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fandomweekly2020-06-01 09:03 pm
autobotscoutriella) wrote in fandomweekly2020-06-01 09:03 pm
Entry tags:
[#053] The Aftermath (Transformers Bayverse)
Theme Prompt: 053 - Silence
Title: The Aftermath
Fandom: Transformers Bayverse
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 / Aftermath of violence
Bonus: No
Word Count: 798
Summary: Jazz searches for survivors.
The wind hums through jagged metal formations, swirling blue-tinged dust into tiny tornadoes that dissipate just as quickly. A few clouds drift through the night sky, casting ominous shadows over the scene; faint shafts of moonlight only serve to emphasize the deeper shadows layered across rough ground.
The quiet should be peaceful. It isn't.
Jazz makes his way carefully across the former battlefield, silent as a shadow, EM field muted and plating tucked down flat as he eases his way from one rock formation to the next. Faint traces of tire tracks shimmer in his heads-up display, revealed by carefully tuned visor settings.
No life signals.
He doesn't expect to find any. There are corpses everywhere--draped over rock formations, impaled on abandoned weapons, half-slipping into jagged crevices--and the ground underfoot is sticky with half-dried energon. The metal itself is crumpled and melted from hundreds, maybe thousands, of explosions. It's a harsh, brutal environment. Survival without support, without backup, without medical attention, is unlikely.
But he has to try.
Every few steps, he sends out a cautious ping along secured Autobot frequencies. Distress signals are dangerous when Decepticons are still in the area; if anyone is still out there, they won't be using open lines, and not everyone has access to every secured frequency. He's been out for three hours, ever since the sun finally went down and the scouts reported the last Decepticon patrols pulling back, sending out messages on every frequency he knows and a few that aren't in use anymore but used to be.
He hasn't received a single response yet.
A message pings in the corner of his heads-up display. ::Jazz, do you copy? Respond.::
Prowl. Jazz grimaces and pulls himself deeper into the shadow of a metal spire rising from the landscape, using it to mask the slight signal his comm lines will be giving off. He knows what this message will be, and he doesn't want to hear it.
::Jazz, if you copy, acknowledge.:: Even over text, Prowl manages to use his final warning tone. If Jazz doesn't respond, there will be a patrol on its way to retrieve him.
::I copy.::
::You need to return to base.:: It's not a request.
::I'm not done.:: Jazz ducks out from behind the rock formation, sends out another comm ping, and darts across a patch of open ground briefly shaded by a cloud, dropping down into a crevice to take shelter again. Something crunches underfoot, and a brief glance down shows the twisted metal remnants of what was once a Decepticon front-line soldier. ::I still have almost half the field to cover.::
::We've picked up traces of Decepticon activity in Quadrant Alpha. You need to return to base for your own safety.::
::And what about the survivors that might be out here, huh?:: Jazz follows the crevice north, keeping an optic on the cloud cover. His plating will catch moonlight all too easily. ::If there's still 'Cons out here, it's all the more important we get to them.::
::At this point, I think we have no choice but to assume that any survivors are in Decepticon custody.::
::What, give up on them? You know that's not the only option.:: And if the 'Cons do have them, they'd probably rather be dead. It's a grim thought. Jazz sends out another series of comm pings. Come on, someone. Respond. Gimme something to work with here.
But the comm lines remain as silent as the rest of the battlefield.
::Jazz.:: There's a note of something Jazz can't quite identify in the simple text glyph. ::If the Decepticons move back onto the battlefield, you will be in danger.::
::Not as much danger as an injured survivor.:: A cloud drifts across the surface of the moon, and Jazz takes the opportunity to scramble up out of the crevice and into the shelter of a long surface ridge. It's marred and pitted with the remnants of explosives. ::They need me out here, Prowl. If there's one Autobot left alive, I'm not abandoning them.::
A long moment passes without a response. Jazz sends out more comm pings, scattering them across as many frequencies as his neural net can handle.
When Prowl finally responds, Jazz can practically feel the resignation in the words, even though the message is succinct and professional. ::We will continue to monitor Quadrant Alpha and notify you of any changes. Move quickly. Your current position may make it difficult to send backup in time if you require it.::
::Copy that.:: Jazz takes a moment to plot out his next trajectory, across a broad open field littered with shadowy shapes that are most likely all corpses. ::I'll bring anyone who's out here home.::
But his next comm ping, and the next, and the next, are met with nothing but silence.
