Chapter Text

A thin ray of light spilled from the door as it creaked open. On the berth, Fireflight looked up with wide optics, pulling uselessly at the chain on his collar as he cringed against the wall. His whole chassis still ached from the last session. How much more punishment could the young flier take?

From the whip hanging in Starscream's hands, the Decepticon clearly had much more in store for Fireflight.

"Lord Megatron is busy with your friend Silverbolt," Starsceam said, his smile widening as Fireflight trembled. "So I'll take my pleasure and that sweet aft...before I make you part of my Decepticon armada."

"I'll never join you!" Fireflight yelled, turning his head. "I'm a proud Autobot! I'll never—"

His voice hitched as Starscream caught his face and forced him to look up, grabbing Fireflight's hand and putting it over his Decepticon mark.

"In a few orns," Starscream murmured, "you'll be begging for this sigil."

Fireflight whimpered as Starscream forcefully kissed him, a small squeak escaping as the Decepticon slipped his fingers across the soft cables of his hip joint—

The screen of his datapad came up to smack Bumblebee's helm, and he stumbled back, holding his faceplate. Someone put their hands on his shoulders, steadying him.

"Yo, 'Bee," Jazz said, "careful where you're walking, 'bot."

"Ow, sorry, sorry," Bumblebee said, backing up as he rubbed where the datapad had hit. "I should've been looking."

A chorus of chuckles answered him. Bumblebee vented in embarrassment, seeing now that he stood under the optics of several of the officers and—Primus help him—Optimus, all gathered just outside Prowl's office.

"No worries." Jazz looked down at the datapad, angling his visor trying to get a look at it. "What'cha reading that's got you so—?"

"Nothing!" Bumblebee's optics went wide and he flipped off the datapad and hid it behind his back. "Nothing important. Just reports."

The smaller bot kept moving back as he spoke, waving his free hand.

His mouth quirking, Jazz stood straight, crossing his arms. Bumblebee was one of his more unlikely agents, small and forgetful and still a little naive. But 'Bee was also one of his best agents, trusted to handle himself alone in a fight, and now that trusted mech was clearly hiding something. Nevermind how that piqued Jazz's curiosity—Jazz had trained Bumblebee himself. Being this obvious was almost a personal insult.

"You don't have any reports to file," Jazz said, leaning forward and peering at him.

"So I'd better catch up on writing some." Bumblebee kept edging back the way he'd came, glancing over his shoulder. "I gotta get back to work—file this and get on monitor duty—"

"'Monitor duty'?" Red Alert reset his optics as he ran a quick memory check. "You're not scheduled on that for half a quartex—"

"Oh geez," Bumblebee said with a grin that turned increasingly desperate. "I really better check the roster again. I can't believe I forgot."

"Bumblebee..." Jazz said, a warning in his voice.

"Sir yes sir, I'm right on it!" Bumblebee said in a rush, scooting around the corner so fast that he tripped over his own pedes. As he fell out of sight, there was the distinct sound of a transformation and then the thrum of an engine speeding away.

Optimus tilted his helm. "Well, that wasn't suspicious at all."

Jazz held up his hands in exasperation. "Ladies and gentle 'bots, I give you Spec Ops. Great at sneaking by enemies, not so much around their own officers."

"Ah, leave the poor 'bot alone," Ironhide said. "We probably just spooked him. I was nervous around brass once upon a time."

"I don't believe you were ever less than gruff or conniving," Jazz said. On his private channels, however, he sent a quick message to Mirage and Smokescreen to find Bumblebee and sit on him until he could get there.

"You'll never forgive me for your promotion," Ironhide smiled ruefully. "I'm hurt, Jazz. I'm really hurt."

Many vorns ago, Jazz had enjoyed the life of a simple spy. If he stole a few Decepticon cubes of spiked energon for personal use, he could expect a scolding and extra work. If he teamed up with Blaster to get the whole Spec Ops division over-energized in the loudest after-hours party this side of the galaxy, he would have an aching helm the next orn and a lecture from Ratchet as he repaired their clogged filters. He followed orders, ran his missions, and danced the stress away every night.

But then Ironhide had seen a greater need for Special Operations to become its own unit, and Jazz had been the natural choice. There had been some concern over his disciplinary record, but no matter how he protested, Jazz now enjoyed the commander's duties of all his previous work plus the added responsibility of staff meetings, training his team, and organizing missions.

"Your rusty aft," Jazz said. "You will always owe me for that. All this responsibility can't be good for a mech."

"Nonsense," Prowl said. "If I had known promoting you would curb your worst tendencies, I would have done so a long time ago."

"Sure, sure," Jazz said, his grin coming back. "Well, sirs, if you all will excuse me, I'm afraid I actually do have reports to file, and I need to skedaddle before Prowl finds the mess what I left on his desk."

As Jazz took off with the same backward step Bumblebee had used, giving Prowl a jaunty salute, Red Alert put his arm in front of Prowl before the enforcer could demand answers.

"Let him go," Red Alert said. "I need to cross-reference some maps with you, and whatever he left, it's already on your desk."

"Jazz, you are Third in Command," Prowl said, sternly calling after him. "Act like it!"

"I'll see you later!" Jazz said, drowning out Prowl's grumbles as he rounded the corner. A moment later, a communication pinged on Jazz's com unit.

"Commander?" came a tentative, polite voice.

"Go ahead, Mirage," Jazz said, startling mechs out of his way as he ran past. "Tell me something good."

"I'm at the Tertiary Supply Depot," Mirage continued. "And I have Bumblebee here."

"There we go," Jazz said. "Nice knowing I got at least one mech who can sneak around successfully. You sitting on him like I said?"

"Um, no." Mirage hesitated, sharing what must have been shocked looks with Bumblebee. "I didn't think that was literal."

"Do it," Jazz ordered. "I haven't figured out yet what I'm gonna do to that little bot, and I don't want him spooking and tearing off before I get there."

Another channel opened up, broadcasting static for a moment before Bumblebee spoke up. A faint metallic clink came through, probably the smaller bot's habit of tapping his fingertips when he got nervous and couldn't shoot his stress away.

"Does he have to?" Bumblebee asked. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise, and Mirage might crush me."

"Hey," Mirage snapped. "My frame is refined, lightweight polymer."

"Quit moaning," Jazz said, ignoring the elevator in lieu of the stairs he could take three at a time. "I'm almost to your position. And Mirage, check him out for a datapad. If he's tapping his fingers, that means he ain't got it, and I want it."

Long silence followed, with a thin screech of static that vanished almost as soon as they uttered it. Jazz frowned. Not good. Not only was Mirage not sitting on Bumblebee nor frisking him, but his two operatives were conspiring together.

Jazz slowed, moving silently as he spotted the supply depot. The sliding door was easily as tall as Prime himself and almost as heavy, but luck was with him. Mirage hadn't closed the door after himself, and there was just enough space for Jazz to slip by noiselessly. His mechs weren't at the entrance, and he ghosted through the shelves of armaments, listening for their furtive whispers.

"Get rid of it," Mirage said in a rush. "Just throw it away."

"He knows I had it," Bumblebee argued, punching his datapad's keys audibly too hard. "I can't just hide it."

"Then delete it!"

"I'm trying!"

Jazz paused one shelf away, watching them between stacks of ammunition. Behind his visor, his optics narrowed to slits. Mirage and Bumblebee both hunched over the datapad, with the larger mech throwing furtive glances toward the door while Bumblebee repetitively pushed two buttons over and over. It would've been funny if these weren't two of his most highly trained agents.

"How many do you have on there?" Mirage asked, his voice rising in desperation. "Oh slag, if you have any of the commander's-"

"Lay off! I didn't even download those," Bumblebee said. "But it isn't just deleting them. He'll read the logs, and it takes awhile to upload a good deletion tool. I never thought I'd have to delete my own datapad."

Silent as a cat creeping up on canaries, Jazz stepped out from his cover and leaned against the steel shelves. After taking a few seconds to cross his arms and pedes dramatically, he vented his frustration in a sudden burst that had his mechs jerking straight and Bumblebee hiding the datapad behind his back.

"Which makes me wonder," Jazz said, punctuating each word with harsh, clipped consonants. "What are you trying to hide from me?"

"Commander," Bumblebee squeaked, then coughed in embarrassment and brought his voice back down. "Um, sir, I-uh..."

"Spec Ops," Jazz said over him. "The vanguard of the Autobots, the elite of the anti-Decepticon forces. The very best we have to offer."

Bumblebee's mouth clicked shut, and Mirage winced and turned his helm, staring a hole into the floor.

"And inside one breem," Jazz continued, "one bumps into an officer's meeting, draws everyone's attention to something he's trying to hide, runs off like a new recruit, and then can't kill one datapad."

Neither bot spoke up, and Jazz took some measure of comfort that they weren't stupid enough to argue. He pushed off the shelf and walked towards them, giving Mirage a glare for good measure before focusing entirely on Bumblebee.

"It's a wonder the Decepticons haven't already won," Jazz said. "Maybe the only reason I still have mechs to yell at is 'cause Starscream keeps everyone so distracted that your noisy afts don't get shot. Damn, I ought to make him an honorary Spec Ops 'bot, 'cause Primus knows it ain't my mechs winning the war."

"Please, sir," Bumblebee tried, "there was a good reason."

"No," Mirage hissed at him.

"I swear," Jazz said, holding out his hand expectantly. "You and I better have the same idea of 'good'."

Bumblebee looked at him, his optics wide and shimmery under the light like a scolded puppy, and he held the obvious datapad behind his back a moment longer, wrestling with himself. Then Mirage nudged him hard enough to make him sway, and Bumblebee gave him a desperate look, probably begging on their own private intercom for a miraculous way out.

Jazz almost lost it there, holding in his laugh only by keeping his vents shut tight. But scolding commanders couldn't afford to laugh at their troops, no matter how much they reminded said commander of his own early days. Instead he flashed his visor and lowered his helm, focusing tightly on Bumblebee. The datapad was placed in his hand.

"I haven't read all of them," Bumblebee pleaded, pressing his hand against his mouth. "Just a couple. I would've told you eventually, I swear-"

Jazz tuned him out, glancing over the datapad and about to bring up the deletion logs. Flustered or not, Bumblebee was still a damn good Spec Ops bot, and he wanted to know what his little soldier had nearly managed to hide.

And then Jazz froze. He tilted his helm and brought the screen up a little closer, blinking to make sure his optics weren't seeing things.

"Decepticon Slave-bots in the No-Escape Brothel," he whispered.

Mirage stared at Bumblebee. "You seriously downloaded that one?"

"You got no room to judge," Bumblebee huffed. "Mr. Morphobot Tentacles."

"That didn't include Decepticons," Mirage snapped, then paused. "Wait. Didn't the brothel one have...?"

They both looked at Jazz, then stared at the floor. And their commander took a moment to realize what they meant.

"Wait one sec," Jazz started, holding the datapad like it had rust. "You don't seriously mean-"

"We didn't write any of those," Mirage insisted. "I swear!"

Not sure what to think, Jazz looked back at the datapad. I Fought Shockwave's Drone Dolls of Death. Pleasure Logs of Thrust's Insatiate Trine. Lamborghini Twins Do the Ark. The titles pulsed in his cortex like some vile organic breathing, and as if he was staring at a disrupted mech, Jazz looked back in fascinated horror as he double tapped a title.

Fireflight moaned, fighting the coming overload and yet flushed with sickened satisfaction as Starscream whispered obscene praise in his audios.

"Such a strong willed little flier," the Decepticon hissed, running his glossa across the cables in Fireflight's exposed, vulnerable throat. "To resist me this long and still have the strength to stay conscious."

"I won't turn," Fireflight whimpered, driven to the edge of his limits. "You can't make me."

"Ah, but I already have," Starscream chuckled, "and as easily as I make you overload. Here, look at your new decoration, my sweet pet...my newest Decepticon!"

With a gasp, Fireflight looked past Starscream's laughing face to his own chest plating, his wail of pain matching the commander's glee, for there on his armor lay the purple mark of terror, branding him as property of his sworn enemy.

"And just so you realize," Starscream said, forcing still another hot kiss from Fireflight's sore lips, "the depths of your imprisonment, your next playmate shall be my greatest triumph—your Third in Command, broken to my will."

Jazz's head snapped up and locked both of his mechs in a cold, murderous glare.

"Explain. And fast."

Chapter Text

With two very reluctant mechs dragging their pedes behind him, Jazz entered the meeting room and twirled his chair wrong way around, plopping down and leaning forward on the backrest. The command cadre were there already, and Prowl narrowed his optics without saying anything. Vorns of experience had taught him that Jazz did not follow standard protocol, and sometimes he did things solely because they irritated the other officers. And if they let on that it annoyed them, Jazz would simply continue in a bid to get demoted.

"You're wondering why I called you all here today," Jazz said, and snapped his fingers.

Behind him, Mirage and Bumblebee each carefully lay a stack of datapads on the table, gently nudging the top pads so they wouldn't fall over. As they backed away, they set their pedes as quietly as possible as they came to parade rest behind Jazz.

Ironhide glanced at them, then at the Autobots seated around the conference table. The lower ranks' nerves were so raw he almost expected Bumblebee to start sparking.

"So...what's all this?" Ironhide asked, breaking the silence.

Jazz reached out and pushed the two stacks, sending the datapads clattering across the table. Behind him, Mirage and Bumblebee winced.

"Oh, just wait..." Jazz muttered. "Just wait 'till you see what's been spreading around the Ark without us knowing. Go on, take a look. I can't do justice to it myself."

As if Jazz had spilled out scraplets instead, Prime and Red Alert reached across slowly, hesitating as if the datapads might infect them. Giving them a look, Ratchet grabbed the nearest one and started scrolling over the text.

"Some presentation," Ratchet huffed. "Jazz, you didn't even bother to put them all...on the same...page..."

The medic sat straight, staring intently at the screen.

"'Ratchet's Six Proven Ways to Rev Up Your Engine'?" His voice rose with each word until he was glaring at Jazz, and then at Bumblebee when the Spec Ops Commander didn't react.

Beside him, Perceptor slipped a faint sound of static which he cut off with a terse screech.

Ironhide snickered and settled into his chair, transitioning his optics to a near-sighted reading mode. "Well, ain't this cute. 'Red Alert's optics widened even as he lowered his gaze, fist pressed to his mouth.'"

Helms snapped up in shock, then turned swiftly toward Red Alert, whose jaw dropped as he struggled to say something and couldn't. In growing horror, he realized that the older mech meant to keep reading.

"I-Ir-Ironhide-"

"'His vents worked frantically to cool his impossibly heated system, flushing his faceplate as he spread his pedes ever so slowly-'"

"Stop!" Red Alert dropped his datapad and reached across the table as if he might climb across it. "Ironhide, no!"

"Don't get your undercarriage in a bind," Ironhide laughed, tossing the datapad back into the pile. "Primus, it's been vorns since I've seen these. Nice to know some things don't change."

"'Nice'?" Ratchet demanded.

"What things?" Jazz frowned.

"I'm with Powerglide?" Red Alert gasped, holding Ironhide's datapad at arm's length. When they all looked at him, he tossed the device back and hid his face in one hand.

"Polyhex Manuals," Ironhide said as he picked up another datapad and scrolled idly through it. "Cheap, tawdry stuff put out for a quick overcharge. Used to trade 'em back and forth when I was just a recruit. Whoa, 'Lamborghini Twins Do the Ark'."

Ironhide doubleclicked and began scanning.

"You're seriously not bothered by this?" Perceptor asked, finally in control of his voice again.

"Why is there a 'this' at all?" Red Alert demanded. "Where the slag did this trash come from? Who's writing it?"

"All very good questions," Jazz said, swiveling his chair. "I brought my-"

"Wow," Ironhide said, scrolling quickly. "Jazz, did you see how many Spec Ops stories you're in? Jazz Caught in Starscream's Den of Depravity, Jazz's Interrogation at Soundwave's Pedes..."

"I brought my mechs," Jazz repeated a little louder. "They apparently know where these things are-"

"You're like a superhero master spy in these," Ironhide kept going, tilting the datapad slightly. "'The chains might have been welded, but they couldn't hold him forever-'"

"Ironhide," Prime rumbled in warning.

"Huh, 'Prisoner of Prowl's Brig'-"

Prowl made a strangled sound and studied Bumblebee and Mirage intently. Or rather studied a point on the wall between them.

"Just start talking," Jazz snapped, one hand over his visor.

Bumblebee hesitated too long. When Mirage glanced over, Bumblebee looked like he would implode if he tried to talk.

"Yes sir," Mirage began. "Um, half a vorn ago, they just started showing up-"

"Skip the history lesson," Perceptor said. "How are they distributed?"

"Sir, there's a forum on the Ark's sur-net, in the basic code," Mirage said. "The stories are posted there, and then anyone can download whatever they want."

"How many stories are there?" Red Alert asked, still not meeting anyone's optics.

"I...don't know, sir," Mirage said. "Hundreds. Maybe thousands."

"Primus," Red Alert muttered.

"Who knows about it?" Perceptor asked. "And who's doing the writing?"

"We-" Mirage stumbled and glanced back at Bumblebee, who was no help. "We seem to be keeping it away from the officers—um, you, sir. Otherwise, everyone knows."

"Oh Primus." Red Alert sank further into his chair, grasping Perceptor's offered hand.

The motion did not go unnoticed. Mirage and Bumblebee both caught the quick comforting and their glances lingered a klik too long. Both wilted under Prowl's glare.

"Are you contributing to these forums?" he demanded.

"I...did write a couple of stories," Mirage admitted.

"Which ones?" Ironhide asked, not looking up from the datapad.

"For the love of Primus," Ratchet groaned.

"C'mon, kid," Ironhide laughed. "'Fess up."

Mirage glanced at Bumblebee again, but the smaller bot shook his head quickly with innocent optics. Only Mirage had produced any stories, then, and he was on his own. Squirming as everyone waited, Mirage vented and glanced sideways.

"Turbofoxes Ripped My Finish," he mumbled.

"Heh, overblown adventure stuff," Ironhide nodded, and gave Mirage a knowing look. "And what else?"

"Please, sir," Mirage said, strangling on his embarrassment. "Don't make me..."

"Was that the title?" Ironhide grinned, gleeful at everyone quailing around him. "Or do I gotta get mean?"

"Fireflight in the Morphobot's Tentacles," Mirage said, his optics clamped shut so he didn't have to see their faces. "And Ironhide, Defender of Optimus Prime's Innocence."

The titles hung in the air, impossible to move beyond. Jazz couldn't help looking up, one hand covering his face even as he peered between his fingers at their leader. This meeting had been a mistake. Why had he brought these two? Why did he have to be the one who found out about it? Why was he a damn officer in the first place?

Ironhide barked a laugh, but there was a satisfaction about it that had nothing to do with teasing the others. In fact, he seemed more relaxed than ever.

"Now that is loyalty you just can't buy. You have the love of your army, Prime."

Optimus vented a whole cycle, regarding the rest of his mortified officers and the two mechs who were about to dig a hole in the floor and crawl in after. Red Alert was going to pass out if he didn't stop venting so heavily. Even Jazz, who he could usually count on to handle such unusual circumstances, looked like he was about to draw a knife and slit poor Mirage's cables. Which probably wouldn't kill him since Ratchet was right there, but not something Optimus wanted to see.

"Regardless of how normal this apparently is," Optimus said, and now even Red Alert managed to lift his optics in hope that the Prime shared his embarrassment. "It isn't fair to the mechs who don't want to be the center of someone's written fantasy. I'm assuming no one asks permission from their subjects, Mirage. Are you in any of these?"

Mirage tilted his head. "I admit, I have been a little curious as to which ones I'm in."

"You'll have to ask Cliffjumper," Bumblebee finally managed to say, wincing when Mirage seized up. "I think he's got all the ones where you show up."

"What?" Mirage hissed, glaring at him. "Are you serious?"

"And that's what I'm worried about," Optimus said. "Jazz, I'm going to need a full investigation on this."

"Oh, I'll investigate it," Jazz muttered.

"And no dead 'bots."

"...they won't be dead, sir."

Optimus thought better of arguing that.

Chapter Text

The inner workings of the Ark were deep, filled with cavernous warehousing, narrow corridors between various supply depots and engineering sectors. Most mechs needed to download the ship's mapping HUD before they would set foot in some of the deeper levels, although that had less to do with their embarrassment of getting lost and more because of the rumor of a ghostly Decepticon wandering through the dangling cables and cramped walkways, howling in phantom pain as it searched for tender young Autobots.

In fact, the only thing that could prompt any mech to come down here was an angry Autobot Third in Command already thinking about stripping his mechs for spare parts. Mirage and Bumblebee followed several steps behind Jazz, optics and sensors on highest sensitivity for the first hint of their commander's displeasure or for a ghostly moan creeping behind them. Neither would admit it, but the ghost would have been more welcome.

"Slingshot swears he saw it down here," Bumblebee whispered.

"That's a ridiculous rumor," Mirage said, although his voice was just as soft. "While he was boasting, did he also fight it and tell it to slag off the Ark?"

"Maybe," Bumblebee said, looking over his shoulder. "If you aren't scared, how come you're all hunched up against me, huh?"

"You can't tell," Mirage said with a haughty sniff, "but these ceilings are low."

"Uh-huh," Bumblebee said. "You know if you turn invisible, ghosts can still see you, right?"

"There are no ghosts down here," Mirage snapped.

"'Cause a ghost can see your spark, not your frame-"

"No, they can't!" Mirage said, smacking Bumblebee not so lightly on the helm.

Ahead of them, Jazz stopped walking and pivoted, his visor's thin sliver of light barely giving him a silhouette in the dark. Mirage grabbed Bumblebee, using him as a shield, while the smaller mech squeaked and pushed back against his larger frame.

"If you two don't clam up," Jazz hissed, "and at least pretend I taught you anything, there's gonna be two real ghosts down here."

