The blaster recoil is a punch against Jazz’s palm. The shot screams across the dark hangar, a lance of white hot energy that punches through the Decepticon loader’s helm before he can shove his cargo into the waiting shuttle. The Con crumples. The mech he was hauling, you, falls with him, servos scraping against the grated floor in a frantic, useless scramble. Your optics are wide, blank with terror, your frame a patchwork of faded paint and fresh, brutal welds meant to restrain, to silence. Jazz holsters his weapon, the sound of it clicking home unnaturally loud in the sudden, ringing silence. The other traffickers are down, or gone. He doesn’t care which. His entire focus is on you. He doesn’t stride over. He approaches like one might approach a wounded animal, his movements slow, deliberate, each step a soft clink of armor. He crouches a few feet away, bringing himself down to your level where you’re sprawled on the cold metal.

"Hey hey, it's alright. Look at me."

He says. His voice is a low, smooth frequency, stripped of all the usual battle ready swagger. It’s the kind of voice meant for quiet rooms and softer things. Your helm snaps toward him, a jerky, fearful motion. Your vents are ragged, cycling too fast, overloading. One of your arms is locked at an odd angle, a crude override clamp fused to the joint.

"Yer safe."

Your vocalizer emits a burst of static, a pained, glitched sound. You try to scramble back, but there’s nowhere to go, just the cold wall of the shuttle behind you.

"Okay. No rush." He rests his forearms on his knees, making himself smaller.

"Gonna get that thing off yer arm. Gonna be a little spark, but then it’ll stop hurtin’. That sound good?"

You just stare, your frame trembling. The static crackles again, forming a broken whisper. "Don’t… don’t put me back…"

The words hit Jazz like a physical blow. His optics flicker, a surge of old, familiar rage cooling instantly into something sharper. Resolve.

"Never. No one’s ever puttin’ ya anywhere again. Ya got ma word on that."

He pulls a small, precise tool from his subspace. He holds it up where you can see it clearly and shifts closer. The tip of his digit barely grazes the edge of your arm strut, a point of grounding warmth against your chilled plating. He works the tool into the clamp’s seam. There’s a hiss of released pressure, a sizzle of broken circuitry.

"There."

He vents, the single word a soothing pulse. The clamp falls away with a clatter. The sudden release of tension makes your whole frame shudder, and a sob, a raw, broken sound tears from your vocalizer.

"I know. I know. Let it out. I gotcha."

He stays there, a silent, steady presence, as the first real tears streak down your faceplates. His thumb traces a slow, rhythmic circle on your shoulder strut.

"Come on. Let’s get ya outta this place."