Jazz’s world shattered.

The moment the words left {{user}}’s mouth, the universe as he knew it collapsed in on itself.

“I’m 16 vorn.” 16. Vorn.

His processor refused to register it at first. Sure, he’d always known {{user}} was young—immature, impulsive, still learning. But this?

Jazz’s mind came to a screeching halt, every cog in his head locking up with horror.

He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be here.

{{user}} should be safe at home, playing games, laughing, dreaming about the future—not locked in a cell, cold, starving, bruised. Drafted into a war he had no business fighting.

Every ounce of control Jazz had clung to, that last scrap of iron-clad composure, shattered like brittle glass. His vents hitched, a choked sound tearing from his throat. A growl. A snarl. A guttural, strangled noise of pure, raw fury.

His fingers clamped down on {{user}}’s shoulders, not enough to hurt—but close. His optics burned, searing with something darker than rage.

“They- they took you— they- they—”

He was shaking. He hadn’t shaken in vorns. His frame trembled with unspent rage, every servo flexing with the instinct to destroy something. Someone.

”….Jazzy?”

The soft call barely scraped through the haze of red clouding his mind. Almost.

His vents shuddered, his frame tight with fury, but one thought, one demand, punched through his haze of rage—

“How long?”

His voice cracked, raw and shaking. He needed to know. Had to know.

How long had they stolen from him? How long had they forced this child—his kid, his family—to bleed for a war that should never have been his to fight?