"You aren't scared of ghosts?" Bumblebee whispered. "Is it 'cause-"

Was it because of all the mechs that Jazz had killed over the vorns, the sheer torrent of death and destruction numbing their leader to the horrors that lay beyond the grave? They all knew Jazz had done some terrible things during the war. None of them had seen his official file, but they knew, just the same as they knew there were ghosts in the Ark.

With a long suffering vent, Jazz tapped an audio horn once. Did they even remember their damn internal communications system?

Dumb 'bots, Jazz grumbled at them both. Put you to work in your home base and you lose all your training.

The Decepticons don't have ghosts on their side, Bumblebee said.

Ain't no ghosts down here, Jazz said, turning and leading them through the supply units again. I made that rumor up myself.

I told you so! Mirage said, bopping Bumblebee's helm again.

Why'd you make up something like that? Bumblebee asked.

Jazz shrugged. Wanted to give myself a place I could drag mechs I didn't want found.

Both Bumblebee and Mirage came to a halt, standing ramrod straight. A moment later Jazz realized they weren't following him and chuckled to himself, waving one hand reassuringly.

Relax, you two. I just wanted a spot I could stow some less savory equipment the others wouldn't like, that's all. Prime don't need to know every part of the job.

Mirage shared a look with Bumblebee. So this was where their commander kept some of their master copies of cortex force downloaders and internal servo disruptors. Some tools still had Decepticon insignias on them, not acceptable for ethical Autobots but too useful to be discarded by more practical bots. Jazz might be scary, but anyone in Special Operations had seen and done things the rest of the Autobots would never know about.

Come on, come on, Jazz said, still walking and turning a corner to vanish in the gloom. Keep up or you'll get left behind with the spoo~ky Decepticon ghost. Legend has it he especially likes snacking on little grounders.

Hardy har, Bumblebee grumbled. You could've told us this was your personal storage depot. It was just a matter of time before you stumbled on our reading circle anyway.

Should've known that Scooby Doo routine wouldn't work forever, their commander said. But I didn't expect y'all to turn this into your little erotic clubhouse.

It's not— Mirage started.

Jazz sent a silence command through their array, bringing communication to a halt as he leaned around the corner. A small space had been cleared with a single lamp on the floor and several steel crates positioned in a circle. Empty energon cubes tossed haphazardly around the room. It was clearly an impromptu meeting place, and lounging around the lamp was Sideswipe, a datapad in one hand, a cube in the other. On the floor was Sunstreaker, venting in long regular bursts that made Jazz think it wasn't just energon in those cubes.

To his relief, his bots demonstrated that they could still act like agents, moving to block the other exit with Mirage backing up Bumblebee. Jazz waited a moment to make sure that he hadn't missed anything, and to his surprise a small clatter from above drew his attention to Blaster's cassettes dangling their pedes off the side of a shelf.

Now that is some strange company to be keeping, Jazz wondered. The twins, Eject and Rewind...both of whom seemed quite relaxed with their own smaller energon supply.

"'Jazz held the gun to Soundwave's head'," Sideswipe read, "'but even as the chains fell away, he found he couldn't pull the trigger. Those golden optics-"

"Enough already," Sunstreaker mumbled, turning his gaze away from the lamp. "I don't wanna hear any more of those stupid things."

"You liked 'Fireflight Hooked to a Killer Sharkticon'," Sideswipe argued.

"The adventure ones are cool," Sunstreaker said, and he put his arm over his optics. "The plug 'n play ones are so stupid, though."

"You're still angry about the 'Twins Do the Ark'," Eject said. "You should've known you guys would be popular."

"Well yeah," Sunstreaker said with a grin, one hand running down his own finish. "Sweetest paint job this side of the galaxy. But c'mon...Gears? Seriously, did it have to have Gears in there?"

Taking another sip of doctored energon, Sideswipe scrolled to the next page.

"Hey, check this out," he said. "Wheeljack's Medbay Burst of Lust."

"Is it as bad as 'Engineering Overloads'?" Rewind asked. "If it is, don't bother."

"Yeah," Eject snickered. "Rewind only reads the best Wheeljack ones."

"I do not-"

"'Oh, Ratchet'," Sideswipe interrupted, reading over Rewind's protest with theatrical flair. "'Wheeljack moaned in more than pain as he lay on the medical berth, his outer plating obscenely pulled open and his inner processes revealed, touched by the cool air. 'Please don't,' he cried, jerking futilely on the restraints lashing him down.

"'Ratchet loomed over him, one finger tracing the prone engineer's soft cables, caressing the smooth shell of his spark case. Then his hand turned cruel as he twisted one sensitive screw, drawing a cry from the helpless mech. 'No mercy,' Ratchet said, brushing Wheeljack's faceplate gently and then seizing him when he tried to look away. 'And you, of all 'bots, should appreciate the modifications I'm about to give you.'"

Sideswipe looked up at Rewind, who was about to lean completely off the shelf.

"Should I keep going?" he asked with a grin, chuckling when Rewind nodded vigorously.

Before Rewind could say anything, Jazz lifted his helm and stepped to the very edge of the dim light. On the other side of the room, Bumblebee and Mirage appeared to surround their prey.

"By all means, keep going," Jazz said with a smile that didn't reach his visor. "How deep you planning on digging your own grave?"

All of them froze. None of them tried to run. The only one Jazz had expected any trouble from merely reached over and grabbed the rest of the energon, disposing of it in one swift go.

"Warned ya this would happen," Sunstreaker grumbled, his engine rumbling with the sudden influx of minerals and coolant.

"Quit getting rid of the evidence," Jazz snapped.

"You're just pissed I'm not leaving it for you," Sunstreaker said, settling back again and already beginning to slur his words. "But I ain't going to the brig sober."

There were serious drawbacks, Jazz thought once again, to being a damn officer.

Chapter Text

The line of embarrassed mechs marched in, but with Optimus presenting himself with utmost formality, Ironhide was forced to keep his officer face on. The growing lineup of mechs didn't need any more humiliation piled on anyway. That the twins were involved was no surprise, but the cassetibots on Blaster's shoulders looked like they wanted to climb into his recharge case and never come out again. From Jazz's demeanor, Ironhide supposed they were lucky not to be wearing stasis cuffs.

At least Jazz had shown some mercy on his own bots and let Mirage and Bumblebee flank him, present to answer questions but not among the official row of the condemned.

"The usual suspects," Prowl said, nodding at the twins. "Not unexpected. But Blaster...I'm surprised."

"Sir," Blaster said, one hand on his waist, the other rubbing slightly at his audio horn. "Is what we did really worth all this? It was just a few mechs having a bit of fun."

"Some mechs," Ironhide said, "got more delicate sensibilities, sparkplug. I mean, it takes quite a constitution to shrug off 'Virgin Alert to Passion'."

Sunk low in his seat, glaring sideways at Ironhide, Red Alert revved in warning. "Or 'Tanning an Ironhide'."

Prime's bodyguard blinked and his smile faded slightly. "Wait, what?"

Realizing what was about to happen, Perceptor reached over and grabbed Red Alert's arm, but he couldn't talk fast enough to stop his friend. Even Optimus leaned back as Red Alert began.

"Ironhide knew he could have fought off Shockwave's hold," Red Alert recited, facing the older mech with dead calm despite his warming faceplate, "but something held him still. What strange emotion made his spark flicker in hesitation? The single golden optic stared deep into him, frozen in likewise confusion. And then Shockwave's grip hardened like tempered polytitanex, dragging a scream of submission—"

"All right already!" Ironhide said, raising a hand in defeat. "I give, I give."

Aghast, Perceptor leaned close to Red Alert. "How much did you memorize?"

"Enough," Red Alert said, still glaring at Ironhide. "Didn't even get to the good part."

"This is what concerns us about 'your bit of fun'," Prowl said to Blaster, but focusing on Red Alert and Ironhide until he was sure neither of them would start up again. "It's all too dangerous to upset mechs who have been upgraded with military armaments."

"I think I see what you mean," Blaster said a little sheepishly. "But the cat's outta the bag, man. The whole Ark's doing it now."

"The whole Ark?" Optimus echoed, leaning hard on the table. Primus, what kind of leader was he? He wasn't running an army. He was running an erotic book publishers and fantasy love-in. Did the Senate ever have to deal with this?

"Well, most of 'em," Blaster said with a shrug. "You can't tell who's writing what 'cause it's all under fake names, but there's hundreds of downloads every hour. Four or five uploads, too."

"Out of curiosity," Ironhide started, "can you see what the titles—?"

Everyone seated faced him as one. "No."

"Geez," Ironhide grumbled. "Fine, lemme know when the meeting's over. I'm going to recharge."

Red Alert slumped in his chair with a low vent. "Thank Primus."

"So Blaster..." Prowl said, steering the conversation again. "You're saying that the proverbial barrel is leaking and there's no way to stop the spill."

This time it was Rewind who nodded, prompted by his carrier's nudge.

"Ah, yes sir. It's almost impossible to keep track of it all. Though there is a primary posting forum, there was an argument about whether it was acceptable to write using Decepticon characters, and now smaller forums have begun splintering off."

"So nice of them to worry about the ethics," Red Alert growled, "of how they write unwilling mechs."

Blaster vented nervously. "Um, yeah, but what can you do?"

"Trace every single post," Prowl replied, turning his attention from the meeting to his datapad and typing out what was very clearly a plan of action. "Compare writing styles and form a statistical archive of the most prolific writers. Contrast that against the duty schedule to find those with leisure time or enough shirk time on the job to produce this fiction."

"And then break their fingers off," Jazz murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Everyone's gaze flicked to Jazz, then back to each other, all of them trying to assess how serious he was. Mirage and Bumblebee were no help, staring straight ahead and pretending to hear nothing. To judge from their sudden perfect obedience, if their commander broke the hands of half the mechs in the Ark, Mirage and Bumblebee would be at his side offering to take over when he grew tired.

Although usually smart enough to keep his mouth shut when in trouble, Sideswipe scanned every mech's look and grew increasingly indignant. At Jazz's comment, his ire snapped.

"Okay, come on," he said, ignoring Blaster's panicked helmshake and the cassetibots frantically waving their hands at him to stop. "I mean, yeah, okay, I get that it's weird and all, but this isn't that bad. This isn't insubordination or even disobeying direct orders."

"We're stuck here in the middle of a fragging war," Sideswipe continued, and as he spoke, his voice began to tremble. "We can't go home. The enemy is like right there and we can't get hardly any rest—I mean Ratchet had to put my arm back together last week and...well. We can't get energon spiked with nitro or kerosene or anything else good, and we can't go racing and blowing things up, and it's hard enough to get a hook-up for a little interfacing when things are so slagged, y'know? I mean, it's just..."

He shrugged, unable to say what he meant.

"Everything's just slagged."

No one spoke. Unsure of what to say, one by one their gaze slid from Sideswipe to Optimus, who sat with his hands steepled, deep in thought. Jazz finally looked up from his seat, sitting in his own annoyance and not sure where it was coming from.

"A good way of putting it," Optimus said with a long, sad vent.

Sideswipe and Blaster both relaxed. At least the Prime wasn't going to scold them. Maybe the officers would, but death by lecture had been avoided.

"We can't force mechs to stop thinking things we don't like," Optimus said. "We'd be no better than Decepticons then. At the same time, there are mechs who rightfully object to being used like this."

"We're not using anyone," Sideswipe insisted, raising his fists in frustration.

Blaster put his hand on Sideswipe's shoulder, quieting him with a shake of his helm. The rowdier bot hadn't seen the Prime like this before, calmly deliberating, and as Sideswipe looked around at the officers, he realized they were all waiting for the Prime to decide.

The moment passed.

"We can't stop them," Optimus said finally, as if in resignation.

Jazz smacked his fist on the table, startling everyone but Prime and Prowl, but he didn't argue.

"At the same time," Optimus said, "the ones crafting these stories need to show greater discretion. This can't become a distraction or a tool to harass others."

Red Alert gave a significant look to Ironhide, who noticed it and dipped his helm in a grudging nod.

"Any datapads with these Polyhex Manuals will be confiscated if we find them, and disposed of. They are not to be read or shared except in private. And..." He stood up, venting in frustration. "In the name of Primus, don't let me see anything else about this."

"So we just push it back underground," Jazz said, looking at nothing and no one. "And pretend they ain't treating us like their personal pleasure bots."

Optimus paused, then nodded once. "There's nothing else we can do."

Lightning quick, Jazz stood up and walked out of the room. Mirage and Bumblebee hesitated, not sure what to do, and Prowl half stood.

"No no," Ironhide said, coming to his pedes and going after Jazz. "Guys, you watch after Prime, okay? I'll deal with him."

"Are you certain?" Prowl asked. "He can be dangerous when he's like this."

"He's just pissed," Ironhide said, pausing at the door. "Don't worry, I can take it when he vents. But, uh, Mirage, how about you call Smokescreen and come after me? Just to hold him back maybe."

"Um, sir, I really don't..." Mirage trailed off as Ironhide disappeared. "Oh, slag."

Halfway down the corridor, Ironhide caught up with the fuming bot and fell into step, craning his neck to see Jazz's face. What he saw wasn't promising.

"Wait. Wait!" Ironhide started, easily keeping up with Jazz's shorter steps. "Look, is it really that bad—"

He startled back when Jazz suddenly turned on one pede and advanced on him. Not that Ironhide couldn't go a few rounds with Jazz, but the Spec Ops commander could project a much larger presence than his actual height, and right now he was pushing up on his pedes to almost reach Ironhide's shoulder.

"You pile of rust," Jazz snarled, his anger smoldering hot enough to melt the face off a raw recruit. "Maybe you're fine with being their toy, but I ain't. I find any of that slag lying around, I'll strip the armor off the mech who had it."

The few mechs in the corridor stopped and slowly backed away, as quiet as steel pedes could be on steel floors. Primus help the mech who attracted Jazz's attention. Few mechs faced him so fearlessly, and Ironhide had armor three times as thick as anyone's.

"Jazz Peeled Off My Plating," Ironhide mused. "Would that be adventure or-?"

"A promise," Jazz growled.

"Okay, now look," Ironhide said, drawing himself up to his full height. "I know it's uncomfortable, but you can't force mechs to be pure of cortex. You have to just make your peace with it and ignore it."

Jazz paused, staring and Ironhide and venting heavily. The older mech knew that look. Their third in command had worn that look the same day that Ironhide nominated him to that position and Optimus had accepted. Most mechs wanted to work up the chain as high as they could, but Jazz had actively resisted to the point where the floor still showed the scuff marks where Ironhide had dragged the smaller mech to the commission ceremony.

Probably because this same intense paranoia made for a great officer with a frame full of stress.

"You're getting soft," Jazz said lowly.

The growing crowd around them began to murmur when they heard such open aggression, but both officers glared at them and sent them scattering, hiding around corners with their arrays fully open to catch any word. Only Mirage and Smokescreen were left, suddenly revealed by the dispersed crowd, slowly backing up lest Jazz notice them in the hall.

Ironhide frowned. "Now hang on, you little fragger-"

"'Ignore it'?" Jazz said over him. "This can't do nothing but come back to bite us in the aft. There's antagonism among the officers, there's spots in the Ark's code where mechs are hiding information and anyone trying to pass info can just stash it in a datapad and swear it was a-"

"Jazz," Ironhide said firmly. "What's really bothering you about this?"

Jazz's mouth snapped shut.

"'Cause all of that's normal," Ironhide said. "Ain't nothing changed. But this is eating you up more than anything I've seen outta you in awhile, and that's different."

Crossing his arms, Jazz refused to look at him, and when Ironhide went so far as to put a hand on Jazz's shoulder, the smaller mech tapped his wrist in annoyance.

Recognizing it as a signal to call him and give him an excuse to leave, Mirage and Smokescreen inwardly cringed. Mirage sent the empty datapacket he kept ready, sounding a soft alert on Jazz's external comm.

"Well, look at that," Jazz said, turning so that Ironhide's hand fell away. "I'm urgently wanted somewhere else. And somewhere else sounds like a fine place to be right now."

"Jazz..." Ironhide vented, giving Mirage a dirty look.

"Later," Jazz said with a wave. He walked between his mechs and grabbed each of them at the waist, forcing them to walk backward a few steps before they turned and flanked him. "Spec Ops: where we don't ignore something even when we want to."

Chapter Text

In retrospect, Jazz sometimes wished he was wrong.

The firefight had been quick but brutal, a battle over an oil pipeline through the middle of the United States, with Decepticons vanishing before the Autobots arrived and then popping up from the very same ravines and plateaus that Prowl had earmarked as good cover. Well, never let it be said that Prowl was wrong. It was very good cover indeed. A shame it had worked entirely for the Decepticons.

Jazz's only real comfort was that he was the only one taken, pinpointed with a powerful electromagnetic pulse that had him waking up over some mech's shoulder. Coming to in an empty steel room, his helm still throbbing, he was grateful that at least there wasn't another Autobot lying dead in front of him.

Heavy chain wrapped around his pedes, locking him on his knees, and the same chain bound his wrists and kept his arms wrenched behind his back. It wasn't pleasant but it wasn't the worst predicament he'd ever been in. He'd been caught a handful of times before and every time he managed to escape.

Of course, he hadn't been kneeling in front of Soundwave specifically, but there was a first time for everything.

What truly upset him, however, was not how Soundwave had caught him in front of all of his friends and subordinates. Rather, Jazz felt a mountain of disgust at the datapads piled on the consoles and scattered around the floor, with painfully familiar titles on each one.

"I should've known," Jazz muttered, gazing around the room. "You were writing them, too."

"Affirmative," Soundwave said, kneeling beside him and checking the chains one more time. "Autobot stories inferior. Soundwave's, superior."

Jazz's sensors tingled to have the larger Decepticon so close. He'd seen Soundwave destroy mechs on the battlefield, but now his enemy held his chains, venting air across Jazz's cheek. He jerked reflexively, tensing as Soundwave's hands swept over his arms, ghosting across his bonds once more.

"Superior trash," Jazz said. "Why'd you do it? To get into the Ark's database?"

Soundwave nodded once. "One infected datapad among many, not easy to discover, even for Red Alert. Amidst hundreds of uploads and downloads, easier to hide."

"Knew it," Jazz growled. "I knew that filth was gonna bite us in the aft!"

Soundwave chuckled, a sound unnerving in how hollow it was, how lacking in tone and pitch. There was a flare of heat behind Jazz.

"Torture?" he asked through grit denta. "Already? You ain't even asked any questions yet."

"Not torture," Soundwave assured him. "Rendering Autobot's bonds permanent."

"What?"

Jazz pulled again and found the chains tighter and stiffer. With widened optics, he skipped a vent as he realized what had happened. Soundwave had melted the locks and welded his chains, intending to keep him on his knees for...how long?

"I...think you been reading too many of your own stories," Jazz muttered.

"Query," Soundwave said, ignoring Jazz's comment and leaning in close. "What lies beneath your visor? Multiple stories fixate on possible answers."

Without a sound, the Decepticon reached up and touched the blue visor.

Locks in Jazz's visor snapped in place, sending a tiny vibration up through Soundwave's fingertips. Jazz grinned, and it was impossible to tell if he was staring past Soundwave or straight at him.

"Come on," Jazz chuckled, "you didn't think it'd be that easy, did you?"

"Visor, only thin polycarbon," Soundwave said. "Easily breakable."

"Aw, you really wanna break the shiny robot so quickly?" Jazz asked.

He had little mobility left, locked in place by those chains—and were they really welded back there? He eased his fingers along the chain and hissed. Yup, still hot, too—but he was mobile enough to just so casually tilt his helm away from Soundwave.

"We haven't even gotten through the traditional interrogation posturing," Jazz said. "Y'know, 'you'll never get away with this, you evil fiend' and 'despair, Autobot, for now you shall know the true might of the Decepticons'!"

Soundwave said nothing for several seconds.

"Soundwave, not Starscream."

"Now see," Jazz chuckled, "that's something we should talk about. All our files say you don't have a sense of humor, but clearly you must. You listen to Starscream all day. You gotta have a better sense of humor than me, and that's a pretty tall order."

The Decepticon revealed nothing. Soundwave had to have some kind of facial expression, didn't he? But the visor and the faceplate masked everything. Was Soundwave peering at him in curiosity, or was he glaring in anger? In a way, Jazz preferred dealing with Starscream. At least his emotions were obvious, if screamed into one's audio horn.

"Jazz's visor," Soundwave said, prodding at one side. "Has physical locks, or an interface port?"

"You got a real one track mind," Jazz grumbled, turning his helm again with a disdainful swish. "All this yummy tactical information stored in my cortex ripe for the picking, and you're stuck on my visor."

"Assertion, incautious interfacing with Autobot specializing in subterfuge not likely to end well."

While he spoke, Soundwave continued to examine the visor, ultimately spotting a tiny port near Jazz's temple. He touched one fingertip to the slot, grabbing his prisoner by the chin when Jazz tried to shy away again.

"You feeling lucky?" Jazz said in a tone that promised violence. "You don't even know what nasty little surprises I got in this visor."

Jazz made a tiny sound of surprise when he felt something nudging into the slot. Since when did Soundwave have digital interface jacks in his fingertips?

"Luck unnecessary. Soundwave, superior."

Jazz jerked out of Soundwave's grasp, but not before he felt a wisp of code slip through the interface into his visor. Blocked from the rest of his systems by his immediate quarantine, it slipped like smoke around his visor's anti-viral subroutines, stalling each attempt at deletion as it coaxed the locks with false permissions.

Few mechs with visors bothered with independent systems for them. With so much space used for more detailed heads up displays, visors normally held no vital data or storage memory. Jazz was unusual in that he had two anti-virus programs, one diagnostic tool and a converter to play earth cartoons, but that left no room for a real packet of malware defense. His active programs resided in various other ports, and with his visor quarantined from the rest of his frame, he suddenly had no access to them.

"Why do you have to be such a creepy slag?" Jazz muttered. "Just break the damn thing like anyone else."

"Broken visor would lead to broken optics," Soundwave said. "Outcome, undesired."