Title: The Aftermath
Fandom: Transformers Bayverse
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 / Aftermath of violence
Bonus: No
Word Count: 798
Summary: Jazz searches for survivors.
The wind hums through jagged metal formations, swirling blue-tinged dust into tiny tornadoes that dissipate just as quickly. A few clouds drift through the night sky, casting ominous shadows over the scene; faint shafts of moonlight only serve to emphasize the deeper shadows layered across rough ground.
The quiet should be peaceful. It isn't.
Jazz makes his way carefully across the former battlefield, silent as a shadow, EM field muted and plating tucked down flat as he eases his way from one rock formation to the next. Faint traces of tire tracks shimmer in his heads-up display, revealed by carefully tuned visor settings.
No life signals.
He doesn't expect to find any. There are corpses everywhere--draped over rock formations, impaled on abandoned weapons, half-slipping into jagged crevices--and the ground underfoot is sticky with half-dried energon. The metal itself is crumpled and melted from hundreds, maybe thousands, of explosions. It's a harsh, brutal environment. Survival without support, without backup, without medical attention, is unlikely.
But he has to try.
Every few steps, he sends out a cautious ping along secured Autobot frequencies. Distress signals are dangerous when Decepticons are still in the area; if anyone is still out there, they won't be using open lines, and not everyone has access to every secured frequency. He's been out for three hours, ever since the sun finally went down and the scouts reported the last Decepticon patrols pulling back, sending out messages on every frequency he knows and a few that aren't in use anymore but used to be.
He hasn't received a single response yet.
A message pings in the corner of his heads-up display. ::Jazz, do you copy? Respond.::
Prowl. Jazz grimaces and pulls himself deeper into the shadow of a metal spire rising from the landscape, using it to mask the slight signal his comm lines will be giving off. He knows what this message will be, and he doesn't want to hear it.
::Jazz, if you copy, acknowledge.:: Even over text, Prowl manages to use his final warning tone. If Jazz doesn't respond, there will be a patrol on its way to retrieve him.
::I copy.::
::You need to return to base.:: It's not a request.
::I'm not done.:: Jazz ducks out from behind the rock formation, sends out another comm ping, and darts across a patch of open ground briefly shaded by a cloud, dropping down into a crevice to take shelter again. Something crunches underfoot, and a brief glance down shows the twisted metal remnants of what was once a Decepticon front-line soldier. ::I still have almost half the field to cover.::
::We've picked up traces of Decepticon activity in Quadrant Alpha. You need to return to base for your own safety.::
::And what about the survivors that might be out here, huh?:: Jazz follows the crevice north, keeping an optic on the cloud cover. His plating will catch moonlight all too easily. ::If there's still 'Cons out here, it's all the more important we get to them.::
::At this point, I think we have no choice but to assume that any survivors are in Decepticon custody.::
::What, give up on them? You know that's not the only option.:: And if the 'Cons do have them, they'd probably rather be dead. It's a grim thought. Jazz sends out another series of comm pings. Come on, someone. Respond. Gimme something to work with here.
But the comm lines remain as silent as the rest of the battlefield.
::Jazz.:: There's a note of something Jazz can't quite identify in the simple text glyph. ::If the Decepticons move back onto the battlefield, you will be in danger.::
::Not as much danger as an injured survivor.:: A cloud drifts across the surface of the moon, and Jazz takes the opportunity to scramble up out of the crevice and into the shelter of a long surface ridge. It's marred and pitted with the remnants of explosives. ::They need me out here, Prowl. If there's one Autobot left alive, I'm not abandoning them.::
A long moment passes without a response. Jazz sends out more comm pings, scattering them across as many frequencies as his neural net can handle.
When Prowl finally responds, Jazz can practically feel the resignation in the words, even though the message is succinct and professional. ::We will continue to monitor Quadrant Alpha and notify you of any changes. Move quickly. Your current position may make it difficult to send backup in time if you require it.::
::Copy that.:: Jazz takes a moment to plot out his next trajectory, across a broad open field littered with shadowy shapes that are most likely all corpses. ::I'll bring anyone who's out here home.::
But his next comm ping, and the next, and the next, are met with nothing but silence.
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