipe snorts. "Prowl's not gonna kick you out unless you kill someone. Nah, I was thinking Perceptor. He's cool with it, and it's practically an initiation ritual. One you haven't done yet." He grins. "Well now that I think about it, we gotta fix that."

Oh, and that’s a little spike of anxiety that Kayla hadn’t been prepared for. “Ain’t Perceptor one of your scientists? What if he gets angry and- I dunno- does something?” An excuse, to hide the scream of no scientists! she feels deep in her chest. 

Ironhide weeps quietly as he clutches Jazz close, leaning down to nuzzle their noses together. "Hi, baby. I love you."

Jazz squeals in delight, releasing Ironhide’s arm long enough to grasp at his helm instead with a delighted burble. His audials twitch just a little, though; he’s picked up on the sound of Ironhide’s weeping.

The words remind him of the foolishness of Autobot bravery: no matter how many he slew, someone would always rise to stop him. How intolerable the thought of would-be do-gooders and those curious for his touch lining the halls of this ship for his sake. For the sake of the universe. 

He could kill them all.

“No.” 

God, just let this end.

Ironhide scowls and reaches over to put a gentle hand on his creation's shoulder. "Y'not useless, you're recovering. Mirage's got't'n hand. What SpecOps needs is y't'b'back at y'full strength b'fore tryna pull slag like this. C'mon, y'prolly already gave Ratch a' aneurysm."

He pushes down all his own worries about Jazz and his injuries and fragging Shockwave for now. He has a feeling if he goes full on mother ironbear, it'll push his baby even further away - and never doubt that Jazz is and always will be his baby.

"Chop-chop, Lambchop. If y'need a change o'scenery, we c'n ask."

“Ain’t gonna be th’ first time I gave him an aneurism.” 

Let nobody ever say Jazz didn’t take after his carrier; in an act of stubborn defiance, he took another step away from his berth, then another, until his legs gave out with a screech of overtaxed metal and a stream of curses in more languages than could be counted. 

The magnets on his hands left the wall to brace against the floor, to hold himself steady in his crumpled position. “Raj is good’n’all, but he ain’t me. I need t’ be out there helpin’ ‘em. Plannin’.” 

Through it all, not a waver of voice betrayed the soreness in his body, the strut-deep exhaustion; Shockwave had been more than thorough in his work, and the Play Dead modset always took its toll on Jazz’s already overtaxed spark. Instead, he fought every word into steadiness, into not showing a damned thing was wrong with him. 

@metroplexandcitizens

“Nah, ‘m fine, carrier.” 

The way Jazz struggles to stay standing, though, proves his words a lie; the mech clings to a wall as if it’s his only anchor to the Ark. His magnets are as high as they’ll go, so that just in case he blacks out- again, thanks Shockwave-  he won’t hit the ground.