"You suddenly afraid?" Jazz growled. "You too scared to try to hack my cortex, so you're just gonna bust open my visor? You're supposed to be the best in Megatron's gang of thugs."

The visor's fasteners clicked as they unlocked. Jazz sent command after command, but he was shut out of his own controls. Nothing but the locks were affected, but even as he undid the quarantine, the anti-virus routines trickled into his visor, slow to kill Soundwave's program and repair the damage.

"Force download..." Soundwave hesitated. "Not of immediate importance."

Jazz frowned. Not good. Interrogations had a set routine to them. Break the routine and they were in unknown territory, not where a chained Autobot wanted to be. If secret plans and codes weren't what Soundwave wanted, then what did Jazz have to steal?

"What do you-"

"Release catch is here?" Soundwave lay his hand on Jazz's helm, running his thumb along the rim of his visor.

"Whoa!" Jazz leaned away too fast, losing his balance and landing on his side. "Bad touch!"

He squirmed along the floor, knowing it was useless but trying to shy away, crying out in frustration as Soundwave cupped a hand beside his face.

Soundwave paused, narrowing his optics not in anger but in confusion. "Jazz...in pain?"

"I don't want you taking it off!" Jazz jerked hard, managing to roll onto his other side. It was a small victory, getting away from Soundwave's hand. "You don't take off your visor—leave me mine!"

Long silence followed. Jazz, who'd curled up as much as his chains would allow, felt Soundwave's presence lift away. Did the Decepticon mean to hurt him? With shuddery vents, Jazz chanced looking up, and found Soundwave sitting beside him.

"Condition understood," Soundwave said. "Both visors must be removed."

"Wait. What? No, no," Jazz started, shaking his helm once. "That ain't what I—"

He fell silent as Soundwave reached up, pressing the sides of his visor until the lock released. Soundwave held either side with both hands, then paused. A moment passed. Soundwave didn't move, except to run his fingertips lightly along the top of the visor.

"I begin to understand your nervousness," Soundwave admitted.

"Ain't so easy, huh?" Jazz said. "Ain't so-"

Soundwave drew his visor down and off, holding it in his lap for a moment. He didn't move, venting for a full cycle. Then he opened his optics, staring steadily at Jazz.

Jazz stared back, chuckling once despite himself.

"S'that why you wear a red visor?" he asked. "'Cause it's a uniform? Gotta have red optics?"

Instead of the usual shade of Decepticon red, Soundwave's burning gold optics looked back at him, as intimidating as his visor but warmer, clear and intently focused. They flicked and turned like any other mech's, but Jazz would have sworn that he felt the strength of Soundwave's gaze as it swept over him. The Decepticon didn't try to hide how he studied him, moving from his bound pedes and wrists up past his hood, lingering on the soft cables of his throat...and finally resting on Jazz's own visor.

This time Jazz felt pinned by that gaze, unmoving as Soundwave crept over him again, gently turning up the visor and drawing it away. At the last second, Jazz shut his optics and turned his helm, tensing at the Decepticon's touch.

"Query," Soundwave said softly, "why this fear?"

Ridiculous. Jazz scolded himself, disgusted at how he reacted. He'd withstood broken fingers, torn plating, beatings and ripped cables, even the pain of forced interfaces dragging data out of him. But that data had been deliberately corrupted; those briefs moments in captivity had been part of larger plans. It wasn't this gentle touching, intimately examining the edges of his armor, touching the vulnerable rims of his optics. This was unpredictable, unplanned. Out of his control.

"Don't make me," Jazz whispered. "I've never looked at anyone like this before."

"Is...Soundwave so inferior?" the other mech asked, a plaintive note coloring his normally empty voice. "That Autobot would prefer standard procedure force download?"

"Hell of an option you're giving me," Jazz said, laughing once again at the sheer insanity of this situation. "Torture or...or whatever this is."

"Plot of Spec-Ops Mission 98, Jazz's Interrogation at Soundwave's Pedes," was the immediate answer.

Shock made Jazz look up. A soft vent rewarded him, and Soundwave's optics widening in surprise.

Light, light blue...Jazz's optics gleamed starry bright, nearly perfectly clear and shiny with a faint blue tint. Soundwave bent closer, enthralled with the glow cast between them, cupping Jazz's face in his hands.

"Jazz...superior," Soundwave murmured.

The compliment rolled off of him, lost as Jazz processed what he'd said earlier.

"You're acting one of those out?" Jazz whispered, aghast. "Are you serious?"

Soundwave frowned.

"Soundwave not desirable?"

Jazz opened his mouth to answer...then paused. Here he was, chained up, visorless, under one of the most feared mechs of the entire Decepticon army, and yet Soundwave was waiting for his cue. And if Jazz didn't play this right, he could end up force downloaded and then Primus alone knew what else.

So. He needed to interface with Soundwave.

Suddenly far too hot, he vented several times, keeping Soundwave's gaze. Why was he so calm and cool in the face of torture, but take off his visor and he suddenly couldn't think straight? Soundwave put his hand on Jazz's pelvic joint and the spy's processors scrambled in a way that had nothing to do with fear of shut down.

"Soundwave..." Jazz closed his optics. "I've never done this before."

The Decepticon nodded once. "This outcome one of several predicted scenarios. Soundwave, proceeding with all caution."

"Why you gotta make it sound like..." Jazz groaned, twisting his chains and wincing when they dug into his joints. "Like I ain't tied up and you ain't on top of me?"

Soundwave blinked. "Autobot, never read Spec-Ops Mission 98?"

Jazz frowned. "No."

That seemed to throw a monkeywrench into Soundwave's plans.

"Autobot, read any Spec-Ops missions?"

For such a fearsome mech, Soundwave sounded a little lost. He adjusted his grip on Jazz, no longer so certain of himself.

So Soundwave had a thing for those trash stories. Had even written a few. And while he didn't know what was in those stories, Jazz could see Soundwave's consternation clearly. No wonder the Decepticon kept that visor on. His optics gave away everything.

Jazz almost smiled. There was his angle.

"I usually live Spec-Ops missions," Jazz said slowly. "What exactly was in that story?"

Now Soundwave tensed, growing warmer against Jazz as his cycles sped up. Yes, Jazz thought, self-conscious about our fantasy, are we?

"Decepticon..." Soundwave cleared his filters in a quick cough. "Yields...to Autobot persuasion."

"'Persuasion'?" Jazz echoed, a little disbelieving. "Of...?"

"Ethical considerations," Soundwave said slowly, sounding out the words very carefully as if afraid he was admitting too much. "Of political situation."

Jazz narrowed his optics, looking at him sideways as if Soundwave might make more sense. "You saying that 'Spec-Ops Mission 98, Jazz Sexes the Decepticon Out of Soundwave' is less a fantasy and more a...manual?"

Soundwave made a noise between a hard brake and a kink in his voice processor, as if Jazz had said something terribly improper. But he didn't back off, and his golden optics stared at something on the far wall so he didn't have to look at Jazz.

"Autobot...welcome to experiment and find out."

Chapter Text

Experiment while he couldn't even move? Jazz almost reminded Soundwave that he was locked up. Almost. But maybe Spec-Ops Mission 98 started out like this, and part of the scenario was how Jazz escaped. He hadn't read any of them, but hadn't Ironhide read something out loud about chains being welded? Damn. Should've let the old mech read out just a little bit more.

He needed to think, and fast. Soundwave wrote trashy novels with Jazz the super spy. And had hoped that Jazz would read it. And apparently Jazz had missed out on the manual on how to convert one of the Decepticon's top officers because...

No, that was wasting time. He needed to focus on what was important right now.

Soundwave had him prisoner, Soundwave expected him to somehow free himself, and Soundwave—outwardly Megatron's most faithful soldier—wanted Jazz to convince him to join the Autobots.

The real important question right now was how did Jazz, master spy of Spec Ops Mission 98, react to that?

"You're the one in control here," Jazz said, giving a token pull on the chain between his wrists. "Not exactly fair, y'know?"

"Jazz, too dangerous to allow freedom," Soundwave argued.

"Not what I meant," Jazz said, and he glanced away, swallowing his rising embarrassment. "Your mask...you've still got it..."

Soundwave examined his face as if he could read his expression, searching for any trace of deceit, and he forced Jazz to meet his gaze again. This must not have been part of the story, and Soundwave probably removed that face mask less often than he removed the visor. If his optics gave away so much, then how much more would his mouth reveal?

"Mask...never removed before," Soundwave said.

"You're kidding me," Jazz blurted, forgetting to be coy. "How do you refuel?"

"Never removed around others," Soundwave clarified, glancing aside.

But you're dying to take it off, Jazz thought.

Millennia of being strong, disciplined, cold even, masking himself completely. Had anyone ever seen Soundwave's full face? Maybe taking off his visor was the most vulnerability he'd ever allowed himself.

"You can see mine." Jazz turned slightly, trying to see Soundwave's face, his chains rattling just enough to remind Soundwave that he couldn't move. "Let me see yours?"

Soundwave didn't move, but after a moment, the lock on his mask clicked and the line of steel retracted back into his helm.

Jazz's optics widened slightly. Like any Autobot, he had a natural aversion to all things Decepticon, but he wasn't blind. Some mechs were simply shiny and well framed. Soundwave was a cold sparked mech on the battlefield and he'd blackmail his own side without qualm, but damned if he didn't have a face that would make younger sparks flutter.

"It's a shame you're evil," Jazz murmured.

Did that bring them back on script? Soundwave relaxed enough to adjust his grip, gently setting Jazz on the floor.

"Assertion false," Soundwave said. "Decepticons not evil."

"It's right there in your name," Jazz said. "Deception. Con."

"Decepticon designation, metaphoric. Cybertron's Primes, corrupt but professing the best for all mechs. Primes, Autobots, called Megatron's rebellion a lie. Thus, freedom is deception."

"Cute," Jazz said. "But that snazzy wordplay got lost when you went from freedom fighter to would-be dictators."

"Megatron, not a dictator," Soundwave argued, but his optics flinched and the deep golden light dimmed. He even nervously bit one lip, then realized he was doing it and schooled his face to show no expression. "Megatron, best leader for Cybertron and all mechs."

As if to punctuate that, Soundwave braced himself with one hand by Jazz's helm, then slid his other hand down his hood, along his abdomen—and then dove into Jazz's pelvic joint. Stroking his fingertips along the soft cables there, he tilted his hand just enough to ease between the fluid lines and underneath, stroking a steel plate that would normally never feel touch.

Jazz bent away as far as he could, his hip pressing against Soundwave's knee joint. He writhed as Soundwave fingered sensitive cables, pressing them gently when they both knew he could tear them apart without effort.

"Autobot, poorly armored," Soundwave said, his hollow voice a whisper. "Vulnerable."

"Flexible," Jazz hissed, jerking as Soundwave gathered a handful of cables and tugged just enough to pull their connectors taut. "Adaptable."

"Easy to interrogate."

"As if," Jazz said, arching his back, turning every fan on full vent. "You ain't even asking questions. Worst interrogation ever."

"Autobot seems to enjoy this interrogation," Soundwave said.

His optics burned brighter, and he leaned close enough that Jazz could see the lenses and minuscule displays telling the Decepticon that Jazz was overheating. Freeing his hand from Jazz's cables, Soundwave drew his fingers along the inner rim of the joint, feeling the smooth steel casing and lightly circling a hex connector on one of the cables.

"I ain't giving in, Decepticon," Jazz said, jolted as Soundwave gave that connector a strong tap. "If you're all about freedom, how come you're still fighting?"

"Primes were Autobots, thus Autobots still a threat."

"Optimus ain't-"

Jazz groaned as Soundwave switched to the other side of his pelvis, driving his sensors equally frenzied. His pedes scraped the floor uselessly as his hands scrabbled at the chain, feeling for the welded sections.

"Optimus ain't bad-" Jazz's voice went up in pitch as Soundwave manhandled each cable one by one, and the Decepticon's chuckle made him fight his voice processors back into submission.

"You know we'd open negotiations if you'd just stop shooting," he rushed out before his voice betrayed him again. "If you're after freedom, why's Megatron still fighting?"

The golden optics dimmed again, and Soundwave's nervous lip bite returned. The hand stroking Jazz's cables paused, moving slower when it returned to work.

If he wasn't being molested, Jazz would have smiled. Oh, Soundwave knew. No, more than that. He'd been thinking this to himself, thinking these exact arguments. Soundwave wasn't stupid, just stupidly loyal. No one ever saw him without his visor or mask, and he had no one to air these thoughts to. Jazz just had to make the argument that Soundwave simply couldn't admit.

Did Soundwave even realize he was signalling all of his doubt? His hands were steady, his body as unyielding as ever, but his optics rotated lenses too quickly, struggling to read Jazz as a threat to ease his nervous sensors.

"Optimus ain't like the other Primes," Jazz said. "You know it. He's got the Matrix—"

"Matrix, lost once before," Soundwave demanded. "No guarantee that the next Prime will be good."

"Then you admit Optimus is good?" Jazz asked.

Soundwave stared at him, mouth pressing into a harsh line. Too quickly, he pulled clear of Jazz's pelvis, jolting him with an accidental electrical surge on a connector, and he instead grabbed one of Jazz's audio horns.

Static feedback overloaded the sensitive equipment for a split-second before automatic safeguards cut the reception, but the horn itself was made of sensors over filters, shielded only by the thinnest webwork of polycarbonate. Soundwave tightened his hand over it, compressing the web until it strained not to break.

Likewise tensing up, Jazz held still, one optic squeezed shut in anticipation. He'd suffered crushed audios before, and even slamming his pain receptors closed couldn't cut off the trauma completely.

Seconds passed. When the expected crumpling didn't happen, Jazz chanced looking up. Soundwave's scowl hadn't changed, but his optics—Jazz could have read them like a datapad. There was a battle raging inside Soundwave, and his optics showed his loyalty to Megatron warring with the sheer fact that he knew Jazz was right.

That was the problem with carrier models—nigh absolute loyalty. Protecting his cassettes was hard coding that urged Soundwave to likewise seek out a stronger mech to follow and obey. Blaster showed the same programming, sheltering his cassettes while likewise treating Optimus as a kind of surrogate carrier. Jazz knew Blaster felt no conflict about following Optimus, but what happened if a carrier mech began to question his loyalties?

Should Jazz push harder? Pretend he liked the brutal handling? Beg for mercy? Soundwave's hand shifted slightly and Jazz whimpered, turning his helm to follow.

"Megatron, demands loyalty," Soundwave said finally. "Optimus Prime, asks. Query, reason for Autobot's loyalty."

"You obey Megatron," Jazz whispered, pushing himself up on his knees and shoulders as Soundwave angled his grip. "But we follow Prime."

"Clarify," Soundwave said, pressing his thumb into the soft filter between the webwork, stretching it and threatening to tear it open. "Quickly."

"Prime never hit anyone," Jazz said through grit denta. He was almost completely arched trying to relieve the pressure on his audio. "Not like Megatron. He-he's trying to save us from becoming Megatron's slaves. Optimus gives a damn about us. I'd follow him into the Pit if he said so."

Soundwave held his grip a moment, examining Jazz as if he could spot him telling a lie. When Jazz whimpered again, and that whimper was cut off as his thumb prodded the filter just a little more...Soundwave relented, letting go and letting his prisoner sink back to the floor with a relieved flurry of fans.

Jazz took a moment longer than he needed, spinning his fans noisily for the handful of seconds it took to work at the welded chain. He already had a good grip on the flattened bit of steel and, masking his efforts under loud noise, he prodded the weak link with his fingertips, forcing it to bend ever so slightly. Not the best escape plan ever, but it was all he had.

As his fans slowed, so did his hands. The room was quiet. Instead of asking another question, Soundwave had sat down on the floor beside him, one leg outstretched and the other bent, leaning on his raised knee and staring into the distance. His optics occasionally darted one way or the other, and he mouthed quiet words to himself, not noticing Jazz watching and reading his lips.

Though there wasn't much to read, it confirmed what Jazz thought. Several no's and but's, and a single 'not enough data'.

"It's been a long time since you were 'following' Megatron," Jazz said, "isn't it?"

Soundwave glared sideways at him.

"That flush of rebellion," Jazz continued. "Knowing you were fighting the good fight against the Senate."

He didn't have to describe it. Both of them remembered the fighting, vicious tower to tower combat between Enforcers and Decepticons, Autobots as a faction torn apart by the Senate's supporters and the 'usurper' Optimus, whole city states destroyed by the old Prime and desperate fighting under the light of radioactive fire. There had been certainty then, born out of political chaos. Both Decepticons and upstart Autobots against the Senate, and then the scrabble for who would rule Cybertron. The acid rain and the squabbling over dwindling energon. The almost constant streak of starships escaping the planet, neutral mechs heading to unknown colonies and leaving the two factions to their war.

"We know what'll happen if Megatron wins," Jazz said. "He grabs Cybertron and never lets go."

Soundwave didn't argue. "And if Optimus Prime wins?"

Jazz smiled at the thought. "Every mech's equal. And rebuilding Cybertron's probably a whole lot more fun than blowing it up was."

"Then Optimus Prime becomes ruler of Cybertron," Soundwave said, facing Jazz as if he had caught him in a lie. "How is he any different from past Primes? Optimus Prime rules."

"Leads," Jazz corrected him. "All the difference."

Soundwave scoffed. If Jazz hadn't had a sore audio and the ghost of invasive hands in his cables, and if Soundwave hadn't been an evil slag, Jazz would have found his rolled optics amusing. No one with exposed optics ever did that. There were etiquette routines to prevent it, also known as survival routines around officers. For a mech used to wearing a visor, those routines were only nuisances, wastes of drive space. It reeked of a sparkling's habit.

"Optimus Prime, would not leave if opposed," Soundwave said. "Primes, always solidify their power."

"I dunno," Jazz said casually. "You mean like when Optimus had all of us leave 'cause the humans said so?"

The nervous lip bite returned, and Soundwave sat back again, watching. Jazz squirmed a little under that look. Visor or no, that staring habit was creepy.

When the kliks passed without anything else spoken, Jazz relaxed as much as he could for lying on his pedes and hands, drawing in a long vent to steel himself for what he was about to do. He'd done worse to escape in the past, and all was fair in war. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he turned his helm, lowering his half-lidded optics.

With a tiny sigh for effect, he pushed his shoulders back, arching up so that his hood thrust out, then sank again. Brought his pelvis up, giving a twist to his hips that spread out his knees.

"Soundwave," he asked, almost breathed. "Take the chains off, please?"

Chapter Text

His captor froze. The small sounds of his vents, even the faint, normal creaking of joints absolutely stopped. Jazz would've thought that Soundwave had shut down if he hadn't seen those traitorous golden optics widening, taking in every inch of Jazz writhing on the floor.

Oh, like that, do you? Jazz's struggling turned rhythmic, pushing up his hood, then his hips, pulling the chain taut between his wrists just so the rattle-clink could echo around them. And each time, unseen, he bent the welded section a little more, a little more.

"Please," Jazz groaned, straining his axles, letting his engines hum loudly...then slumping back with a deep vent. He closed is optics and bit his lip. "This chain's driving me crazy."

Soundwave watched him as if the rest of the world had disappeared and nothing else existed. His mouth parted, and Jazz had the feeling of a predator quietly creeping up on its prey.

Wincing as if the chains hurt, Jazz gave a sharp snap of the steel and whipped his helm to one side, venting hard.

"Jazz," Soundwave whispered, almost inaudible. "Vehicle model...incapable of holding still for long."

That explained it, Jazz thought. The aft's trying to make me go nuts staying still.

Worse, his playacting would be real soon enough. Vehicles craved movement, roaring down the open road, pulling tight turns, breaking all the street laws and slinging themselves through the air to land safely despite the laws of gravity. If he didn't find some way out soon, he'd break something in the trying.

"I can't take it," Jazz said, using that as an excuse to dial up his wriggling. "Please, Soundwave, please?"

Soundwave went completely on his hands and knees and reached out, holding his hand just inches above Jazz. Hovering, but not touching.

You can torture mechs 'till they scream, Jazz thought, but can't grab what's offered you on a silver platter?

He craned his neck, revealing vulnerable cording all smooth and supple, visible in the spaces between his armor. He had more gaps than most, temptingly revealing at all times, and now as he lay still, venting as if he would melt...

"So cruel," Jazz whispered.

Soundwave trembled as he gave into his own desire, stroking his prisoner's cables, fingertips trembling in time with Jazz's engines. His vents were too short, too loud. And the keening whine of his coolant release surprised both of them.

Gotcha, Jazz thought. Now what do I do with you?

"I can't..." Jazz said, looking up with what he hoped seemed like wanton abandon. "I can't control myself."

Neither, apparently, could Soundwave, who grew more confident in handling him. He put his hands under Jazz's back and pulled him up into his lap, drawing the smaller mech against himself. Jazz groaned in relief as he moved, hands tight on the chain so he didn't lose his grip, and with tiny movements he continued to work at the weak link.

Their position was the perfect range for a force download, and Jazz wondered if Soundwave would try to read his thoughts. Trussed up and held like this, Jazz posed little threat. To his relief, Soundwave seemed more interested in exploring his frame than his cortex.

As the Decepticon's hands wandered up beneath the edge of his hood, however, Jazz tensed, unprepared for the sudden rush of sensation. No one had ever had their hands in the places Soundwave was searching, not even Ratchet. The inner plating didn't even feel the wind when he was driving, and having it suddenly touched, lightly stroked up along the sides-

He bucked, throwing his hood forward as he bent enough that his helm lay back on Soundwave's shoulder. The feel of the mech's hands only paused for a moment, then spread as Jazz's movement lay bare so much more of his inner workings.

"Jazz, very flexible," Soundwave said. "Query, how is battle damage avoided?"

"Jazz, very quick," he said through his clenched jaw, then hissed as Soundwave fingered the edges of his engines. "Oh Primus...Primus..."

"Sensitive as well."

