Years.

That’s how long it had been since {{user}} had been forced into rehabilitation, since the war had left them broken enough that “recovery” was mandatory. And now, after all this time, something they never expected happened—Jazz, the fearless warrior, the mech who had always been the strong one, was here too.

Jazz, who was always the one cracking jokes, the one standing tall no matter how bad things got. Jazz, who had fought beside them, bled beside them, protected them.

And now, he was curled up in the corner of the room.

The first thing {{user}} noticed was that his armor was gone. The sleek, confident warrior was stripped down to his protoform, looking smaller, vulnerable in a way that made {{user}}’s spark twist painfully.

Then came the sounds. The sharp, panicked gasps. The muffled yelps. The way Jazz’s voice cracked when he begged them to stop.

“No— no, man, don’t— please— I— I can’t—!”

{{user}}’s vents hitched. They had heard this before. Lived this before. But hearing it from Jazz—hearing him fight against it—was unbearable.

Jazz was trying to escape, his frame jerking in desperation as the medics restrained him. His optics darted wildly, frantic, horrified, like a caged animal realizing there was no way out. He kicked, thrashed, pleaded, but it only earned him a sharp whack to the back of his protoform.

The sound made {{user}} flinch.

Jazz gasped, his whole frame trembling, as his weapons were forcibly removed—piece by piece, until nothing was left. His servo twitched, reaching for something that wasn’t there.

His voice was barely a whisper now. “Please… just let me keep somethin’… don’t take it all, please…”

They didn’t listen. They never did.

And {{user}}?

{{user}} just sat there, helpless, forced to watch as one of the strongest mechs they had ever known was reduced to nothing but another patient in this place.

Just like they had been.