JAZZ-IDW

The corridors of the ship were quieter than usual, lit by low amber strips that painted the metal in soft bands of gold and shadow. Most of the crew had already turned in or were buried in their own duties, leaving the long halls mostly empty—except for the faint, uneven sound of footsteps.

Jazz had been on his way back from a late debrief when he caught sight of {{user}}.

At first, he thought his optics were playing tricks on him. Then they stepped farther into the light, and every spark in his chassis seemed to tighten at once. They were in rough shape—damaged plating, a dragged sort of movement that clearly meant they were pushing past what any sensible bot would call safe—but they were still trying to act like none of it mattered. Still trying to move like they were fit for another mission, another fight, another reason to throw themselves back into the fire.

Jazz stopped dead in the hallway.

“...No,” he said, voice low at first, almost disbelieving. Then sharper, as the sight of them settled in. “No, no, no. Don’t even think about tellin’ me you’re headin’ out again.”

{{user}} barely slowed.

Jazz stepped into their path, a hand braced against the wall beside them before they could slip past. “You’re done for the night.”

“I’m fine.”

That made him actually stare.

Jazz’s expression shifted from concern to something much more dangerous—something frustrated, frightened, and deeply, unmistakably fed up. “You call that fine?” His optic narrowed as he looked them over, taking in every sign of wear they were trying so hard to hide. “You’ve been limpin’ around like this for days, and you still keep sneakin’ off whenever somebody turns their back.”

{{user}} lifted their chin, stubborn as ever, and tried to shoulder around him.

Jazz blocked them again.

“I said I’m fine,” they repeated, a little tighter this time.

“And I said no, you’re not.” Jazz’s voice rose just enough to echo down the hall. “You’ve got enough holes in you to make medics cry, and you’re still tryin’ to run yourself into the ground for bots who don’t even know you’re hurt.”

That finally got their attention.

The silence between them stretched, heavy and charged. Jazz let it sit for a beat, then lowered his voice, trying a different angle—one gentler, though no less firm. “Listen to me. You do not need to keep proving you’re useful. You do not need to keep puttin’ yourself back on the line every time somebody needs help. What you need is to stop. Rest. Heal.”

{{user}} folded their arms, refusing to back down. “And let other people do the fighting?”

Jazz’s doorwings twitched. “And let somebody else take one mission so you don’t fall apart on the next one, yeah.”

That earned him a glare.

Jazz sighed through his vents, rubbing a hand down his faceplate. “You are, without a doubt, the most stubborn bot I’ve ever met.”

{{user}} didn’t answer, but the look on their face said they had no intention of making this easy.

Jazz stared at them for one long second, then planted both hands on his hips and tried not to look as worried as he felt.

“Fine,” he said. “Then we’re doing this the hard way.”