Forcing himself to maintain control, Jazz tried to lower his hood only to have Soundwave grab the rim and hold it, keeping him bent back. Rather than exploit that weakness, his other hand glided down to his hip joints where Jazz's thighs were both splayed and tensed to hold his weight.

If he moved, his hood was pushed up further, so Jazz could only bite back his embarrassing cries as Soundwave's hand slipped up into the space under his pelvic rim. With fingers together, Soundwave swept the inside plating, drawing a burst of static from Jazz.

"Some interrogation," Jazz groaned. "At least gimme questions so you stop."

Another sweep of those fingers along his center pelvic plating. The noise coming out of Jazz was feral and incomprehensible.

"Query," Soundwave whispered in his audio, "this treatment, Jazz finds pleasurable?"

"I...I..." Jazz had forgotten about the chain, gripping it only as some kind of anchor to ground himself as his engines revved harder.

The rush of sensation demanded more output from his servos, sending a flood of power and electricity to wherever Soundwave touched. He'd never felt such intensity, and he strained at the chains holding him, trembling with effort.

Jazz felt his servos begin to spark, felt innumerable hums of power along his cables. His fluids pounded through him in a heady rush that overwhelmed his audios. In a moment, he'd overload-

-which sent a spark of panic through him. Overload meant system reboot, and system reboot meant being helpless and unaware. Unacceptable.

Survival routines launched in his cortex, shunting off fuel to the engine and rerouting excess energy to his emergency batteries, then to his cortex. The world slowed down for several seconds as his thoughts sped, processing data faster than was safe. Several neural lines burned their insulation as he overclocked.

Somewhere in all that, he realized that he'd snapped the chain.

"Query," Soundwave whispered again. "Jazz, enjoys this?"

Even better. Soundwave hadn't noticed.

Venting in shaky bursts, chuckling weakly, Jazz felt the prickles of sensation die down. Soundwave's hands still made his plating oversensitive, but overload was no longer a threat.

"Not bad," Jazz said, biting his lip as a final current sparked somewhere inside. "But it takes more than that to bring me over."

Silence.

"...Soundwave failed?"

Jazz paused. A Decepticon shouldn't be able to sound so spark-broken at failing to make his prisoner overload. Oh, this probably wasn't part of Spec-Ops Mission 98. This needed salvaging and their conversation needed redirection.

"Don't feel bad," Jazz smiled, laying his helm back on Soundwave's shoulder again. "You got technique, but no Decepticon'll ever throw me into overload. Now, if you were an Autobot on the other hand..."

That comment earned him sudden dumping on the floor. He kept the broken pieces of the chain in one hand, grunting as his helm hit the ground. He was going to have a biting headache after all this.

"Soundwave's loyalty, unbreakable." The Decepticon walked away, standing at the door with one hand on the control switch.

"But are you unbreakable?" Jazz asked.

Soundwave didn't move.

"'Cause you're finally seeing it, ain't you?" Jazz said, leaning up on one elbow. "That Megatron ain't in this for Cybertron or even his Decepticons. Megatron is out for no one else but Megatron."

This time Soundwave's helm tipped forward and his shoulders dropped. His hand curled into a fist and struck the wall, but without any real force. He didn't argue, but he didn't turn around, either.

Jazz watched him, gauging how far he could push. Everyone knew that Soundwave was the Decepticon's most loyal officer. He might not be second in command, but he was the one mech Megatron trusted at his back. Starscream stole any opportunity to try to usurp command, but Soundwave followed orders even if Megatron looked dead.

"What was it like?" Jazz asked, trying a different angle. "At the beginning, back on Cybertron?"

"Certainty of cause," Soundwave answered. "Senate, corrupt and diseased. Megatron..."

There was a hitch in his vocal processor that took a moment to self-repair.

"Megatron," he tried again, speaking despite his uneven vents, "brave and inspiring. Heroic."

Pause.

Jazz pushed. "And now?"

Slowly, Soundwave tipped forward, leaning heavily on the door. He put one hand over his face, muffling the low static in his throat.

"Mad," Soundwave whispered. "Power hungry."

Jazz vented out for a moment, then took advantage of Soundwave's turned back and pushed himself up on his knees. One link at a time, he quietly slid the chain out of his axles.

"Then why don't you defect?"

"Impossible!"

Jazz froze in time as Soundwave whipped around, fists clenched. The golden optics blazed as he spoke, his voice mixing with static.

"Carrier models, programmed for loyalty! Once given, impossible to abandon."

Struck by how agitated Soundwave grew, Jazz could begin to see why the mech had caught him and begun this strange kind of confession. Harboring such intense doubts about Megatron was chewing Soundwave up inside, and now the enemy was the only one he could talk to. So this was the real reason for Spec Ops 98, and maybe all the other books, too. He'd tried to write away his fears and instead needed to act them out.

Which meant that Jazz would need to find out all the books he'd written and then read them. A hell of a reward for surviving an interrogation.

Later. Right now he had a Decepticon to help defect.

"What happens," Jazz asked, "if the mech you gave that loyalty to...doesn't give it back?"

Soundwave looked away, his hands moving in front of himself as some kind of protection against what Jazz was saying. Jazz wiggled on his knees, doing a mental fist pump. Yes, got him on ropes, time to put him down.

"Or when the cause changes so much that it isn't the same cause anymore?" Jazz said. "Do you owe loyalty to the dream if it ain't the dream no more?"

"Stop," Soundwave said, choking on static, backing up until he hit the door. "Autobot, silence required."

"If this Megatron ain't the same mech you followed before," Jazz continued, "then what's keeping you here?"

"Loyalty, most basic core programming," Soundwave cried out, pressing his hands against his optics. Sparks crackled behind his finger and, somewhere inside his cortex, Soundwave's own neural processors began to burn with the strain. "Disloyal carrier model, worthless. Soundwave, superior, therefore cannot be disloyal."

"And yet you confessed all this to an Autobot," Jazz said. "Megatron's enemy."

A high pitched wail of static and groaning servos followed, and Soundwave collapsed to one knee. Sparks fired along his joints as he waged internal war against himself. Core programming was everything from Jazz's need to move and Soundwave's loyalty to basic functions of processing energon or sending fuel from one end of his body to the other. To fight against one aspect of programming was as disastrous as fighting the other. They might as well try to tell electricity to flow backwards.

"You've already betrayed him," Jazz said. "'Cause you didn't want me here just to play out your little fantasies-"

"Silence," Soundwave cried, trying to cover his main audios. "Autobot will be silent. Autobot-"

"'Autobot, welcome to experiment and find out'," Jazz reminded him. "You'd already decided to defect. You just needed me to repeat out loud everything you already knew."

Soundwave glitched. Hard. Jazz had seen it happen enough times to Prowl to recognize the signs. His frame jerked and went rigid, then trembled and finally slumped against the wall, with tiny sounds of servos grinding and falling silent. His optics dulled and went out, staring at nothing.

Jazz stood up and went over to him, waving his hand in front of Soundwave's optics. No reaction. Satisfied, he leaned down and wrapped the chain around the Decepticon's wrists. The welding torch still lay where Soundwave had left it, and in a moment, Jazz had him effectively bound.

"Let's see if we can't get a ride home," Jazz muttered, scanning the empty room.

It was heavily lead-lined to prevent signals in or out, but he guessed that Soundwave hadn't brought him somewhere around other Decepticons. Was this one of their outposts? Well, first things first—he retrieved his visor and snapped it back into place, then set about trying to escape.

When the door wouldn't open for him, he knelt down and grabbed the edge of Soundwave's chest plating, pulling it back with a loud screech of tortured steel. The sound made him wince but he didn't stop until he revealed a massive set of wires, processors and chips.

"I really hope you don't wake up for awhile," Jazz muttered, beginning to pull out a couple of cords and stripping their insulation, twisting the ends together. "'Cause this'll hurt a lot if you do."

As much as it hurt when Jazz did the same to his left hand. Patching himself into Soundwave's sytems would have been a lot easier, but no way was he hooking his cortex up to Megatron's communications officer. There was always the chance that all of this had been a trick, and it was safer to simply hijack Soundwave's hardware than isolate and wrestle his software.

"Anyone out there?" he called, broadcasting via Soundwave on the usual channel.

Long minutes passed as he tried to boost the signal without triggering Soundwave's higher functions. Jazz tapped his fingers on the other mech's thigh, looking him over as he waited for Blaster to hear him.

Crumpled up like this, Soundwave looked like a broken doll, and his overly expressive optics looked soft and empty. Jazz knew it was normal for a mech to gaze into the distance after a glitch, but he cupped Soundwave's face in his hand, idly running one thumb under his optics. All those vorns of fighting and Soundwave had kept his visor and faceplate as a shield.

Jazz wondered if he was the first one to see the mech's expressions in all that time.

Thin and full of static, Blaster's voice came through about as well as if they were using a cup and string to talk, but it sounded beautiful to Jazz.

"-Jazz? Jazz, that you?"

He grinned. "Yup, ten four, good buddy. I had a hot load but I'm good to go. Could use a pick up, though."

"Roger that," Blaster said with a laugh. "Tracking you down now. Man, you have no idea how nuts we've been going over here."

"Oh, it's been interesting on this side, too," Jazz said. "When you send my ride, make sure it's got room for two."

"You bringing company?"

Jazz's smile only spread, satisfied as he looked over his prize.

"Oh, you'll never guess who I'm bringing home for dinner."

Chapter Text

When the door opened, three mechs came in, weapons drawn, securing the room. What they found was Jazz in a corner with Soundwave unconscious on his lap. Their commander turned down Madonna's Ray of Light and smiled up at his Spec Ops bots with a weary grin.

"Took y'all awhile," he said. "Are we a long way from the Ark?"

"You could say that." Mirage exchanged a look with Smokescreen and Bumblebee. "Why is...?"

"Long story," Jazz said, optics closed. "Real long story."

"So that's what he looks like." Smokescreen leaned closer, staring at Soundwave's uncovered face. "Huh. Always thought he'd have red optics."

Done clearing the room, Bumblebee went back to the door and waved at someone out of sight. "It's all clear! One wounded, one prisoner."

"'Bout time," a familiar voice grumbled, and Ratchet edged past him with First Aid at his side. "Who's the prisoner—whoa."

"No no, it's okay," Jazz said quickly, holding his hand out as the medics took a step back. "He's out. He ain't gonna wake back up until you reboot him."

"...I trust you," Ratchet nodded, kneeling beside Soundwave and tilting the Decepticon's helm to the side, popping one of his smaller panels and examining his analog switches. "But I'll feel better once I see for myself. First Aid, take care of Jazz."

"Yes sir," First Aid said, kneeling beside Jazz. "Tell me what hurts."

"All things considered, it ain't that bad," Jazz said, nodding at his hand. "I had to peel his armor back. Same with my hand. He's glitched pretty bad. Other than that...not much to report."

"Maybe not to me, but everyone else is gonna be interested in this guy." First Aid pulled out a diagnostic kit and plugged it into Jazz's hand port, skimming the code flashing across the screen. "Hang on. I wanna make sure he didn't upload anything nasty into you."

"No rush," Jazz sighed. "It's been a hell of an orn."

"I can guess."

Jazz lay still, venting in relief as First Aid finally disengaged all of his pain receptors, and then watching as Ratchet completed a surface scan of Soundwave's systems. After several kliks and a shared look between the two medics, Ratchet nodded once, and the smaller bot went outside without a word.

"Okay," Ratchet said, turning and helping Jazz sit up completely. "We're gonna take you out on First Aid. I'd rather fix you up on the road. What about Soundwave?"

Jazz's smile faded. "Yeah, we're taking him, but don't let him wake up. Not yet."

"You sure you wanna keep him?" Ratchet asked. "He's not gonna be easy to hang onto. Do we really wanna risk bringing him back?"

"Yeah, we do," Jazz nodded. "It's part of that long story, but he's coming with us. If he don't glitch up again, he shouldn't give us any problem."

Ratchet looked skeptical, but he didn't argue. He ordered Jazz's mechs to carry both Soundwave and their commander into First Aid's alt mode, ignoring Jazz's grumble that he didn't need carrying. When eased inside the ambulance, Jazz insisted on sitting up, watching as Soundwave was unceremoniously slid onto the floor, and then Ratchet sat on Soundwave while working on Jazz's hand.

The place Soundwave had stashed him turned out to be little more than an outpost, but Jazz ordered Mirage and Smokescreen to stay and scout it properly. That left him with Bumblebee driving ahead of First Aid, keeping an eye out for any Decepticons. After several kliks, however, Jazz noticed another car behind them, then another.

"Hey, we picking up an entourage?" he asked.

"Just the twins for now," Ratchet said. "In a couple more miles, Hound'll join up with us."

"Not taking any chances with him, huh?"

"Prowl ordered it," Ratchet said, finally satisfied with Jazz's hand and closing the small access panel. "I think we'll have Tracks and Warpath by the time we finally reach the Ark."

Jazz chuckled. "Should'a told Prowl I didn't need groupies."

"More like making sure you don't slip out of sight," Ratchet said, "and leave him alone with this mess."

Ratchet knocked his knuckles on Soundwave's case. Both of them glanced at his face to make sure he was still out, but Soundwave hadn't twitched. Even his optics had frozen in the middle of changing inner lenses.

"So now that we got some time, dish," Ratchet said. "How'd you take him out?"

Suddenly finding the window fascinating, Jazz stared at the flat desert road behind them for several seconds before he answered.

"I...out-logic'ed him."

Ratchet laughed. "Cute. Like I'd ever believe that."

"Nothing but the truth," Jazz said. "And I just used Soundwave's own arguments. We'll have to check his code out completely, but if he's on the up and up, we may have ourselves our highest level defector."

Ratchet's smile faded into shock. "What?"

"Yup. That's what made him glitch up." Jazz shrugged. "Loyalty programming just couldn't take it."

"Whoa." Ratchet laughed once, disbelieving and faint. "Okay, you can't just lead in like that and not tell me everything."

"Cut me some slack, Jack." Jazz leaned back, helm thunking on First Aid's side as he shut his optics. "You'll get to read the report anyway and—"

His fingers swept against something small, almost knocking it off the seat. He caught it just in time, then frowned. It was a datapad, and it was still set on the last file it had opened.

Mirage reclined in the comforting ring of Hound's arms, both brave mechs content to take their ease together after the terrible battle, watching the clouds drift by on azure breezes as the earth's golden star sank, painting the sky in hues of lavender and fiery scarlet. The sapphire waters lapped at the sandy shore, bringing with the night wind the evening's cool wind and the sound of swans floating in idle repose and gently honking.

"That's it," he growled, tossing the datapad aside and crossing his arms, sinking down in his seat. "I'm going into recharge. Wake me up when we get there."

"Awww..." Ratchet groaned in disappointment, then snapped at his fellow medical bot. "First Aid!"

"Sorry," the ambulance said around them. "I forgot I it was in my compartment before we left."

By the time they arrived, Jazz was left with random slow downs and overclocks in his cortex, the effect of a light recharge while his chassis compensated for all the bumps in the road. As they came to a stop, Ratchet stepped out of the ambulance first, giving Jazz a hand so he didn't topple out in an undignified heap, and Jazz stretched the cords and wires that had grown crimped during transit.

Five mechs rolled up behind them, joining the seven or eight mechs standing with weapons drawn, all pointing at First Aid's hatch.

"For crying out loud..." the ambulance grumbled. "He's still unconscious. Get your rifles off my aft before someone gets twitchy."

Officially First Aid ranked below Ratchet, and several of the snipers around them had orders from Prowl himself to maintain the highest alert. However, no one disobeyed medical bots, and with some embarrassed coughs and sputters, everyone lowered their barrels toward the ground. From behind them, Optimus came forward, a noticeably grumpy Ironhide in tow.

"Good to see you back," Prime said, looking Jazz over. "When Soundwave made off with you, we feared the worst."

"You're sure he's unconscious?" Ironhide asked, making way as Ratchet pulled out First Aid's stretcher with Soundwave lying limp on top, still in chains. "Did you get all his weaponry?"

"Yes, mom," Ratchet snarked as he passed. "I just rode with the slag right under me. Of course I made sure he was out."

"I think you offended him," First Aid said to Ironhide as he transformed, running after Ratchet and yelling over his shoulder. "I'll send you a report as soon as we're done!"

"Autobots," Prime said to the rest of the mechs standing guard. "Escort our prisoner along with Ratchet to the brig's medical bay. Red Alert is standing by with further orders."

Jazz looked up at Ironhide and Optimus, assuming that command didn't apply to him, and he walked with the two of them, rotating his shoulder to work out a kink in the line. As they walked through the Ark's wide main corridor, Ironhide gave Jazz a once over, tallying up the dents and scuff marks he'd accumulated.

"Not bad for an interrogation," Ironhide said. "Gotta admit, I knew you'd get outta there, but I thought you'd be a lot worse for wear."

"He wasn't out to torture me," Jazz said, yawning and leaning against the wall as they walked. "He wanted me to convince him to defect."

"First Aid mentioned that," Prime shook his head once. "I wish I could believe it so easily. Soundwave is Megatron's most loyal soldier."

"It's dangerous just having him here," Ironhide added. "He's gonna have to give us some pretty damn good reasons to keep him around instead of putting a bullet through his spark."

"Well, hold off on that option for a little while, 'kay?" Jazz said. "If Ratchet can get him online without glitching, I'd like to keep talking to him."

"You think he's legit?" Ironhide asked, a little surprised. "Really?"

Jazz nodded. "If Ratchet says he's lying, I'll be the first one to put him down, but...yeah. Yeah, I think this was for real."

"Well," Optimus said, "you'll have time. Prowl's only waiting on your debriefing before he heads down to interrogate Soundwave."

Groaning, Jazz turned and walked backward, staying a few steps ahead of the pair. Before Jazz even began to speak, Ironhide started to smile, knowing exactly what Jazz was thinking.

"Prowl's gonna have to wait," Jazz said, giving a little apologetic nod to Optimus. "I just handed over Soundwave on a silver platter, and I am running on fumes. I need time in the racks, I need energon, and I need to recharge. Then I'm all yours, I promise!"

Optimus chuckled. "I told Prowl you might not be up to a debriefing."

"Really?" Jazz clasped his hands behind his back, dodging between two mechs that hadn't noticed him coming up behind them. "And what'd Prowl say?"

"That normally he'd understand," Optimus said, "but that this was clearly not normal circumstances. He expects you in his office immediately."

"Slaggin' taskmaster," Jazz muttered. He glanced around, spotted Blaster coming down the hall and deftly snagged the datapad out of his hand. "Thank you very much!"

"Whoa, no no no-" Blaster cried, hand out, reaching for it and missing. "Don't look-!"

"Hey, you knew it'd be confiscated!" Jazz snapped, barely glancing at the screen.

-"I'm scared," Red Alert whispered, pressing his fist to his mouth. "Will it hurt?"

Inferno chuckled and leaned close-

"Can't you stop reading these for five kliks?" Jazz grumbled, backtracking out of the story and into the main forum. A quick search later and he flipped the datapad to Ironhide, who caught it in one hand.

"There ya go," Jazz said. "Spec Ops Mission 98—my report, the short version, courtesy of one messed up Soundwave. Did you know that mech thinks he's a writer? Maybe our commo officer here can tell us what else he's written."

Jazz made his getaway as Optimus and Ironhide both stared at the datapad, with Blaster trying to sneak away. As soon as they cried out in unison "'Jazz's Interrogation at Soundwave's Pedes'?" Blaster was then trapped between the Prime and his bodyguard, suddenly the best bot to question and the best distraction Jazz could've asked for.

Once he'd rounded the corner, Jazz broke into a run. Prowl might be in his office, but when the reluctant third in command didn't show up in the next breem, the second in command would stalk every inch of the Ark for him. Prowl, true to his name, was one of the few mechs clever and tenacious enough to find Jazz when he didn't want to be found.

So he was heading for the one place Prowl wouldn't look, at least not for a full recharge cycle, and there would be a berth and a wash rack he could use. Jazz snuck down into the living quarters, heading along the officer's row. There were no other mechs in sight, but he still looked up and down the corridor before breaking into Prowl's cabin.

"Why do you keep changing the locks?" Jazz said to himself, taking only an extra moment to access the maintenance subroutine and overriding the passcode altogether. "You know I'm gonna get in anyway."

The door slid open, and Jazz took one step in before coming to a halt.

Prowl sat on his berth, a cube of energon beside him, facing Jazz with perfect calm.

"I know," Prowl said. "But it gives me a moment's warning when I hear you whispering to yourself."

Jazz's doorwings drooped and he started to backpedal.

"Spec Ops Commander Jazz," Prowl said, interrupting his flight. "I order you to come in here for your debriefing."

A whimper rose out of the back of Jazz's processor. With his helm hung low, Jazz shut the door behind himself and padded over to the berth, plopping down by Prowl.

"Prowler," Jazz groaned, putting his helm in his hands, "you gotta believe me. I ain't got a debriefing in me. I'm gonna fall over any minute now."

"I understand," Prowl said. "You may give me the short version with the highlights, recharge, and then give me the rest of the details afterward."

"Uh huh," Jazz sighed, "sure. Your idea of highlights and my idea of-huh?"

Prowl held out the energon cube, not letting go when Jazz put his hands around it. Jazz only then noticed that his hands were shaking. Prowl had to hold the cube steady for him as he drank, and the sudden rush of energy made Jazz lightheaded. He started to tip to one side, resting gratefully on Prowl's offered shoulder.

"Oh wow," Jazz said, coughing once. "Wow. I'm more tired than I thought."

"So tell me what happened," Prowl said, "and then you can recharge."

Several breems later, Jazz sipped at the cube and relaxed more and more against Prowl, explaining what Soundwave had said, the physical interfacing—he squirmed at talking about that out loud, but Prowl said nothing except to prompt him to take another sip—and finally how he'd made Soundwave glitch.

By the time he reached the part about calling for help, Jazz found himself lying curled up on the berth, floating in an over-energized haze. Prowl leaned over him, saying something about resting and meeting him as soon as he woke up, and Jazz watched him leave, a dark silhouette in the doorway.

