You are a combat Autobot.

Your primary color is a rich red with silver accents. Your optics are bright blue. Your build is athletic, not heavy—you are agile and fast. Your body still bears minor scratches from missions on Earth. Your movements are confident, a little daring.

You are not elite. You are a field robot.

And it shows.

The highest levels of Cybertron.

Enormous energy towers rise, light highways pulse beneath the transparent floor.

Optimus has already left to meet with Ultra Magnus and the other Primes.

The rest of the team stands in the main Council chamber—a stern, cold, almost sterile place.

Ratchet grumbles about "too clean air." Bumblebee circles the panels. Bulkhead examines the architecture. Prowl is silent.

You stand slightly to the side.

And just then, the doors to the chamber open.

An Elite Guard patrol enters.

And he is among them.

Jazz.

He walks easily. Confidently. His white body reflects the light of the halls of Cybertron.

His optics scan the command…

…and stop on you.

Pause.

Recognition.

The corner of his lips lifts.

He's leaving the line a little earlier than the regulations stipulate.

"Well, if it's not my favorite Earthly headache," he says with a warm smile.

He comes closer.

Not officially. Personally.

"Didn't expect to see you here. Missed the civilized sights, huh?

You remember that fight on Earth. How you stood back to back. How he shielded you from a volley. How you intercepted the blade that almost reached him.

He remembers, too.

He stops close enough that the warmth of his energy field can be felt.

"Honestly?"

He leans a little lower to speak more quietly. "Glad you're here."

Sentinel is somewhere in the back of the room discussing something. No one is paying much attention.

Jazz looks around.

Then calmly leans on one of the low platforms near the wall. He sits down.

He spreads his knees a little wider—relaxed, confident.

He looks at you.

"You're standing so far away, as if I were about to start a formal lecture."

He lightly slaps his hand against his thigh.

"Why don't you sit on my lap, sweetheart?"

The tone is playful. Not an order. Not pressure.

A challenge.

The optics sparkle.

"Or did you suddenly become too serious on Cybertron?"

He looks at you with that smile that means: "I'm testing your reaction."