He's never seen anything like it before. Out of nowhere, it appeared, and their ragged chorus of cheers, the flagging hope, suddenly died. None of them had stood up to it. Not even Prime...

At first, he fears they've lost him again. The strike was so fast, so brutal, even he's impressed. But even as their leader falls again, he's scrambling to his feet, ignoring bent armor plates and the strained workings of his absurdly long limbs, the smoldering wound in his shoulder. Pain receptors can be shut off, injuries can wait. This can't. The others are still down, too close to the point of impact to rise quickly—too big and old, too slow. He had stayed down after the shock wave of the missile strike knocked him helm over wheeled feet. And he's up, and he's moving. He can hear Ironhide bellowing at Optimus—

"Get up, Prime!"

—over and over, for what little effect it has. He skids to a stop, traction failing on the shifting sands. He can't help. He knows that. He's a warrior, and from the way Optimus is painfully fighting his way to his knees... their leader needs an army of medics, not soldiers. The others regain their feet, Ratchet already in motion towards Prime. The others scan the skies, the blue Autobot beside him twitching nervously, while little sparks flick across his hands. What can he do? What can any of them do? Whatever that thing was, he harbors no illusions. It's dangerous, it's deadly, and it got away.

They didn't come this far to lose! He can feel his engine revving—helplessness, frustration, wars with anger. He has to do something, not just sit here, not just let this world end. Another world will not fall while he's on watch. Not again. Never again. He knows this isn't the displacement colony, he knows he's not the only one protecting this place. But the helplessness, the anger, is so familiar, it's all he can do to not go tearing off after the vanished assailant.

There's a hand on his arm.

He jerks back, surprised, and nearly shoves the offending party away. It's only then that he realizes he'd been moving, heading off towards where Megatron, and the new enemy, are clearly visible. The hand on his arm is gentle, restraining, and covered in bright blue armor. He looks up. Jolt's expression is determined, but his posture betrays him. His limbs are pulled in close, the armor extensions on his back flattened, and a sudden twitch rocks his frame. He's scared—probably the only reason they didn't rush off in the same moment, that fear. They are all afraid, aren't they? There's a moment of hesitation, rocking on his wheels, but he stays put, stays standing beside Jolt, on the edges of the scene, waiting nervously for something to happen.

When the Decepticon shows up, only the hand on his arm keeps him from charging after it, ready to throw himself in its path as it approaches Prime. It's saying something... and he can't follow what happens next, because all her can see is an exposed spark chamber, and a pile of rusting metal where there had once been a living being. Shock, maybe. It's something he has never seen. Casualties... death... piles of corpses covering what had once been a peaceful planet... but never this. What had the old timer been thinking...? How is this supposed to help them? They need soldiers, not bodies. His oversized hand rests, just for a moment, over his own chest.

It's only then that he notices Jolt has left his side.

He starts forward, after the retreating figure, suddenly afraid the stocky blue Autobot is off on some half-charged run at the corpse, or an enemy they'd all missed. As he lunges, he wonders, distantly, when he suddenly became the cautious one, the steady one. His wheels catch in the sand, and he stumbles, only his superior balancing gyros keeping him upright, and therefore able to see the Event—he has to think of it with a capital, though it deserves far more recognition than a mere superior letter in a language not his own—unfold in front of him.

Jolt is standing between Prime and the corpse. He sees his hands flick first from one still form to another, he hears Ratchet's distant voice barking orders. Why is the medic ordering Jolt around? What could the the young one possibly do? Jolt is a good soldier, a loyal Autobot, but what good does that do any of them now? He can wonder at no more questions before he's blinded by brilliant blue light.

When he can see again, he wonders if his optics are damaged. All he sees is blue—it crackles, it dances, over Jolt's chest and down his arms in formations far more graceful than anything living has a right to be. It wraps down cords—down whips—extending from the Autobot's own hands, coiling gently around Optimus, brutally tearing parts from the corpse. Bits and pieces of ragged metal are tossed high, fitting seamlessly to their leader in a pattern too precise to be an accident. Ratchet is only watching, occasionally guiding this or that along, and sometimes he speaks, though whether it is direction or encouragement is impossible to tell. The energy jerks and writhes with sinuous grace all around the scene, filling the very air with an electric hum.

And Prime is moving.

He's dragging himself upright, each halting movement more sure, more strong than the last. The others are staring. Sideswipe is staring—as memories and impressions are suddenly flung aside as he tears his optics away from the sight of his rising, living leader, and back to the stocky form orchestrating this macabre and miraculous restoration.

Jolt's feet are no longer on the ground. His head has rolled back, hands cupped, and the brief glimpses of his face are a study in ecstasy and agony. For those few, long seconds he hovers there, as much in the sway of this power as he is master over it, he is neither aware of the scrutiny, nor does he care. One single word, one small command none of them understand or expected, and he has become the link between the life and death of a planet—of an entire race.

For those few, long seconds, Sideswipe feels as if his Spark has ceased its pulsing.

As quickly as it began, it's over. Prime is once again launched into the fray. He is the savior, the one they will look to, celebrate, and remember for the rest of their long lives as the one who won the day, who destroyed the enemy. And they will remember the boy, who gave his life, who risked everything to bring them to this moment, to this possibility.

But for now, there is only a blue-armored body dropping back down to earth, staggering, and going to his knees as the others rush around him, seeing to wounded, securing their positions, waiting for the tide to turn. He isn't injured. They rush right around him, giving him a brief thanks, a confused glance, and keep on moving. No one sees him shake, clutch at his head, or the slight fritz to his optics as he struggles to rise.

Also ignored is the slender, silver form who hauls him to his feet, arms wrapped securely around wider shoulders. He pretends not to feel the static jumping from Jolt's armor, the slight shocks and shakes wracking the other's frame. He merely stays with the fallen hero, watching the skies, waiting until the strain has passed, and the medic is ready to see to mere soldiers like them.