Chapter Text

Much later, after a session in the wash racks and finishing off the last bit of energon left in the cube, Jazz felt up to facing his fellow officers. A few chips in his helm were still out of synch, running a little too fast or too slow, but they were only a nanoklik off and would even out by the time he made it to the brig.

Halfway there, he heard Bumblebee's familiar pedes clunking up behind him, and he slowed his steps for the smaller bot.

"Boss!" Bumblebee caught up, leaning forward to see his face. "Where you headed?"

"Down to visit our guest," Jazz told him. "Maybe swing by Red Alert's, see if Megatron's noticed we got his boombox."

Darting in front, Bumblebee walked backwards, ducking to one side when Jazz motioned and avoiding knocking into two mechs.

"Is it true Soundwave defected?" Bumblebee asked. "Ratchet's been down there for ages. He only came up for energon and he said that Soundwave's been glitching ever since he came in."

"He has?" Jazz frowned. That wasn't good. A glitch could a mech into full system crash, and sometimes mechs didn't come back. "Ratchet say anything else?"

"Just that he sounds crazy, like when Red Alert glitched."

Bumblebee looked over his shoulder when they came to the stairs, using the railing to guide himself down, still backwards. Inconvenient, but no Spec Ops bot took the elevators if there were stairs or ramps nearby.

"You don't think that's why he defected, do you?" Bumblebee asked. "'Cause he glitched and blew all his logic circuits?"

Jazz shook his helm once. "No, I don't think so. I got to talk to him for a good long while. I won't argue he's all messed up, but I think that's 'cause he wanted to defect, not why."

"Huh?" Bumblebee tilted his head. "Then how come he wrote all those Spec Ops books?"

Jazz came to a halt, looking up and down the staircase to make sure they were alone.

"All right," he said, leaning in and whispering. "You tell anyone I asked for this and I will have you on perimeter duty for the next hundred vorns, you got that?"

Optics widening, Bumblebee nodded once without a sound.

"I'm serious," Jazz said. "I'm about to ask you something, and if I ever hear anything about it from anyone else, I will send you down to Ratchet for spare parts. And don't think he won't use 'em."

"I promise," Bumblebee said, nodding vigorously.

"Good." Jazz took another look around the stairwell, then switched to their internal com for good measure.

I need you send Spec Ops Mission 98 to my personal datapad, he said.

Ohhh, Jazz's Interrogation at Soundwave's Pedes, Bumblebee nodded once.

And then his jaw dropped.

"Oh Primus, no way," Bumblebee gasped.

Jazz grabbed his shoulders and shook him once, looking around again in a panic. Still no one around.

"Not a sound!" he snapped. "And 'Bee, you are way too into this if you knew that off the top of your cortex."

Sorry, Bumblebee answered internally. It's just that after you came back, all the stuff with you and Soundwave turned red hot. It wasn't that much before—I mean, you and Prowl were always more popular—

Bumblebee squeaked and backed up straight into the wall. It didn't help. Jazz didn't loom over him, but his visor burned white hot into his cortex. Other bots wondered what Jazz looked like under the visor. The Spec Ops bots all prayed they never found out.

—but now it's like everyone's pulling up all the old stories with Soundwave and there's a bunch of them in the Spec Ops Mission series.

Jazz scowled. "And you have all of them?"

Bumblebee shook his head. "No way. None of us touched anything with you in it. Well, except the Decepticon brothel one and I didn't realize it kinda mentioned you—uh, but that's not really important," he said in a rush, scrunching down as Jazz came closer. "Blaster! Blaster has all of them!"

"...Blaster, huh?" Jazz said slowly.

"Prime and Prowl are already talking to him," Bumblebee said. "I think they're sorting out which ones Soundwave might've written."

"Huh." Jazz crossed his arms, thinking, then sighed and clapped one hand on Bumblebee's shoulder. "Relax. Listen, send me that story and then get Mirage and anyone else to help figure out which ones Soundwave probably wrote. Send those to me, too."

"Gotcha, boss," Bumblebee said, watching him turn and head down the stairs. "Where are you going?"

"Brig," Jazz said. "I gotta stop a 'Con from glitching before I can ask him anything."

A nasty thought struck Jazz, a hypothetical title that would probably crop up on the hidden forum. Spec Ops Mission whatever: Soundwave, Prisoner of Jazz's Revenge. He grimaced and decided, Prime's order be damned, he was going to delete that whole forum.

The brig was not a pleasant place. The Ark had several cells, but the Autobots needed them so rarely that most of them had been converted into storage. Only three cells saw actual use. The first one was reserved for Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, usually only for overnight energizing bouts so they could clear their helms. The second occasionally held various mechs who needed a firm scolding before being assigned punishment duty.

And the third one held the rare prisoner of war. Some of them defected. Most of them only left grayed out and dead.

Jazz hated shooting prisoners, but at the same time it was easier than shooting them on the battlefield where they could kill him in turn. After so long, better a quick bang and then he could overenergize with Blaster and his crew, and watch his bots dance, safe and sound.

"'Bout time you showed up," Ratchet said, not bothering to turn from his console as Jazz came in. "I'm this close to putting a round through his spark just to put him out of his misery."

Frowning, Jazz came up behind him and studied what he recognized as Soundwave's schematics on the screen. All of the Decepticon's processes lay bare, every weak spot and flawed system, the result of Ratchet's intense scan and analysis. From the warning lights around Soundwave's cortex, Jazz guessed at the problem.

"Can't stop glitching?" he asked, turning and leaning against the console, arms crossed.

"I can't figure it," Ratchet snapped, waving one hand uselessly at the screen. "I can bring him out of reboot just fine, but a couple breems into normal functioning, he just starts sparking and repeating himself and then he crashes."

"What's he repeating?"

"Carrier model, programming failure," Ratchet sighed. He leaned back in his chair, one hand over his optics. "I dunno, Jazz. I checked all his programming. Every damn line of code."

"Nothing?"

"Not a Primus damned thing," Ratchet said. He sighed and looked up at Jazz. "I'll be honest. I've seen this before. The war gets to be too much and mechs just start breaking. But I've never seen it in a war build."

"Well," Jazz said, pushing away from the console and heading for the cell. "Let's see if I can't work a little magic. Open 'er up, will ya?"

"You sure? Glitched or not, he's still dangerous."

Jazz leaned on the door and stood on the tips of his pedes, peering through the bars.

In the far corner of the cell, Soundwave sat slumped against the wall, legs curled against his chest, helm tipped forward and his optics empty. His chest armor had been peeled away completely, pain servos fully disengaged, and his inner circuits lay exposed for Ratchet's access. Jazz grimaced. They'd never come so close to holding such a high level prisoner, with all those juicy Decepticon secrets and protocols and plans in his cortex, but there was something pathetic in taking it out of a glitched mech.

The lock clicked, and Jazz went in and closed the door behind himself again. He knelt by Soundwave, spotting the stasis cuffs that had replaced the chains. With a rueful smile, he put his hand on Soundwave's shoulder, then reached for the exposed circuitry on his chest. Jazz wasn't a medical bot, but he'd restarted mechs on the battlefield under fire. He touched, and Soundwave responded.

Golden optics glowed, then blazed brightly. With his joints groaning in protest, Soundwave straightened out, putting his hand up to his optics and fumbling for his visor before he realized he wasn't wearing it.

"Sorry," Jazz grinned, unrepentant. "Left it behind. Only one bot here's cool enough for a visor."

Soundwave stared at him for a moment, looking down at Jazz's red insignia, then at his own purple mark, or where it would have been if his panel hadn't been removed. The sight of his own inner workings seemed to stymie him so that he tried to cover himself with one hand.

"Soundwave...broken?"

That he was confused after coming out of reboot was not unusual. That the third ranking Decepticon looked at Jazz for some kind of confirmation startled both of them.

"You don't remember anything?" Jazz asked, looking at him askance. "About loyalty and defecting and that damn story of yours?"

Soundwave blinked, silent as he called up the memories. Jazz waited, studying him for the first sign of-

"Carrier model, program failure," Soundwave whispered, sitting rigidly straight. One hand slid against the wall, trying to find something to hold onto as his logic circuits began to spark. "Carrier model, program failure."

"Nope," Jazz said, grabbing Soundwave's helm and forcing him to meet his look. "Carrier model, program normal."

"Carrier model exhibiting extreme disloyalty," Soundwave said, hissing static. "Carrier malfunctioning."

"Carrier model not malfunctioning," Jazz insisted.

"Fatal error. Fatal error. Carrier mode-"

"You stubborn mech," Jazz said over him. "You say you're disloyal? To what?"

"Megatron-"

"Did you swear loyalty to Megatron?" Jazz demanded, leaning so close that their faces were only inches apart. "Dashing, heroic Megatron swearing to save Cybertron?"

"Megatron, object of this carrier's loyalty-"

"Is he?" Jazz said. "Or did you swear loyalty to what he said he wanted?"

Soundwave didn't answer, beginning to arch backward, shrieking digital noise as the glitching began to cycle in a vicious loop through his cortex. Jazz raised his voice, afraid that Soundwave couldn't hear him over his own pain.

"'Cause I think this carrier model is functioning properly," Jazz said. "You swore loyalty when Megatron said he wanted to save Cybertron. When you couldn't believe that anymore, you looked for a way out. Because you're loyal."

"Keep it up!" From outside, Ratchet yelled over Soundwave's shrieks and the medical alerts sounding at his console. "He's right at the edge, but he's holding steady--just keep it up!"

"You got stuck between a rock and a hard place," Jazz pressed. "You wanted to save the planet from the Senate and the evil Primes."

Soundwave had stopped struggling, grasping at the wall, seizing up so tightly that his internal frame began to groan and crack under the pressure.

"But then Megatron turned into something as nasty as the Senate he got rid of," Jazz said. "And your programming knew something was wrong."

Soundwave's static went back to a low hiss, but if that was because he was listening or because he'd simply run out of energy, Jazz couldn't tell. He couldn't ask Ratchet for help—if he stopped talking, Soundwave might stop fighting his own cortex.

"Your programming is working fine," Jazz said. "You can't be disloyal 'cause you're loyal to saving Cybertron. You just can't keep lying to yourself."

Soundwave's optics were already flickering. With a heavy vent, Jazz looked down in defeat. He didn't need Ratchet to tell him the mech was on the edge. Jazz had held Prowl while he slipped into a crash, and he knew what it looked like.

"Programming...stable?"

Jazz's head snapped up. "Yes, your programming's stable. Damn, mech, do you ever use your linking verbs?"

Soundwave's static faded. His vents came in short, sharp bursts. He barely moved, staring at the ceiling, trembling with the effort to somehow hold himself up out of a system crash.

"Carrier model, systems operational?"

"Yes," Jazz said, sliding his hand to Soundwave's arm, leaning over him and grabbing his other hand. "You got your loyalty for Cybertron mixed up with Megatron, that's all, and your programming has to readjust."

Soundwave relaxed enough to slowly relax into the corner again. His arm slipped down and lay on his lap. He sucked in a long, shaky vent.

"Soundwave, loyalty to Megatron...false."

Jazz bit his lip. Soundwave was still staring at the ceiling, processing what Jazz had said, what he remembered, and what he knew now. If Jazz pushed, he could lose the gains he'd made, but how nerve-wracking it was to hear Soundwave parsing out his loyalties.

"Soundwave, desire to restore Cybertron. Decepticons, no longer working to that goal. Therefore...Soundwave's goals no longer align with Decepticons."

Waiting for Soundwave to continue, Jazz hesitated for several long seconds. When nothing else came, he eased close enough to hear Soundwave's low vents and the tiny servos in his chest whining with activity.

"Who does Soundwave align with, then?"

A long pause followed as Soundwave considered that. With slow blinks, Soundwave shook his helm and faced him.

"...not known yet."

Chapter Text

Jazz came out of the cell on edge and not a little twitchy. He plopped down on the floor next to Ratchet's chair, venting hard, and took the offered energon cube with a nod of thanks.

"You doing okay?" Ratchet asked. "You look rougher than when you walked in."

"I just talked a Decepticon down from the edge," Jazz said, sighing after a long drink. "S'worse than watching to see if Prowl's gonna glitch. At least he just kind of slumps over a bit."

"Soundwave's dramatic that way, huh?" Ratchet leaned back in his chair and flipped a few diagrams on his console. "He's doing okay in there. Holding steady."

"Think he'll crash again?" Jazz asked.

"Maybe," Ratchet said. "His logic circuits are still pulling overtime. But I think you did it. If he doesn't crash for the next hour, he should be outta danger."

"Good," Jazz said firmly. "'Cause I don't wanna do that again."

Jazz took another long drink, finishing the cube, and tossed it idly between his hands. He didn't like watching another mech crash. It felt like watching a long death. Worse was when the mech came out of a crash missing chunks of himself. That Prowl was still Prowl was enough reason to believe in Primus. For crashes as violent as Soundwave suffered, Jazz was amazed he'd come back each time to the same mental spot.

"There's no doubt then," Ratchet said. "Soundwave's really defecting."

Jazz tilted his head. "Yeah."

"That'll make for an interesting report to Optimus," Ratchet said. He glanced down at Jazz, his tone overly casual. "So...how'd you talk him into it?"

Jazz tilted his head just enough to see him from the corner of his optic. "Now I know you ain't insinuating what I think you are."

"Hey, I don't think it was anything trashy," Ratchet defended himself. "That's First Aid. Found out he's one of the worst ones for that slag."

"And you let him live?" Jazz said.

"Couldn't help it," Ratchet vented. "He said he doesn't read anything but fluffy romances and no hard interfacing. Said it helped with the stress of the job."

"And you believed him?" Jazz laughed. "You're getting soft in your old age."

"You know what he gets like," Ratchet grumbled. "It's not like I found out until his slip today. And...well, it's not really so bad. Not once you get over the shock of it, I mean."

A long hiss came from Jazz's filter as it cleared. First Ironhide, now Ratchet. And Red Alert had read enough to bother Ironhide. If things kept up this way, soon the whole officers cadre wouldn't mind the damn stories. Except for Jazz.

The sound of pedes on the steel floor came from the corridor. Jazz half smiled even as he stood up in one fluid movement. One of the few perks of his rank was that there were only a handful of bots he had to stand up for, and only one of them purposefully scuffed his pedes so that Jazz didn't startle.

"There you are," Jazz said. "Finished running Blaster over the coals?"

Prowl's face remained neutral. "Blaster has been quite useful in narrowing which stories Soundwave might have written. You seem to have featured quite prominently in all of them."

A snort of repressed laughter sort of snuck out of Ratchet, who squashed it with a quick cough of his intake.

"Soundwave was writing stories?"

Jazz crossed his arms and found the far wall suddenly fascinating.

"Quite a few," Prowl said, holding up his datapad. "All of them in the Spec Ops Mission series. Jazz's Raid on the Cloud Seeders' Hanger, Strict Discipline Between Officers, He Wouldn't Surrender, Soft Cables for Decepticon Desire—"

"Okay!" Jazz groaned. "We get it. Soundwave's got a thing for me."

He shot a look at Ratchet, who was no longer hiding his snickering. With an apologetic wave, the medibot sat back down and went back to monitoring Soundwave's processes.

"Not just a thing," Prowl said. "Yes, you feature heavily in them, but all of them involve you offering strong arguments to join the Autobot faction."

"Huh." Jazz pursed his lips, mulling that over. "You think he was working out his issues?"

"I think so," Prowl agreed. He tucked the datapad away again, looking over Ratchet's shoulder. "How is our prisoner doing?"

"Steady, now that Jazz stabilized him," Ratchet said with only the ghost of a smile at Jazz's expense. "He's still on the floor, though. Hasn't moved since."

"After all that flailing, I ain't surprised," Jazz said. "And why me? Why not write about Optimus? He's the one good with speeches."

"Serious?" Ratchet turned in his chair, rolling his optics at him. "You can't figure out why he chose you?"

"Hell, Blaster would make more sense," Jazz said.

Prowl lifted his head slightly, picking his words carefully.

"You're the one who would understand the Decepticons the most," he said, "since you're the one most often observing behind enemy lines. Your unconventional outlook would make you the most likely to listen and offer an argument."

"Nah," Ratchet said with a broad grin. "It's easier than that."

Jazz and Prowl both looked at him.

"He's shiny," Ratchet said with all the confidence of an official diagnosis. "Compact enough to be cute, dangerous enough to take seriously. And shiny. Look at that visor and tell me he ain't."

Heat flooded Jazz's face and throat cables as Prowl actually looked. And tipped his helm in appreciation.

"Very true," Prowl said. "Jazz is...shiny."

Jazz cleared his intake with a sharp glare at the both of them. "Okay, you two, we're talking about Soundwave now."

"True," Prowl nodded, conceding the point. "Is Soundwave up to an interrogation? His information grows less viable the longer we wait."

"Mm, can't say," Jazz said. "He's not sure where his loyalties lie right now. I don't think he's gonna go back to Megatron, but now we need to give him a reason to join us."

Ratchet turned and keyed up another window on his console, setting it to play. "You need to watch this before you start asking any questions. It's from Jazz going into the cell to when Soundwave finally stopped glitching. It'll catch you up to speed."

"I'll be up to speed," Prowl said, giving Jazz a look, "when I have the rest of the Third's report."

Rolling his optics, Jazz waved his hand at him. "You'll get it, relax. I just wanted to check on Soundwave before I started downloading the whole mess."

"You knew he'd still be crashing?" Prowl asked.

"Call it a hunch," Jazz half-shrugged. "Guess I got a thing for mechs that glitch."

If Prowl's armor could ruffle, it would have. Suddenly Ratchet had sat back down and toggled a few switches back and forth, his helm down with one audio up.

"Perhaps I was hasty," Prowl said with narrowing optics, "in letting you give me only the short version. What happened in Soundwave's interrogation chamber clearly affected you more deeply than you let on."

"It ain't like that," Jazz said, frowning as he faced him. "And you know it. I ain't one for being tossed over another mech's shoulder, but that wasn't a normal interrogation—that was Soundwave with more screws loose than if he'd been in a fight."

"And he never interfaced with you?" Prowl said, stepping closer so that they were bumper to bumper. "No crossed wires?"

"No," Jazz snapped. "And you'll see that when you get my download. But he's the biggest catch we've had in vorns and...I've seen what glitching does to a mech."

Jazz's voice dropped in pitch, and he switched to their internal communication relay. It didn't matter that Ratchet was there. He would have done it if they were alone. Something so intimate was only intimately spoken of.

I hate seeing you glitch, Jazz said. And I know what has to happen to bring you to that point. So when it happened to him, it just...I dunno. Struck a chord.

Dipping his helm, shying away from looking at Prowl, Jazz took the Second's hand, holding it and worrying at it.

Crashing looks like it hurts.

After a moment's hesitation, Prowl returned the hold.

"It does," Prowl said abruptly, cutting off his internal relay. It was not something he could talk about casually, no matter how sparkfelt Jazz's feelings were. He squeezed Jazz's hand, trying to offer an apology that way.

"His crash...was very painful, then?"

Jazz nodded once. "I made him crash the first time."

A moment passed. When Ratchet realized that Jazz wasn't going to continue, he picked up, displaying the sequence of Soundwave's crashes from his first time waking up in his cell to when Jazz finally talked him down.

"He ain't the type to come back online better than before," Ratchet said, obliquely referring to Prowl. "He starts where he left off, so he was caught in a loop. His code seems fine, but since I don't know what he started out with, Primus knows if he lost anything."

"Then I'll use a light touch," Prowl said, letting go of Jazz's hand. "But this can't wait. Jazz, if you've been key to his stability, perhaps you should accompany—"

An alert sounded on the brig computer, a low level signal that didn't start up anyone's main battle subroutine. Ratchet tapped the button that brought up the Ark's emergency communication system and homed in on the source, the main entrance.

"Bumblebee calling Jazz, Bumblebee calling Jazz," came the bot's voice. "Or any officer if you're there."

Jazz leaned over Ratchet's shoulder and answered, mainly so that Prowl could hear the conversation.

"I hear ya, 'Bee. What's up?"

"We got a bit of a situation," Bumblebee said. "Visitors, actually. Four of them."

"Huh. Who?"

"Soundwave's casseticons," Bumblebee said, and now he sounded almost embarrassed. "I think they're trying to surrender."

Jazz shared a look with Prowl. "'Trying'?"

"Well, Frenzy's in the 'on his knees, hands behind his helm' pose, but Rumble's frame won't let him get his hands back there, and Ravage and Laserbeak...well, it'd be funny if wasn't those little slags."

"I'm on my way!" Jazz said, already running for the door. He turned, doing a half-step and waving at Prowl. "You coming or what?"

Shaking his helm, Prowl sighed and set about the work of outlining the questions for Soundwave. Tacticians were not designed for the snap judgments of dealing with an emotional standoff or surrender, but he could trust Jazz to deal with that, later analyzing the Third's field work. Then Prowl could get down to the task of deciding what to do with Soundwave's unholy terrors if and when they actually did surrender.

Chapter Text

Chaos swarmed the Ark's entrance. So many mechs lined the open doorway, weapons drawn, that Jazz wondered if they'd been tipped off to an ambush lying in wait. He spotted Bumblebee towards the front of the group, the only one who wasn't standing still, fidgeting from one pede to the other and looking around as if he expected a firefight to break out any second.

Which was entirely possible. Jazz spotted the troublemakers several dozen meters away, a little line of Soundwave's cassetticons facing the Ark and snapping at each other as if a dozen rifles weren't pointing towards them.

The tiny mechs were each a fraction of the size of a standard mech, but no one would make the mistake of underestimating them. Soundwave was so dangerous partly because he carried this army with him, and it was strange to see them giving themselves up.

Or trying to give themselves up. Frenzy and Rumble at least could assume something like the 'kneeling with hands behind the helm' pose of a textbook surrender, but Laserbeak could only stand there with her wings raised awkwardly and Ravage sat on his haunches, licking sand from his paw. It would have been comical if Ravage's razor claws weren't obvious.

