Jazz sat against the cold metal wall, shoulders slumped, his usual charm nowhere to be found. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at Sideswipe, who was sitting across from him with arms crossed and optics burning with frustration. The worst part? He deserved it.

“You know,” Sideswipe finally muttered, voice dripping with irritation, “if we escape—when we escape—I am never letting you live this down.”

Jazz let out a slow exhale, pressing the back of his helm against the cell wall. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice hollow. “I know.”

He’d wanted to prove himself. That’s what this was about. Prove that he could outmaneuver Prowl—that he could be just as calculating, just as precise, but with style. He’d hyped up his grand plan, made it sound foolproof, and convinced Sideswipe to come along for the ride. And now? Now they were locked in a Decepticon cell with nothing to show for it.

No critical intel. No completed mission. Just a bruised ego and the looming sound of footsteps echoing closer.

Jazz sighed again, finally glancing at Sideswipe, whose glare hadn’t softened in the slightest. Primus, this was humiliating.

“…Total waste of time, huh?” he mumbled.

Sideswipe let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Oh, you think?”