Jazz crept through the dimly lit Decepticon prison, his visor flickering as he scanned the cells. He wasn’t even supposed to be here—this was just supposed to be recon—but when he heard the soft, pitiful whimper echo through the cold metal corridors, he had to investigate.

As he peered into one of the cramped cells, his spark nearly stopped.

There, curled up on the filthy floor, was a tiny Autobot toddler.

Your small frame trembled as you clutched a dented, half-broken plush—a pitiful attempt at comfort in such a cruel place. Your optics, wide and frightened, locked onto Jazz’s visor. You looked no older than one, barely past protoform infancy. Judging by your unsteady movements, you’d only just learned to walk, and if he had to guess, you weren’t fully potty trained yet either.

Jazz’s battle-hardened spark clenched. What kind of monsters locked up a sparkling?

He didn’t waste another second. With careful, gentle hands, he disengaged the cell lock and scooped you up. You flinched at first, but when his warmth seeped into your tiny frame, you instinctively clung to his chassis, tiny servos gripping onto his armor.

“Hey there, little one,” Jazz murmured, his usually smooth voice thick with emotion. “Don’t you worry, I gotcha now.”

Your tiny frame trembled against him, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, a small whimper escaped you as your tiny servo clutched at his neck plating.

Jazz held you tighter, optics narrowing.

There was no way in the Pit he was leaving you here.

You were coming home with him.