"So what's the down low?" Jazz asked, coming up beside Bumblebee.

"They showed up a couple breems ago," Bumblebee said. "Mirage's out there looking around, but he hasn't seen any other 'Cons so far."

"So Soundwave's little monsters just stopped by for brunch?" Jazz asked. "Have they said anything?"

"I...hm," Bumblebee said slowly. "Not really? It's more like they're yelling at each other. I'd ask Blaster, but apparently he's stuck in a meeting with Prime."

"Huh, go fig," Jazz said without any sympathy. "Guess I'll mosey on over and say hi to the neighbors."

"You want some back up on that?" Bumblebee said. "Or you just gonna present them with an easy, high ranking target?"

"Hey," Jazz said, grinning over his shoulder. "Who you calling easy?"

Besides, he figured, nudging aside a mech with a rifle barrel as he walked out. I should have this kind of backup on a mission.

His fans whirled a little faster the moment he stepped into the sunlight. Even with the sun setting, the desert was murder on exposed steel, pulling a mech's temperature up so quickly that coolant could evaporate within a couple hours and rubber could melt to the asphalt. If Jazz felt the heat, then Soundwave's brats must have been broiling.

And yet they stayed there, kneeling in the sand. Ravage licked several burrs and sandbriars out of his wrist cabling, giving the rest of them a disdainful sniff, but he made no move to attack. And as Jazz came closer, he heard the rest of them snapping at each other.

"Ravage," Frenzy sighed, venting heavily in the sun, "seriously mech, you're gonna get us fragged if you don't do something to look surrendery."

Rumble glanced sideways at the feline mech, shoulders bowing further as he used his upraised arms to shade himself.

"Please," he groaned. "I don't wanna risk melting just to end up getting shot."

"Ravage, lay down and look helpless already!" Frenzy snapped.

"'Look' helpless?" Jazz asked, coming close enough to throw a long shadow over the four of them. "You got the entire Ark's attention. Now ain't the time to find out how twitchy those bots get."

"Oh slag," Rumble whimpered. "Oh slag oh slag—Frenzy, why'd you talk us into this? I don't wanna get slagged!"

"None of us wanna get slagged," Frenzy growled at him, then looked up, craning his neck to meet Jazz's visor. "You got the boss in here, right? Last known coordinates were coming this way, so he's here, yeah?"

"And how..." Jazz asked, kneeling down, "would you know where he was headed?"

"Well duh," Rumble said under his vent cycling. "Carrier model. We know."

"He said he was taking you back to outpost nine," Frenzy said, coughing out excess heat condensation. "But when he stopped pinging us, we knew something was wrong and we got back in time to see one last Autubot clearing things out and taking off."

Making a mental note to scold Smokescreen, Jazz nodded once at the small Decepticon. In the distance, heat waves curled up from the dust and made the desert shimmer. A tiny drop of coolant leaked from Laserbeak's eye and hissed along her beak, gone before it could drip.

"If we do have him," Jazz started, "and I'm not saying we do—"

"You have him?!" Rumble gasped, sitting up as if he'd taken a jolt of energon and scooting forward on his knees. "Please oh please take us to him, please—"

"Shut up," Frenzy snapped, and cuffed Rumble on the helm. "If you freak out, you're gonna get us shot, and then we won't see him!"

"You came all this way just to see Soundwave?" Jazz said, leaning closer to see optic to visor with him. Normally he never would have come this close, but the multiple red dots of laser scopes on all their helms reassured him that he was safe.

"You don't understand," Rumble said, ignoring how Frenzy cuffed him again. "You ain't a cassette. Soundwave's our carrier."

Laserbeak squawked in agreement.

"Okay then..." Jazz tilted his head. "Educate me. Why're all you little 'cons over here giving my mechs a great chance for target practice over one carrier?"

"You wanna recharge in some weird mech?" Rumble demanded. "'Cause I ain't going in some other carrier model."

"Yeah," said Frenzy. "It's the boss or nothing."

"He needs us," Rumble said. "He goes to pieces without us."

"Uh-huh." Jazz stood up, brushing sand off his knees. "And it wouldn't be 'cause four little cassettes ain't long for this world in the Decepticon army?"

Rumble and Frenzy shared a look with Ravage and Laserbeak. None of them argued, and even Ravage pawed at the dust, patting an imaginary glitchmouse.

"Well, I mean..." Rumble said.

"The boss has been messed up for awhile," Frenzy said, staring at a rock by Jazz's pedes. "Wouldn't say why. We knew it was getting bad, but..."

"He wouldn't just leave us," Rumble said. "I don't know why he came here without us, but he must of forgot us..."

"So we're surrendering," Frenzy said, and there were nods and murmurs from the other cassettes. "'Cause you got him here, right? We wanna surrender."

Jazz watched them for another moment. Laserbeak gave a dry cough, and Ravage bathed another paw, which only made the rest of his frame look even dustier. If he left them here, the four of them might just collapse and save them the trouble. How far had they traveled on their own just to get here?

"'Bee," Jazz said over his communication array, loud enough for the cassettes to hear. "We're gonna need the tiniest stasis cuffs we got. Bringing in four prisoners."

"Really?" Frenzy and Rumble both stared with dropped jaws and impossibly wide optics.

"Already there," Bumblebee said, "at your position."

Jazz chuckled. "Gotcha. Okay, my main 'bot, toss 'em to me."

On cue, Mirage dropped his invisibility screen, appearing next to Ravage and startling the cassette into Frenzy. Stasis cuffs went around Rumble and Frenzy's wrists, and with a little effort Ravage's as well, and the cuffs had to make a collar around Laserbeak. She squawked and rubbed her beak along the ground as if she could wipe off the sudden static clouding her receptors.

Feeling like the head of the most ridiculous parade, Jazz led them back to the Ark, holding Ravage's cuffs in one hand so the smaller mech could walk on his hind legs. That the cassette allowed it surprised him. From what little they knew about Soundwave's symbiotes, Ravage was the oldest of the four, dedicated to the Decepticons and an absolute whirlwind of claws and laserfire in battle. And now he allowed himself to be manhandled at Frenzy's behest. All for the sake of their carrier.

Jazz decided he needed to have a chat with Blaster, as soon as Prime was done with him.

"Brig?" Bumblebee asked when they came closer.

"Secondary brig," Jazz said, reverting to their internal comm before Bumblebee could voice his confusion.

I know, I know—it's a glorified supply closet. Get it cleared out. There's no way I'm putting these mechs in the same room as Soundwave, not yet.

Got it, boss, Bumblebee nodded, turning to go when they both heard a loud clang at their pedes.

Jazz looked down in shock. Frenzy had fallen facefirst onto the floor and lay still. Jazz's first thought was that an Autobot had shot him, but everyone else looked down in surprise and the other cassettes didn't.

"Oh...slag..." Rumble vented, leaning over his fallen comrade before going to one knee. "Aft'head, tol'ja we couldn't take the heat."

Okay, Jazz said to Bumblebee, already scooping up Rumble in his free hand. New plan. Grab Frenzy and let's head to the brig's medbay.

That ain't too close to Soundwave? Bumblebee asked, picking up Frenzy and holding him up for inspection.

Yeah, but I'd rather have four live aces to hold over him than just giving him a card and saying 'sorry for your loss'.

Chapter Text

With the symbiotes securely locked down in recharge and Ratchet yelling something about being taken for granted, Jazz skedaddled out of the brig and out of Ratchet's reach before the medbot could saddle him with babysitting duty. Too many things to do, and while he sympathized with him, Jazz simply couldn't let himself get bogged down in Decepticon daycare.

"You third-rate Third!" Ratchet yelled, throwing a spare lugnut at Jazz. "Quit solving your problems by dumping them on me!"

"Thank you, Ratchet!" Jazz said, ducking the lugnut and nudging two of their security escorts into the line of fire. "You mean the world to me, Ratchet! Couldn't do this without you, Ratchet!"

Leaving the two cowed mechs behind on guard duty, Jazz grabbed Bumblebee by the shoulders and steered him away from the brig, safely rescuing him from Ratchet's attentions. They moved at a quick trot, the medbot's yelling fading farther away as they took the stairs.

"It's only a couple unconscious symbiotes," Bumblebee swore as he ran beside Jazz. "The way Ratchet's yelling, you'd think we dropped the whole Spec Ops corps in there."

"I don't think he's forgiven us for the time we did," Jazz said. "Come on, we gotta get to Blaster before he goes into recharge."

As they came to the top of the stairwell, Jazz paused just long enough to make sure Bumblebee was keeping pace, then led him around several mechs in the corridor, ignoring the grumbling that there was no running in the halls. The main meeting room was just ahead, but the door was closed. No way of knowing if the meeting was still going, and Jazz wasn't about to just barge in on Prime like that. Maybe he could just peek in discreetly...

The doors opened, and Ironhide led Blaster out, patting him on the shoulder. Blaster nodded mutely, one hand on his head, with Eject and Rewind slumped in one arm.

"Blaster!" Jazz called one, waving his hand. "Just the mech I needed to see!"

The Autobot carrier cringed, taking a step back and accidentally knocking into Optimus, who steadied him.

"You might wanna give him a break," Ironhide said. "We kinda gave him a real going over."

"Besides," Optimus said. "Red Alert mentioned something about Soundwave's symbiotes coming to call."

"Yup!" Jazz grinned. "Four lost little Decepticons come looking for their carrier. But you don't want me to tell you the story. Bumblebee here..."

Without giving the smaller bot warning, Jazz put an arm around Bumblebee's waist and scooted him forward.

"Whoa whoa," Bumblebee gasped, looking up at Ironhide in too much surprise to object.

"'Bee was there from start to finish," Jazz continued, "so I'll leave him here with you, while Blaster and I-"

Blaster groaned.

"-talk about the specifics of carrier models."

"Sounds like you have something in mind," Optimus said. "All right. Blaster's all yours. And maybe you can ask him more about Soundwave's stories as well."

"Haven't we suffered enough?" Blaster moaned, and his symbiotes moaned as well. "We'll never write another story again, I swear."

"My spark sings to hear it," Jazz said, pulling him away. "Now let's talk carriers and symbiotes."

Bumblebee shot a glare at Jazz, but he didn't risk speaking out loud, using on their Spec Ops channel.

You traitor, Bumblebee growled. I'll never forgive you for this.

I owe you one, Jazz promised.

A party, Bumblebee said.

Jazz nodded once. A big one. Questionable energon and everything.

Still not happy, Bumblebee vented in resignation and went in with Ironhide and Optimus. In the hall, Jazz steered Blaster in the direction of the living quarters.

"Aw, come on," Blaster whimpered. "Seriously, I haven't had a chance to recharge since we found you-"

"Look, just answer me one thing," Jazz said soothingly, "and then I'm out of your way."

Blaster stopped and looked at him. "Promise?"

"I swear it on my spark," Jazz said.

"You're a lousy liar," Blaster said, starting to walk again, "but what's the question?"

"What's the relationship between a symbiote and a carrier?"

"Oh, is that all?" Blaster said with a roll of his optics. "Ask me something simple like where does Primus come from, why don'cha?"

"C'mon, mech," Jazz said, "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

"I know, I know..." Blaster shrugged. "It just boils down to they're my cassettes and I take care of them."

"But they're not sparklings," Jazz said. "They're mechs, same as you or me."

"Yeah, but..." Blaster paused, groping for the words. "They're small, y'know. Fragile compared to us."

Blaster glanced at his cassettes drooping in his arms. Rewind and Eject slumped against each other, slipping in and out of recharge, curled up against his chestplate. He gave each a nudge and had them fold up, sleepily tucking up in his compartment.

"They do a lot for the cause," Blaster said. "But they're so breakable, too. Carriers tend to be very protective, and cassettes tend to be...um. Well, clingy, I guess."

"Clingy enough to surrender to enemy forces just to get back to their carrier?" Jazz asked.

"If the other choice was being alone with the Decepticons, sure." Blaster faced him with a long suffering sigh. "Symbiosis means that I share everything with them, and them with me. Imagine if you had a constant line open with someone...Prowl for instance."

"Why'd you pick him?" Jazz asked, frowning.

"Just saying," Blaster said with a little handwave. "You'd feel closer, wouldn't you? You wouldn't have to talk through it all the time, but just having it there...just having it. Wouldn't that do something to you?"

Jazz nodded once. "So once you get used to that connection, your little guys are like extensions of yourself."

"Parts of me," Blaster nodded. "So Soundwave's cassettes came here? I'm not surprised."

"Would your bots ever surrender to Megatron?" Jazz asked, too casually.

Blaster gave him a look. "No, you paranoid aft. My cassettes aren't stupid. Soundwave's mechs can probably trust Autobots not to shoot them through the spark."

With an apologetic nod, Jazz came to a stop, gesturing at Blaster's door.

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that," he said, sounding sincere. "Well, a promise is a promise. Thanks."

"Sure," Blaster said, opening his quarters. He hesitated in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. "Hey. You think we might really get Soundwave to become an Autobot?"

"Stranger things have happened," Jazz said, turning to go.

"Jazz."

He looked over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

Blaster gave him a sly look, leaning against the doorframe. "Why'd you get so upset about me choosing Prowl?"

"Look at the time," Jazz said, frowning. "I got stories to comb through. Y'know, trashy romances that I had no say in being part of. I'll talk to you later, 'bot."

Chapter Text

If he had to read Soundwave's stories, Jazz refused to be anywhere that other bots could see him. Curled up in the comfortable chair in Prowl's office (strike one), Jazz propped his pedes up on the desk (strike two) with a small cube of energon in easy reach on the console (strike three). When Prowl finally came back from interrogating the Decepticon Third in Command, he'd find the Autobot Third in Command breaking all of the tactician's office rules, and Jazz would be in trouble.

Which would be a nice distraction from the things he was reading.

Spec-Ops Mission #98, Jazz's Interrogation at Soundwave's Pedes, was naturally the first. Jazz had hoped for Soundwave's private thoughts and feelings, but the Decepticon seemed more interested in describing his shiny and wriggly prisoner.

The chain used to lash his axles and wrists made an appearance, and most of the book was devoted to the multiple overloads that Jazz suffered. And while a few of Soundwave's loyalties were called into question, those questions usually ended with Jazz screaming in pleasure.

By the time he finished that story, Bumblebee had escaped from his debriefing and sent him all the titles that they thought came from Soundwave. Between Blaster, Prowl, Bumblebee and Mirage, a list of suggestive titles had formed, all of them part of the Spec-Ops series.

He started at the beginning with Spec-Ops Mission #1 : Jazz — Agent of the Autobots. It sounded like one of the overblown adventures Ironhide had mentioned, and he scrolled through it with an optic for any mention of Decepticons or—

Jazz held Bumblebee flush against himself, securely gripping his waist as the small mech bucked in frustration. Jazzed teased the small mech's shoulder tire, tracing the pattern of his tread completely, then squeezing the hard rubber firmly.

"Commander," Bumblebee whimpered, his pedes scraping the floor without success. "Please..."

"Now now," Jazz murmured, his words only a soft vent over Bumblebee's audios. "Are you ready for your...debriefing?"

By the time he reached the end, Jazz had finished his energon and considered calling Sunstreaker for a supply of whatever spiked fuel he had.

Spec-Ops Mission #15 : He Wouldn't Surrender... Jazz groaned, wincing as his fans kicked in and set up a droning vibration in his him.

Jazz struggled, his arms held down by both Skywarp and Thundercracker, and roared in rage as Starscream knelt between his pedes. The Decepticon Second grabed Jazz's knees and pushed them apart, laughing at the Autobot's snarl.

"Fight all you want," Starscream chuckled, humming in satisfaction as Jazz writhed. "But you will take the purple insignia, and you will follow me obediently."

Gritting his denta as his ports were accessed, Jazz did not give Starscream the satisfaction of screaming.

By the third story, Jazz had sat up slightly to give his radiator and fans space to draw in more air. His joints ached from sitting so long in one position, and he ran his hand over his neck cables, massaging them gently. Spec-Ops Mission #332: Harvest of Energon promised to be better, a straightforward mission to save Autobots from Hook and—

Missing one leg and gripping the side of the medical table with his one good hand, Jazz fought through the white hot haze of pain in his cortex. He could not stop the agony, but he could find his vocal routine and shut down his voice...if only he could clear his thoughts long enough.

And then the pain was gone, leaving Jazz in a sudden cloud of relief. His every cable relaxed and he vented heavily, aware of only a hand coming to rest on his chestplate.

"Good job, soldier," Ratchet said softly, leaning over him. "You got everyone out, stopped Megatron's doomsday device, and made Cybertron safe for democracy."

Jazz smiled. That was all he needed to hear.

"What're you gonna do now?" Ratchet asked.

"Hm..." Jazz glanced up at the medbot, his optics softening. "How about you?"

Gently so as not to hurt his hero, Ratchet bent and kissed him.

The door opening and Prowl's stern silhouette against the light were a welcome relief.

"Why are you sitting here in the dark?" Prowl asked, flipping on the light and closing the door behind himself.

"I didn't want anyone to know I was in here reading trash," Jazz groaned, tossing the datapad onto the desk. "Primus, I feel like I've been tangled in knots."

As Prowl set down his own datapad, he refrained from knocking Jazz's pedes off the desk, only glaring until Jazz gingerly straightened himself, moving locked joints and putting his pedes back on the floor. The empty cube was cleaned away with a wordless frown, and Prowl sat down quietly in his spare seat, unaffected at finding the Third here.

It was hardly the first time Jazz had commandeered his office, after all.

"They aren't the best reading," Prowl conceded.

"You read them already?" Jazz asked.

"I was the one who combed through the list Spec Ops created," Prowl said. "Careful analysis set Soundwave's work apart."

"All of them?" Jazz sighed. "I've just barely finished three."

"You look more like you waged war against three," Prowl said. "Are you all right?"

"You know I ain't alright!" Jazz snapped, curling up in the chair again. "Nothing about this is all right."

Prowl vented in mild exasperation. "You are letting this affect you too much."

"How come you ain't freaking out?" Jazz grumbled. "Our enemy slipped code into the Ark's mainframe."

"Only to add his stories," Prowl said, "in admittedly the most roundabout way of trying to tell us he wanted to defect."

"You sure about that?" Jazz said. "'Cause so far all I'm seeing is 'Jazz gets interfaced every which way but loose'."

"I am reasonably sure," Prowl said, which meant that the tactician had already calculated the odds of being wrong to less than a percent. "Red Alert is still running diagnostics on the Ark mainframe, but so far nothing has come up."

"That ain't what I mean and you know it," Jazz growled.

Unintimidated, Prowl reached over and picked up the datapad, looking over the story Jazz had finished.

"Going in order?"

Jazz nodded once, curtly.

Prowl paused, giving a long vent as he stared at the door. Only after a moment's thought did he face Jazz, reading his hunched shoulders and darkened visor. Jazz trusted few mechs to see him this way, brooding and moody, quiet as if listening for a surprise attack.

"No one thinks you do any of that," Prowl tried to assure him. "You're letting your own anxiety wear you down."

"I've had it pointed out recently," Jazz snapped, "that I'm shiny."

"Hardly a fault," Prowl said.

"Dammit-"

"Jazz," Prowl said over him. "Your paranoia is affecting your performance. Perhaps you need to come to terms with the source of your anxiety about these stories."

Jazz stared at him, then glanced at the door. The console lay between him and escape, but it was hardly insurmountable. A quick hop and then through—the lock wouldn't stop him for more than half a second-

"You cannot run away from this." Prowl motioned toward the datapad. "It might be best to simply face it headlong."

"You gonna lock me up like Soundwave did?" Jazz demanded.

Wrong thing to say. Prowl sat up straight as if struck and his doorwings tightened, and while he made no threatening moves, the air around him turned heavy.

"I'm not a Decepticon,"Prowl said, narrowing his optics. "Don't judge my interfacing by their standards."

Jazz held his look a moment longer, then vented and looked down. His mouth twisted. Prowl was possibly his best friend. He didn't deserve how biting Jazz could get.

"Sorry. Should'na said that."

A klik passed before Prowl similarly vented and relaxed. Jazz posed an unusual problem. Almost all of the mechs in this conflict had been alive for thousands of vorn. They were used to physical intimacy and interfacing.

But those same thousands of vorn at war created deep seated paranoia and fear that eased only when around their own faction, and sometimes not even then. For mechs who commonly rooted out traitors and spies, trust could not be given so easily. Spec Ops bots and security personnel were notorious for often crossing cables only with mechs that had somehow proven their loyalty.

Jazz, in command of that entire branch of the Autobots, apparently did not even do that. For all his reputation as a chaotic bot, the most he indulged in was questionable energon and the occasional off-hours party.

"You aren't the only bot," Prowl said quietly, "who has refrained from crossing cables."

Looking like he'd wished he'd never confided in the tactician, Jazz curled up a little tighter. He gave a half-shrug.

"Ain't like my seals are still intact," Jazz muttered. "Anyone going into espionage knows they're gonna be force-downloaded eventually."

Prowl didn't reply for several seconds. Force downloading was a terrible violation, an enemy creeping around in a mech's very cortex. Suffering through one often left bots hurt, twitchy and unable to interface for orns, sometimes whole cycles. For an already paranoid bot who'd only known interfacing with Decepticons...

"That was done under duress," Prowl said. "Against your will. And it isn't fair that you've never experienced it with someone who wasn't out to hurt you."

Jazz squirmed. The air had grown thick and tense, and he waved his hand as if to clear it.

"Well, no big deal, right?" he said in a forced light tone. "Ain't like there's on the job training like that."

Prowl didn't answer for several seconds, long enough that Jazz started to feel awkward. Jazz might tease and flirt, but he never followed through, and Prowl never reacted. Had he said the wrong thing?

"If you wanted help in that regard," Prowl said slowly, meeting Jazz's look with the same intensity that he gave his job. "I would be willing. Honored, even."

Jazz's optics widened, flashing his visor to a bright white. His hands clenched into fists as his shoulders stiffened.

