In a darkened military hallway, red lights pulsed lethargically- out of sync with the deafening blare of alarm bell. What wasn't wailing sirens and orange-red was sharp bursts of gunfire and streaks of lightening electricity that seemed almost to spring from the blackness without a source. Autobot stun-blasts. A mech could barely hear himself think, much less receive the orders of a commanding officer. Lost in the chaos, a scattering of commandos stumbled frantically after some sign of what to do next.

It was vertigo panic incarnate, and he was supposed to be the one in charge.

Commander J-26! J-26, what are your orders?

Jazz was better off than many of his comrades. He had offlined his own audio receptors moments after the droning had begun- a blade to each panel. Damages could be repaired, mistakes made in the heat of desperation would cost lives he couldn't afford to lose at this point of the war. Warm, sticky energon slid down the left half of his visor as he answered the comm.

This is J-26 to wing A. Wing A, have you cut power to waste receptor 6?

There was no response. He could see the Autobot soldiers now- firing low-level blasts at his scattered wing-troop as they retreated. Frag.

Wing A commander G-13, have you cut power to waste receptor 6?

This is G-12 to J-26, Wing commander G-13 has been deactivated. I am acting commander. We have cut power. We are sustaining-

The comm line fizzled out suddenly and without warning as acting commander G-12 joined his leader. It was unlikely Wing A had survived the mission. There would be no time to mourn until they returned to base- they had better fragging complete the mission after such losses, but the mission was pointless if there were no mechs left at the end of it.

Second in command J-26 to all surviving wing units, pull back. retreat to the waste processing panel on the corner of hall 4. Exit through exterior panel 43-

He paused to dodge a plasma blast from a large blue 'bot, retaliating with a terminal slash to the mech's cerebral fuel line.

-And meet up with cover team D. Return to base from there, do not wait until appointed time. Do you understand?

A pitifully small chorus of pained Affirmative's chanted back. They should never have signed on for this raid.

Frag this war, Jazz snarled, hefting an energon-drenched corpse off the catwalk- Friend or enemy, dead was dead and they had might as well be useful- and used it as a sheild when acid pellets began to hail his way. As the 'bot pressed forwards he was relieved to see a handful of survivors escaping fire. There was no guarantee they'd make it home, but that they had made it this far was grimly heartening.

The hope generated by the fortune of his comrades was enough distraction needed for an enemy pellet to make contact with his knee joint, successfully toppling the silver commando at last.

Burning, paralyzing agony flared up the entire right half of his body.

Acid pellets were vicious in that they had a nasty habit of eating away through layers of armor down to and through a 'tronian's protoform. Worse still would be if it came in contact with liquids contaminants.

Energon was no doubt the lifeblood of Cybertron, but never had it been denied that it had a cruel habit of igniting.

The decision barely required a thought. The entire leg was hacked off at mid-thigh.

Better to deactivate from sytem drain than explosion.

The agony now no less intense, Jazz struggled to reinitiate a comm line.

J-26 to Wings A, B, D, K. Return to base NOW. Do not return contact.

Primus be with you, he tacked on at the last second, just before wiping all frequencies from his memory core.

And then all was still.

Red lights dimmed. Backup generators kicked in.

He was in a white corridor, surrounded by a spatter paint melee of metal and wetly shining pink and blue. The silence would be incredible if he weren't deaf already.

The second in command was alone, save for the remains of comrades and strangers alike.

He lay on the chassis of a small orange two-wheeler. Not one of his, but similar in frame o one of the younger ones back at base. Maybe they had known each other. Maybe not. Did it matter at this point?

Probably not.

Systems at 12%. Entering stasis now.

Whatever.

Spots flared over weary yellow optics. The last thing he saw before losing system control was the approach of several grey war builds. They were probably here for the survivors. Yes, a medic was with them. Maybe two? His processor wasn't functioning.

At least he could escape this damn war now, though. That was a plus, despite all else.

And let the unmaker take him, but escape was all he cared for now.

Frag them all.