No Rest For The Wicked

Name of the Game (is Insubordination)

If passion drives you, let reason guide you ~Benjamin Franklin

Unable to fight off the tug of a smile, Darcy adjusted her trajectory from her apartment to the hangar bay where cargo jets always released their alien cargo. Sleep could wait just a little longer, Jazz was back. If anyone could talk a lick of sense into Prowl (and frankly, ground her back to reality), it was the smooth-talking, suave, silver saboteur.

And she could even admit to herself that she'd missed him. His light-hearted nature and jovial smile could light up the darkest night.

The hanger came into view as the plane rolled to a stop, the large cargo door starting its drop before the tires had been properly blocked. Ratchet was already there, yelling orders with unusually tense aggravation, his stance radiating impatience. Darcy picked up her pace, frown pinching her brow as she tried to get within hearing distance.

"By all means, move at a glacial pace, it isn't as if time is of the essence here!" Ratchet snarled at the first soldier to disembark, hunching to stomp past them and into the belly of the plane. She couldn't hear what else he barked until the medic reappeared, a platform slowly rolling off alongside him. A platform which held a prone Jazz, his chassis crumpled and a gaping hole where his left arm should attach.

Darcy stuttered to a halt, searching for any sign of life from the silver Autobot.

His visor was dark.

"Perceptor! Prep for surgery!" Ratchet shouted, jumping onto the platform to straddle Jazz, his hands diving into the wreckage of his chest. The platform groaned under the added weight, but kept moving, slowly rolling its way towards the medical bay.

"I'm a scientist, not a medic!" The red and black Autobot warned as he appeared, a large case wrapped in tubes and wires in hand.

"That can't hurt his chances," Ratchet snapped, ripping the case away from the other mech and jamming the cables into Jazz's gaping chassis. His body shuddered as electricity arced down the lines.

Darcy's breath caught in her chest, held, and clogged her throat on the release. She choked, fighting to breathe against the panic rapidly swelling under her skin. This couldn't happen. This couldn't be real. Jazz was too full of life, too skilled and troublesome to fall to injury, to fall to the Decepticons.

Fuck, he'd already died once! That was enough! He couldn't get a new lease on life just to lose it again! It wasn't right! It wasn't fair!

A black hand blocked her from following the prone saboteur to the medical bay, scooping her faltering body from the ground to cradle her against a familiar chassis.

"Detective." Prowl's voice was tight and grim.

No.

This wasn't it.

This wasn't how Jazz went out.

"Tell me he's going to be okay," she demanded, twisting to meet his gaze.

Prowl shifted, his doorwings held low. "Ratchet is the best medic there is. But I do not have the data to promise as such to you."

"Put me down." She shoved against him to no avail. He did not put her down, nor could he offer her any words of comfort as he solemnly watched the rolling platform disappear into the medical bay.

"He'll be alright, darlin'," Sideswipe rolled up beside them, his tone failing to match up to his supportive words. The usually bright mech looked as though the air had been ripped from his sails. "Takes more than a slimy 'Con or two to take out the Jazzinator."