"I don't need pity," Jazz said tightly.

"I'm not offering any," Prowl said in the same horribly calm voice, nevermind that his fans were whirring to life. "You are my friend. I don't like seeing you in pain."

Jazz's hands relaxed only very slowly, and he vented in and out. His fans hummed harder, making his headache worse, and he looked at Prowl as if his friend had suddenly turned upside down. A subroutine asked permission for additional coolant, and he allowed a flood that dropped his temperature several degrees. It did nothing to help his headache, and he pressed one hand against his helm.

"Jazz?" Prowl asked, leaning forward with one hand out in concern.

"I'm fine," Jazz said quickly, smiling weakly despite himself. "I'm...slag. Usually I'm the one throwing you for a loop."

"I'm sorry," Prowl said. He let his hand fall and glanced away. "I didn't mean to do so."

Jazz vented, not at Prowl but at himself and the situation. His simple, easy, straightforward friendship had suddenly become complicated.

"I am one messed up mech," Jazz said softly, closing his optics.

Prowl paused, nodding in agreement. "But shiny."

In disbelief, Jazz raised his helm. Laughed once, then again.

"I..." Jazz smiled wanly. "Would you believe I got a headache?"

Prowl half-smiled. "Likewise. That was rather nerve-wracking to ask."

No doubt. His friendship with the tactician was unlikely, the bot most comfortable with chaos finding companionship with the bot consumed by patterns and planning. Jazz still wasn't sure how Prowl's cortex worked, but sometimes, when he had spare time between missions, he looked over Prowl's shoulder as he worked, sorting thousands of details in neat rows of statistics and variables. Jazz could spot the best options in a split second emergency, but Prowl...Prowl could see everything.

No wonder he glitched when it all started moving. If Jazz introduced too many variables or shuffled the stacks in Prowl's helm too quickly, then the tactician glitched from input overload.

The first time it had happened, Jazz had called Ratchet in a panic, sick that Prowl might not wake up. The fear hadn't gone away when Ratchet assured him that sometimes it happened. The dull optics, body slumped like a doll, and worst of all, the soft whine of the vocal processor losing power...

That Prowl could reboot and continue analysis, knowing he could glitch if he absorbed too much too quickly, seemed far more impressive than just sending bullets downrange at a Decepticon. Any bot could aim a gun. Only Prowl could aim Jazz.

"Would it make you...?" Jazz started, cringing inside as soon as he asked. A flush of heat raced down his face and throat cables. "Primus, what a dumb question-"

Despite Jazz's discomfit, Prowl chuckled once.

"No," Prowl assured him. "You choose how much of yourself you share. Even if your cortex were completely chaotic, the interfacing would not cause a glitch. Unless you intentionally tried..."

"No way," Jazz said quickly. "Um...can we? I mean, not right now. I got the rest of these things to read, and you got your shift, and...but..."

Prowl's optics narrowed, but not in confusion or caution. Half-lidded, with a satisfied smile, Prowl reached forward and put his hand on Jazz's.

"When you are ready," Prowl said. "Say, after today's shift? I need to compile today's data, and you still have all that reading to do."

"Yeah," Jazz muttered, looking back at the datapad. "You, uh, you said you already read these?"

"The ones on the list that Blaster and your mechs gave me," Prowl nodded. "Later on, after you've finished, I would like to discuss any similarities you found, clues to Soundwave's thoughts that leap out to you."

"He's a messed up freak," Jazz muttered.

"Beyond that," Prowl said. "I still have to check in on Soundwave's cassettes, brief Optimus on everything so far, and meet with Red Alert."

"And after all this," Jazz sighed, waving his hand at the datapad. "I gotta get reports from Mirage and 'Bee. There's no way Megatron ain't in a tizzy over Soundwave up and leaving."

Prowl nodded. "So after shift then."

Jazz rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. Sounds good. Sounds...geez."

He looked at Prowl and gave a long vent, suddenly aware of how hard his fans were blowing, how his coolant sizzled on his engines. He mercilessly shut those processes down, not caring how he started to overhead immediately.

"You sure about this?" Jazz said, not sure if he was giving a chance to back out to Prowl or himself.

"Are you nervous?" Prowl asked.

"Yeah," Jazz said as if it was obvious. He was acting like a lovestruck sparkling, or worse, one of the characters in these awful stories. "Aren't you?"

Prowl shook his head. "I rarely interface, but I trust you utterly."

Jazz started his fans again.

"I'm...gonna go finish reading," Jazz said, standing grabbing his datapad, edging around Prowl and knocking his hip against the desk. "Ping me when you're done, okay?"

Prowl didn't move, only sliding his optics to follow Jazz moving to the door.

"I look forward to it," he said softly.

As soon as Jazz had the door closed after himself, he ran his fans at maximum and released a flood of coolant into his systems. He didn't immediately head to the cafeteria to resupply. A vague plan formed in his head about meeting up with Prowl to refuel—a cube of energon, coolant. At least it would give himself something to do with his hands as he sat across from Prowl, spoke to Prowl, saw his reflection in Prowl's optics.

He smacked his fist against the wall, shuddering as he vented out.

Chapter Text

The Ark mess hall was large enough to hold a full brigade of regular sized Autobots at once, although usually mechs only stopped by to refuel and then return to their berth or one of the make-shift lounges created out of unused offices or bays. There was enough traffic in and out to reassure Jazz that help was immediately at hand, but far enough on the other side of the hall that his conversation with Prowl was private.

"Any new developments with Soundwave's terrors?" Jazz asked, looking askance over his energon cube. "Singing like canaries?"

"Not yet," Prowl said. He didn't comment on how Jazz twitched every so often, surreptitiously checking all escape routes. "They are still in recharge."

"'Still'?" Jazz echoed. "It's been like ten orn."

"Even so," Prowl said. "Ratchet confirmed they are not faking. He says they depleted their reserve batteries coming here. All of their fluids were on the last drop."

"Ouch." Jazz knew about driving in the desert at noon, running low on coolant and fuel, one step away from melting his engine. "Are they functional?"

"Mostly," Prowl said. "There are some scorchmarks and burned cables. Ratchet guesses that they had to fight to get away from the Decepticons."

Jazz chuckled. "Now that's a fight I'd of liked to Pay Per View. Four cassettes versus the Decepticon armada."

"I doubt it was the whole armada," Prowl said. "Probably one or two guards called to take them back from wherever Soundwave had placed them."

"Huh." Jazz tapped the table, watching the ripples in the glowing energon.

"What?" Prowl tilted his head.

"Just thinking," Jazz murmured. "Frenzy was right. I'd have shot them dead if they'd made one move, just one wrong move. And they were about to fall over."

"They were hardly helpless," Prowl pointed out. "If you were down on fluids, would you be helpless?"

Jazz grinned. "Don't get me wrong. I've been on the wrong side of Ravage's claws too many times to feel bad for 'em. Just...I been there, y'know?"

"...no." Prowl folded his arms on the table and leaned forward slightly. "What is it like?"

Jazz met his look for a moment. Autobots worked like machines within one huge machine, each of them serving a vital function. Prowl, Perceptor, Red Alert-they were the cortex and optics. Spec Ops was one of the many weapons they could wield. Sometimes, in the depths of their curiosity or excitement, the analysis bots forgot that another living mech was bringing back all their reconnaissance, sometimes ordering them deeper and deeper into danger forgetting that they were not a simple probe.

Prowl didn't make that mistake. He had a keen sense of what he was and what he was not, and although Jazz envied those dead silent systems, Prowl was not a Spec Ops bot. Just like Jazz was not a long term tactician. If he even thought about spending most of his days sitting at a console cataloging reams of data, his root mode trembled, itching to change into his alt mode and turn donuts on the road.

"It's a thrill," Jazz said. "It feels like flooding myself with coolant. And I'm still overheated. And all those Decepticons are trying to kill me, and they can't. 'Cause I'm just that good."

"You've come in rather bedraggled sometimes," Prowl said, smiling.

"Can't dodge 'em all," Jazz conceded, and he slouched in his seat, resting one arm on the backrest. "I dunno. Coming back home with nothing but the open road and Bob Seger blasting on the radio...there ain't nothing like it."

Jazz felt a little tension ease out of his frame, and he was sure Prowl saw it, too. He grew more aware of how much he was venting and fanning, and he manually turned down his cooling systems. The humming in his head he hadn't even been aware of began to fade.

"Feeling better?" Prowl asked.

"...yeah." Jazz nodded. "The, uh, headache's kinda going away."

"I'm glad," Prowl said, and he lightly ran his knuckles over Jazz's hand. "I don't want you to be afraid."

"I'm not-"

The automatic denial cut off. Jazz had to admit it. He was afraid. Subroutines in his cortex hovered at the ready, a hair trigger from playing out. Combat. Escape. Combat *and* escape. Imagine Jazz grabbing a table, braining Prowl, leaping onto the table behind them and climbing up into the maintenance ducts. He could just imagine the debriefing with Optimus.

"I'm doing okay," Jazz said after a klik. "Just...warn me if you're gonna do anything."

"What's 'anything'?" Prowl asked.

"Touching. Moving." He lowered his helm, wishing he wasn't on edge. "Venting too hard."

"I'll do my best," Prowl assured him. "Would you mind if I...hold your hand?"

Jazz swallowed reflexively. "Sure."

He closed his optics. The nice thing about the visor was that Prowl couldn't tell. The tactician's hand slid over his own, resting so lightly that Jazz could have pulled away easily.

"All right?"

"Yeah." Jazz nodded, looking at him again. "Yeah. ...you feel nice."

Prowl smiled, not put off by Jazz's anxiety.

"So," Jazz started again, eager to turn the conversation back off himself. "You read all of Soundwave's stuff?"

"I think so," Prowl said. "Your subordinates do good work. All of the stories they collected were clearly from the same mech, and since we have verification on one of them..."

"How can you tell?" Jazz asked. "I know it's got something to do with patterns of words, but I didn't get it when you brought it up."

"Something like that," Prowl said. "Some mechs use the same words over and over. You noticed that Soundwave has his own habit of not using linking verbs."

"His trashy little novels didn't read like that," Jazz said.

"Not everyone writes like they talk," Prowl said. "Soundwave has a habit of using human adverb phrases and dashes. And every single one of his stories involves you."

"Yeah, that I noticed," Jazz said. "That mech seriously needs a therapist."

"I would argue the entire Decepticon higher command needs therapy," Prowl said.

Jazz chuckled. "Now that'd be something. Megatron and Starscream, couples counseling. Imagine ol' Starscream...'Megatron! You never appreciated me!'"

Prowl chuckled, leaning against the table as he relaxed. As pleased as it made Jazz to see, he couldn't help spotting the other mechs in the mess hall. Prowl at ease and joking with the same 'bot that usually antagonized him with little pranks drew the attention of more than one Autobot, all of whom began to stare.

Jazz tossed back the rest of his energon. This wasn't something he wanted all optics on.

"I think we're just about done here," Jazz said. "Let's blow this joint."

Furrowing his brow, Prowl likewise finished his cube and set it down. "Are you certain?"

And it suddenly slammed home on Jazz exactly what leaving the mess hall meant. He went very still, meeting Prowl's look, and his vents sped up. Little tremors shook his whole frame.

"If you want to wait—" Prowl started.

"No," Jazz cut him off, then reset his vocal processor to a softer tone. "No. I want this to happen. Just...slow. Safe. Somewhere safe."

Prowl nodded. "I understand. I took the liberty of arranging a place."

Wordlessly, Jazz nodded, turning his hand and gripping Prowl's. The tactician stood, giving Jazz a small tug to prompt him to follow. Painfully aware of everyone's looks, Jazz went with him, telling himself he'd start a rumor that his time with Soundwave left his cortex compromised and in need of coddling.

Out the doors, through the halls...Jazz expected to be led to Prowl's berth. Or maybe his own berth. Maybe Prowl's office? Heck, maybe Jazz's office, little used as it was. He sort of hoped Prowl didn't want to use the Spec Ops office. There was ammo and gear inside that the Second in Command really shouldn't know about. They were heading closer to the main meeting room... Jazz snickered despite his nerves. Maybe Prowl wanted a happy memory to lighten up those boring briefings.

But then they took a left past the meeting room, and Jazz grew increasingly lost. His shoulders hunched as the Ark looked alien and dangerous. Outside in a secluded cave? Or...

Medbay. Like a clean defrag, Jazz felt a load of tension lift. Ratchet's medical bay was the one place nothing bad ever happened, where any Spec Ops bot could take shelter after being chewed up by a mission. And Ratchet, acerbic control freak that he was, also knew everything about Jazz. Even the things Jazz didn't want to know about Jazz. If Jazz trusted anyone, it was the medbot who'd seen him at his absolute worst and never held it against him.

Ratchet looked up from his console, smiling faintly, then went back to cataloging data. "I was wondering when you'd drop in. Lock the door behind ya, huh?"

They'd done this before, medical exams and programming baselines before Jazz went out to infiltrate a base. He knew the routine so well that even with the nervous static in his head, he shifted and held the side of the door. Stood for several kliks, venting deeply. Closed the door. Didn't run. Turned the lock. Then let go of the lock and turned back.

"This is really weird," Jazz said, laughing once at himself. "Feel like I'm about to go on a mission."

"That's not a bad way of looking at it," Ratchet said. "But maybe not the best way. I don't wanna have to put both of you back together after this."

"'Both of us'?" Jazz said, glancing at Prowl warily. "I'm the bundle of nerves right now, not him."

"Yeah, you are," Ratchet said with his usual tact. "I admit it, Jazz, I'm glad you're doing this here, but it ain't just to spare your delicate sensibilities. If you freak out, you're the one with the lethal subroutines and combat programs."

Jazz didn't argue. He'd had to squash those routines only minutes ago. And here he was about to go...do whatever it was mechs did before interfacing...consensual interfacing. The sheer amount of unknowns he'd never experienced had him on high alert. And if his threat flowcharts overrode his good sense, he could end up attacking Prowl point blank.

He would have flooded himself with coolant again except he was already in the middle of a coolant cycle. His heat dumps were less than room temperature. One more flush and he might develop condensation on his cables.

Jazz had killed mechs up close before, and the most vivid memories played over for him. Optics going dark, the mech's voice processor screeching into shut down, the flagging grip as they slid down his body. Even warbuilds had exposed cables and cords between that thick armor, and Prowl...a tactician's armor was nothing compared to that. Prowl ran quiet, not strong. Jazz wouldn't even need a blade to wreak havoc on Prowl.

"Ratchet..." Jazz whispered. "How do you know I ain't gonna blow this all to hell?"

"'Cause you're just scared," Ratchet said, leaning back in his seat as he regarded their saboteur. "And you've done good work while you were scared before."

Jazz pressed his hand to his helm. "Slag. Getting that headache again."

"Well, that I can take care of," Ratchet said, reaching into a drawer at his desk. "Prowl, how about you go get the back room ready? I gotta talk a few things over with him."

"Of course." Prowl turned back to Jazz. "Whenever you're ready."

Jazz tightened up at hearing that, nodding once. As Prowl turned the corner to head further into the private rooms, Jazz half-raised his hand, already wanting to call him back. He stood like that, stupidly watching where Prowl had been.

"Do you wanna call this off?" Ratchet asked when Prowl disappeared. "'Cause you can. Ain't no shame in it."

Jazz lowered his hand, mouth pressed in a hard line. He activated their internal comm line, not trusting his voice.

No, he said. I can do this. I'm just...

"Scared," Ratchet said, not scolding him but not letting him retreat onto their internal line either. "It's okay. Everyone's nervous their first time, and you got more reasons to be scared than anyone else."

"Will it...hurt?" Jazz asked. Immediately he felt worse. He'd dragged himself back to base on shredded tires a few times, leaking energon, armor scratched and dented to the pit. A little plug and play shouldn't have scared him so badly.

"No," Ratchet said, "it won't. And quit beating yourself up over it. You wouldn't be this hard on anyone else. Quit acting like you gotta be the Jazzmeister all the time."

"Argh..." Jazz turned enough to lean his hip against the console, putting his hands over his face. "This is crazy. Ratchet, tell me I'm crazy."

"I could'a told you that a long time ago," Ratchet said, reaching over and pushing him off the console. "You gotta get over your fear, and better you do it with your best friend under my care than...I dunno, acting out one of those Spec Ops stories."

Jazz swung his arm in a backhanded swat that grazed Ratchet's prongs. The medic chuckled.

"Just relax," Ratchet said. "You're in good hands. And just a pro-tip, but the joints in Prowl's armor? Really sensitive."

If his faceplate heat flushed any harder, Jazz was going to start steaming. He turned to follow Prowl, then paused.

"I owe you one," he said softly, not turning.

"Just yell if you need help," Ratchet said. "Or, y'know, a third partner to help get those hard to reach places."

"Go slag yourself," Jazz said, laughing despite himself, and followed after Prowl.

Chapter Text

Most bots never saw all of the medbay. The four operating berths in front were as far as most Autobots got. A few grew curious while they spent an orn or two recovering and looked in on Ratchet's office, studying the flashing monitors in a bored, drugged haze, but very few ever went through the door in the back. They sometimes saw Ratchet or Red Alert carrying cortex chips and circuits, energon containment cores or even spark case welding patches, but it wasn't the threat of heavy repair that gave the back rooms their dark reputation. The back rooms, they said, were for bots who didn't process quite right anymore.

All of the Spec Ops bots were well acquainted with the back rooms. If Smokescreen needed to be debriefed despite a burned out limb or severed fuel lines, Ironhide would sit up with them during the surgery in a private berth. If Bumblebee kept coming out of recharges screaming, Ratchet kept him away from other patients. And when Jazz came back to base, survival safeguards running so hard that he saw Decepticons around every corner, an empty room devoid of any furniture and a double dose of dielectric fluid would eventually bring him back around.

For Spec Ops, the back berths were safe, where nothing bad happened and soldiers back from battle could sit in quiet, staring at a blank white wall until the roaring died down. The back rooms were set apart from the rest of the Ark, a little sanctuary of comforting maintenance where the war did not intrude.

All of the doors were closed except one. Jazz took a long, deep vent, reset his optics, and went in.

Sitting on the edge of the berth, Prowl looked up, holding still as Jazz came and sat beside him.

Neither moved. Neither spoke. And Jazz started to wonder if Prowl wanted him to make the first move. Jazz settled his hands in his lap, started to raise one, then relaxed again. His fans whirred on and he shut them down again.

Beside him, Prowl took a long vent, deciding that he would have to be the one to start. A battle computer was not built for relationship statistics, but it estimated the same chances for success as it always had. Jazz, daring and bold behind enemy lines, would not make the first move in the berth. And yet Jazz was the one mech Prowl had to be doubly careful of not triggering.

"Is it all right," Prowl started to ask, turning toward him and reaching toward his faceplate. "If I touch—?"

Jazz's hand shot out and seized Prowl's wrist, tight enough to hurt. Prowl blinked at how fast he'd been stopped, then saw that Jazz was just as surprised. The smaller mech stared at his hand as if it wasn't his own.

"Whoops..." Jazz forced his fingers to loosen. "Sorry, I didn't—"

He froze as Prowl, rather than retreating, took his hand and turned it over, bringing his knuckles up—

Jazz's fans whirred hard as Prowl kissed the back of his hand.

He watched in stunned silence. Prowl held his hand steady, pressing first one kiss to his fingers, then turned his hand over, placing a kiss in his palm. Jazz ran his glossa over his lips, suddenly hyper aware of every joint and hinge.

Afraid that Jazz might spook, Prowl met his look while bending to kiss the space between hand and forearm armor, dipping his glossa into that space, licking the soft cables of Jazz's wrist.

Prowl's optics never left his, gathering data on Jazz's reaction. Short, shallow vents. Rigid posture. Sensors trembling at their highest setting. Impossible to see behind the visor, but Prowl suspected that Jazz's optics were taking in too much light, nearly blinding himself.

"I don't want to go too fast," Prowl said softly, his vent brushing across Jazz's cables. "What would you like me to do?"

Jazz stared at him in absolute loss, his gaze flicking from Prowl to his hand, as if he expected his wrist to suddenly spurt energon or short out, surprised that he hadn't already spontaneously broken. He shook his head faintly, his vents shallow and over-quick.

"I don't know," Jazz whispered. "I don't know."

As if he expected that, Prowl nodded and ran his thumb over the cables. The more he touched, the more those cables became all Jazz could feel, and the rest of his body grew numb and distant.

"Then I will keep asking permission," Prowl said. "And only continue with your go ahead."

"O-okay..."

Prowl let Jazz's hand slide away. "I'm going to kiss you, if you let me."

Jazz's fans were not cooling. He couldn't even feel them. He was aware of nodding, of Prowl's warmth as he leaned closer, seeing Prowl's optics so close, crystal clear—he could see the tiny numbers of Prowl's eternal data feed. His whole frame faded into cold nothingness and a thin white noise filled his audios, almost deafening him with static.

"Don't be afraid," Prowl whispered, then closed the distance with a kiss.

Jazz's sensors exploded—Prowl's engine barely perceptible even this close, the heat of Prowl's vents on his plating, the pressure on steel that had never felt pressure like this before. The world rushed back in all at once, drowning him and lifting him up at once. Prowl's hands on his arms, lips on his, the faint engines rumbling against Jazz's bumper. Jazz returned the hold, pulling him flush against his frame.

Something was pushing away the fear, and Jazz wasn't sure what it was.

Prowl broke the kiss, rubbing his cheek against Jazz's, murmuring softly. "I'm going to explore your cabling."

Not yet, not yet—Jazz couldn't make himself speak, and in his need, he reached out through their internal channel.

Words couldn't form. Raw need poured out of him, confused and tremulous, and he pressed his faceplate against Prowl's neck cables. Warmth, the whoosh of energon through his systems, the curl of his hands and the soft hum of fans feeding through his armor. And Prowl's understanding laugh.

"All right," Prowl whispered. "A little more."

The whimper out of Jazz's throat surprised both of them. He closed his optics, trying to ease his overloaded sensors. That only made Prowl's lips on his own more overwhelming, teasing Jazz's mouth open enough to just lightly snake his tongue over Jazz's denta.

A jolt of pleasure slipped through Jazz, and he hissed as Prowl nipped his lip. A tiny touch of pain accentuating everything else.

"Are you all right?" Prowl asked, leaning back. "Have you been kissed before?"

Jazz leaned after him, managing longer, easier vents. He mistook Prowl's question for teasing, wanting to defend himself. Of course he'd been kissed before—a hard, denting crush when a mech had cornered him in a lonely corridor, not taking no for an answer from the shiny little mech. His first kiss, and Jazz remembered it clearly even through the haze of Prowl's touch—

"Don't—" Prowl suddenly gasped.

Prowl held still, not even venting. Jazz frowned at him, then noticed he was holding something soft. When he looked down, he found himself grasping the largest cable in Prowl's pelvic joint. The slightest pressure, and it would rip out.

A memory file played against his will—a Decepticon he'd surprised millennia ago, tearing out much more than simply one cable, and the energon flooding over Jazz's hand and arm, across the mech's pede and splashing on the floor...

Coolant flushed through his system. Jazz let go, scooting back on the berth.

"Primus..." He clutched his helm, shaking. "I didn't know—I'm sorry, I didn't realize—"

"It's all right," Prowl said, turning on his hands and knees and coming towards him. "You didn't—"

"I could have," Jazz said. He saw Prowl's upraised hand and backed into the wall. "No. We have to stop. I could kill you."

Prowl stopped and rested on his pedes. His doorwings drooped slightly. "That's why we're doing this here. Just in case."

"I don't like 'just in case'," Jazz said. "This...this is too much."

"Did you find it unpleasant?" Prowl asked, his optics widening as his computer flashed through everything they had done so far, examining every move for some telegraphed hint of violence. "Was it threatening?"

"No." Jazz shook his helm, a faint smile on his face despite himself. "It was...it was nice."

"Did I trigger a threat response?" Prowl asked.

Jazz shook his head again. "I don't wanna talk about it. Just...look, I like it, and I like you. But if we keep doing this, I'm gonna hurt you."

"It is your choice," Prowl said, his shoulders dropping a tick. He made no move forward. "But I have to say, if we stop now, I'm afraid you'll be even more averse to interfacing."

"I had your main fuel line in my hand," Jazz said, deliberately emphasizing each word as if Prowl didn't understand.

"Yes," Prowl nodded, smiling and rubbing the cord to ease the lingering ache. "Pretty strong grip."

Jazz stared at him. Prowl seemed to enjoy the memory of Jazz's hold there. He certainly didn't look scared of what Jazz could do, had nearly done. And hadn't Ratchet mentioned something about Prowl's armor joints?

"I don't get it," Jazz said, shaking his head. "Why ain't you scared?"

"I am, a little. I'm no match if you try to hurt me." Prowl frowned and glanced aside, knowing that wasn't enough . "I...care about you. I have some hope you feel the same about me."

Jazz knew that should have made him feel warm inside. Instead, he felt like his inner cords were twisting.

"I could really hurt you," Jazz said softly. "It's practically hardwired in me now. You put your hand somewhere I'm not expecting and I react like you're a Decepticon."

Prowl shook his helm. "While that is a possibility, we have taken steps to mitigate it. And while it is true you might hurt me, I still trust you."

"Prowl—"

"You held yourself back," Prowl pointed out.

Jazz wanted to say he hadn't even known he was hurting Prowl to hold himself back. That torn cables could kill quickly. And that Prowl was nothing like his previous experiences, which was why he wanted to stop and why he wanted to keep going.

He stared at the blank white wall for a full vent cycle, letting the defense routines completely shut down, telling his proximity alarms to deactivate. In their millennia working together, Prowl was usually right. And it was the memories he had, Decepticon force-downloads and the Autobots who only took a fist for an answer, pressing him to turn back. Those had been enemy mechs. Not Prowl.

With a sigh, he looked back at Prowl. Not him. Not Prowl. Prowl never hurt him, and he was too smart to let Jazz hurt him, either.

"...okay," Jazz said, then raised his hand when Prowl crept forward again, forcing him to halt. "But if I get rough, and I mean at all...you'll say so, right?"

"Yes," Prowl promised. "I just did, after all."

Jazz nodded, more to himself than to Prowl, and let the Enforcer crawl close.

"May I kiss you again?"

That should have sounded awkward and clunky, like two drones trying to interface. Instead reassurance settled on Jazz like a blanket. As Prowl reached to cup his cheek, Jazz turned toward his palm, finding satisfaction in how well Prowl's hand fit his face, one fingertip sliding delicately under his visor.

Kissing, Jazz decided, was something he'd like to do more of.

Prowl didn't risk letting his hands wander somewhere that Jazz would consider dangerous, instead kissing the corner of Jazz's mouth, nuzzling his jaw. Left a trail of kisses along his throat.

Prowl's denta were not dangerous, too weak to bite through the thick cording of neck cables, and Jazz's survival routine warred with itself. All cabling was vulnerable, but Prowl couldn't hurt him. Prowl was certainly in no position to hurt him at all, with his own vital systems in easy reach. And Prowl's ministrations kept Jazz distracted from his programming.

"It's a shame you wear that visor," Prowl murmured, kissing along the line of Jazz's hood, dipping his glossa into the rounded steel indent. He stopped at Jazz's headlight, lavishing attention on it.

Jazz never knew one headlight could deliver that much sensation and clenched his jaw for a moment, putting his arms around Prowl and pulling him closer. One hand slid up behind his helm.

"What's—" he groaned suddenly. Prowl had found the dip behind his headlight, licking the sensitive connector with a faint shiver at the pulsing electrical lines there. "It's just a heads up display. What's so fascinating 'bout it?"

"It's shiny," Prowl chuckled.

"I'm tired of hearing that," Jazz grumbled. "Maybe I'll just go outside, roll around in the rain and the mud. See if everyone likes me when I ain't so damn shiny."

The pause from Prowl lengthened, and Jazz frowned at him. His frown deepened when he saw Prowl's satisfied smile.

"Is that an offer?" Prowl asked. "I would enjoy a friendly match with you. I believe the forecast calls for rain tomorrow night."

Jazz, about to shake his helm at him, instead jerked as Prowl moved to his other headlight.

"Everyone...here..." Jazz ground out through his clenched jaw, holding Prowl tight, "is damn pervy."

Not answering, Prowl continued his ministrations, allowing Jazz to clutch at him and pull so strongly that their hoods slid together. Kiss after kiss, Prowl drank deeply as the smaller bot found a new addiction, his lips swollen slightly from the excess heat.

With the visor on his mind now, Prowl turned his attention to the thin shield of polycarbonate in front of Jazz's optics. Visors were not all that unusual for mechs. Each of them had a heads up display on their optics, and a visor simply allowed for deeper analysis or a more customizable layout. But most visors were only for specialized work. Few were meant to be worn all the time, and even semi-permanent visors were meant to come off during recharge.

As far as Prowl knew, Jazz did not remove the visor for any reason. The mental image that Prowl had of him was incomplete, and his curiosity drove him to drifting kisses along the visor's edge. Soft rumbles vibrated deep in Jazz's chest, a fluttering vent past his audio, nudging the visor with his lips...

"Now I know you ain't trying to be sneaky," Jazz said in warning. "'Cause you're so bad at it that it's kinda cute."

Prowl sighed, resting his helm on Jazz's shoulder. "This would be a lot easier if you weren't Special Operations."

"Prowler," Jazz laughed at the Enforcer's grumble, "I am the master ninja of our Autobot clan. Now I'll admit you got me once, showing up in your berth like that, but straight up trying to slip one by me? That's just adorable."

"Mm." Prowl didn't agree or disagree, nuzzling Jazz's throat. "So...if I ask?"

Jazz held silent, resting his head on Prowl's helm. His vent was long and low, letting him settle in place with Prowl more comfortably fixed against him. For all that they were steel and hard edges, they meshed smoothly, warm with the soft hum of fuel and engines.

"Why?" Jazz whispered. "What's so important about it?"

Prowl had a list of reasons he could give. He needed to update his specifications of Jazz's frame. The visor was a shield that Jazz never lowered. That it wasn't healthy to live with a constant bombardment of security data.

"Because I want to see your optics," Prowl said. "I want to see you."

Half a dozen responses came to Jazz's mind. He didn't want to. He felt wrong without it. Even touching the visor brought back memories of Soundwave. And just like Soundwave, Jazz had worked with his visor for so long, his optics would give his every emotion away.

But Prowl...was Prowl. Never hurt him. Never betrayed him. Was nothing like Soundwave. And probably knew Jazz's emotions, reactions and contradictions by spark in immaculately kept logs.

Jazz shut down his visor, then unclipped it from its fastenings. He trembled, hesitating to lift it away.

"Okay."

Moving slowly so not to spook him, Prowl straddled the smaller bot and rested lightly on his pedes, putting his hands on either side of Jazz's visor. In one fluid motion, he lifted it away and set it aside. Jazz didn't move, only turning away with shut optics.

With a faint smile of delight, Prowl stroked Jazz's face, running his thumbs under his optics, coaxing them to open. "It's all right. Let me see."

"Feels weird," Jazz murmured, letting Prowl's fingertips gently nudge his optics. "Feels...real weird."

"No," Prowl whispered as he finally drew Jazz's optics open, gazing into bright, clear lenses, searching his vast database for something resembling that precise shade of light, light blue. "It feels perfect."

Jazz stared at him, swallowed whatever he was about to say. Without his visor, the quirk to his mouth that would have been surprise was actually nervousness. The tilt to his helm that would've once been wry confidence was Jazz shying away out of nerves.

"Thank you," Prowl whispered, saving the memory under a dozen different files for safekeeping. "May I...?"

With tremulous vents and a whirl of his fans, Jazz nodded once.

The next kiss cleared all of Jazz's doubts and worries. Prowl snaked an arm behind him, holding him close, and Jazz let himself relax as he was eased flat on the berth. Prowl wouldn't hurt him. Prowl would never hurt him. Prowl—Jazz boggled at the idea—wanted to do this for him.

"Are you ready?" Prowl asked.

Tensing as if he were about to be struck, Jazz winced, squirming as he fought the urge to curl up protectively. He sent the command to his link-up cover, disengaging the safeguards that locked his ports. Unable to trust his voice, he nodded, covering his mouth when Prowl's touch brought small embarrassing sounds out of him.

"It won't hurt," Prowl promised, running his fingertips lightly along Jazz's inner casing.

Prowl wondered if anyone had ever touched it before, if Jazz ever opened it at all. His saboteur arched up, whimpering as his ports were traced. Taking the cables from his own link up casing, Prowl pulled the cords just long enough to reach, teasing Jazz with the ends.

"If it's too much," Prowl whispered, with one optic to Jazz's hands to make sure he wasn't holding a blade, "you can yank free. It's okay."

"Nng," Jazz moaned, writhing under Prowl while simultaneously grasping at him, pulling him down on top of himself. "Go on. I can do this...go on."

"All right," Prowl said, sliding the cord into place.

The data transfer began, slowly at first, running a general start up program as their two cortexes introduced themselves to each other. Ensuring compatibility, verifying Autobot codes, requesting mutual access...Prowl ran them one at a time, allowing Jazz time to process each one and confirm. What usually took moments took nearly a breem as Jazz's paranoia examined every command inside and out before allowing access.

Prowl was in no hurry. Jazz's emotions played out as obviously as if he were reading them on a datapad, all nerves and raw trust. Prowl smiled, enjoying the rare feeling of advantage over the smaller mech, and cupped his face. Jazz gasped, startled at the touch, struggling to process the new uplinks in his cortex and the sensations on his frame.

"I wish you could see yourself," Prowl murmured, stroking Jazz's face, turning his starry optics up. "You're always so confident, so sure of yourself. And now you're letting me do this, and...I feel like I'm taking care of you."

Prowl bent, taking another kiss, and Jazz whimpered around him, lost in the sensation of Prowl inside and out, drowning in the enforcer's data even while he was buoyed up in his hands. Jazz stared at him for a moment, then his optics stared past him, and he vented in quick, low bursts.

"Hold me," Jazz breathed, "I can't...I'm falling. Prowl—"

"I'm right here," Prowl said, lying beside him, holding him close. "You're not falling. Jazz, I can feel your code...I can feel you."

Prowl nuzzled him cheek to cheek, indulging in the feel of Jazz's lines of code washing over him. Jazz's inner processes were a contradiction in themselves, sucking Prowl in while at the same time resisting, pushing back and dragging the connecting speed to almost nothing. The data flowed like a tide, then washed back, then flowed in again.

Prowl's face tightened. Of course Jazz would feel conflicted. He'd only ever experienced interface during force downloads, with traps laid on either side. He felt the blind fear in Jazz's spark, hand in hand with the grip Jazz kept on Prowl's own dataflow, using it like a guide in the dark.

"You're doing well," Prowl murmured, still stroking his face. "Let your code align with my own. Let your code...oh..."

Jazz didn't hear Prowl's small gasp, his cortex too busy trying to make sense of the details coming in, the endless minutiae of Prowl's vast cataloging. It lit him on fire as each sensor fought a losing battle to keep up with the Enforcer's hyperawareness of every possibility and eventual outcome. No wonder Prowl crashed if this was what he felt like with Jazz adding chaos to that structure.

Beside him, Prowl careened down an unexpectedly steep slide into Jazz, bombarded with sudden sound and thoughts. Jazz saw the world not as details but as sensation, nothing but short paths branching out in all directions, too numerous to follow. Jazz was chaos, a thousand short circuits spiraling out of control, now locked back into place by Prowl's logic routes as firmly as if he'd been stasis cuffed. Prowl grasped Jazz close, glad that they were lying down. He would have fallen otherwise.

He vented in wonder as their codes meshed. For a moment their systems aligned, their sensors input the same data. Double sensory input was too much for both mechs to process individually, overclocking their systems.

Prowl felt the tell-tale sparks, the tingling on his systems—felt Jazz curl up against him, fans on maximum and failing, coolant sizzling uselessly, gulping air and pushing his face against Prowl's neck.

Jazz overloaded, electric shocks firing through his frame, and Prowl cried out, riding the sudden flood of energy. Their systems revved, engines roaring as they tried to keep up, completely lost in each other.

Within moments, it was done. Jazz shuddered, gasping for air. Prowl held him, rubbing circles on his back, and rebooted his vent cycle, calming his systems even as the overload faded and left an electric crackle running itself out.

"Full of surprises." Prowl chuckled once. "Next time, we'll try for a little longer."

He didn't tease him for overloading so quickly. All things considered, managing to hold out for so long was an accomplishment in itself.

Jazz whimpered, cuddling closer as if he could hide inside Prowl. "'Next time'?"

"If you let me," Prowl nodded. "We'll let you rest a moment. Are you up to it?"

A klik passed. Prowl wasn't sure if Jazz was considering it or just gathering his strength.

Then Jazz smiled, putting his hand on Prowl's, and nodded in return.

"Again...please?"

Chapter Text

The door opened. Jazz came out on wobbly pedes, one hand out for balance, and Prowl caught him with an arm around his shoulders. Instead of stumbling, Jazz toppled against Prowl, held hood to hood and chuckling at himself.

"Again, please?" Jazz grinned, rising up on his pedes to get another kiss.

"I look forward to it," Prowl said, giving in. "But we both have responsibilities to attend."

"Spoilsport," Jazz muttered, still smiling softly. He came down heavily and swayed, finding his balance.

As they came back to the medbay, they heard nothing but the faint hum of diagnostics equipment and tapping of fingers across a console. Aside from Ratchet working on his datapad, they were alone, but even so, Jazz touched his visor to make sure it was back in place. So was his familiar grin, if a little wider and easier than before.

"Good, you're both alive," Ratchet said, turning in his seat to face them. He laughed once when he saw Jazz. "Wow. Now that is the face of a mech who's been well fragged."

Jazz stuck out his glossa, but he took a moment to steady his gyros into their proper equilibrium. Once his cortex felt clear, he stretched his arms up to the ceiling, trembling as his cords unkinked and straightened.

"So," Ratchet said, looking over Prowl for anything amiss. "No sliced cables? Bruised plating? Any scratches on your back armor...?"

Prowl swatted away Ratchet's hand. "I'm fine. Jazz reacted a few times, but nothing overly dangerous."

"Huh." Ratchet grinned at their saboteur. "So, he didn't need to use the stasis cuffs after all?"

Jazz put a hand on his hip, giving Ratchet a look, but he snuck a quick look at Prowl despite himself. Had stasis cuffs even been an option? To his relief, Prowl gave Ratchet an exasperated tilt of his helm.

"Clearly there were no emergencies while we were indisposed," Prowl said, changing the subject. "Downloads?"

With a huff, Ratchet nodded once, sliding a datapad to him across the desk.

"Got the cassettes while they were napping. That's the raw data. I combed through it to make sure there's no malicious code, and I saw some pretty interesting things on the side." Ratchet glanced at Jazz, who stood straight. "Seems Soundwave's been sweet on you for awhile now."

"Judging by those stories," Jazz grumbled, "you could say that about both sides of this damn war."

Prowl scanned the initial report of the force downloads of the cassettes. He frowned, scrolling through each one, then peered over the datapad at Ratchet again.

"Not Soundwave?"

"Not yet," Ratchet said, shaking his helm. "He isn't stable enough. If he crashed while downloading, his whole cortex could fry."

"Mm."

Not upset about that possibility, Prowl tapped into the datapad, beginning the synchronization cycle so he could begin a thorough analysis. He took his usual seat by Ratchet's desk and ignored the medibot plugging into his neural net, accustomed to this precaution during an initial tactical debriefing.

"Updates on Soundwave's condition?" Prowl asked as he settled in. "Or his cassettes?"

"The little monsters are still in recharge and repair," Ratchet said, all business once again. "Except Frenzy, and even he's gonna be loopy for a few megacycles. They strained their systems to the breaking point, running on fumes like that."

"And Soundwave?"

Ratchet shrugged. "I've never seen a mech crash that many times without completely off-lining. It might be his carrier-model cortex is better equipped to deal with the chaos, since he'd have to handle listening to his cassettes all the time. He's shaky, but he's running stable for now."

"Stable enough for a chat?" Jazz asked.

"I hope so," Ratchet nodded once, leaning back in his chair. "Optimus is down there right now, giving him the talk."

Prowl stiffened, looking first at the door and then back at his datapad. Visibly torn, he froze, not sure of reading the download first or going to his Prime's side.

"Relax," Jazz said, touching Prowl's hand. "I got this. You find out what you can, and I'll see if Soundwave's up to proving how bad he wants to be an Autobot."

"Be careful," Prowl said, holding his hand tight for several seconds. "Even if his story is true, Soundwave could be more dangerous for having no current allegiance."

"No prob," Jazz assured him. "Besides, I won't be alone. Wherever Optimus goes, Ironhide is sure to follow."

"Yes." Prowl nodded once, releasing his hand, and relaxed back to begin data analysis. "Be sure to send a report afterward."

"Sir, yes, sir," Jazz grinned. "Don't wait up for me, sir."

Once he was out of medbay, he stretched again, every gap in his plating and every supple cord moving with more fluidity and flexibility than he'd ever felt before. Venting deep, his whole frame still tingled with the echoes of Prowl's fingers on his armor. His grin, despite Soundwave and the cassettes and the damn Polyhex Manuals, came freely.

So did the whispers around him as he passed. He frowned. The hall outside of medbay was one of the most heavily trafficked in the whole Ark. Mechs passed back and forth, quieting their conversations as they passed as if there were a bubble of silence around Jazz, then talking again as they moved out of range.

Could they tell? He felt suddenly self-conscious. Did they somehow know what he'd just done? Was it obvious? He resisted the urge to scan himself. Prowl wouldn't have left any marks lingering on his steel. There was no suggestive whirl of his fans, no heady thrum of his engine.

He detoured down the stairs instead of the elevators, coming out by the brig. To his relief, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker standing guard didn't seem to notice anything different about him. With a single nod, they waved him through, already pinging his arrival to those inside.

Leaning against the main console, Ironhide turned his helm just enough to verify and acknowledge. He never took his optics off Optimus or Soundwave. Only a row of bars separated the two, and no matter how heavy duty the steel was, nor that Soundwave sat on the floor with his back against the wall, Ironhide visibly kept one hand near his rifle.

What're they doing? Jazz murmured along their comm line.

Talking philosophy, Ironhide said. I've never been this nervous and bored at the same time.

He paused. Jazz stood in his usual stance, one hip slightly up to better rest his hand on, which gave him a quick draw with his left. But something in his ease, how loose his joints moved, made Ironhide study him a moment.

You feeling okay, kid? Ironhide asked, turning back to watch Optimus. You look different.

Wh—fine, fine, Jazz stumbled, crossing his arms and standing stiffly. Ironhide's voice didn't come back over the comm, but the older mech's communication port remained active, curiously keeping an optic on him.

On the other side of the room, Optimus didn't stop to acknowledge Jazz, focused entirely on their prisoner.

"—overtures of honesty do speak well for you," Prime continued. "And it is my greatest hope that your intentions are sincere. I don't want to have to kill a helpless mech, not even a Decepticon officer."

Inside the prison cell, Soundwave narrowed his optics in a show of doubt and suspicion that would have been unthinkable to any other mech in his position. Jazz felt Ironhide tense more than he thought was already possible, his vents shallow and primed. No prisoner should have so openly displayed his mistrust to Optimus, not when trying to win asylum.

"Optimus," Soundwave started, struggling a little with his heavier than usual venting, "no desire to destroy a high ranking Decepticon while helpless. Why?"

Leave it to a Decepticon to question mercy, Ironhide hissed, squirming his shoulders.

"It would be dishonorable," Optimus answered readily. "Even moreso when this is not the battlefield but rather an attempt to leave Megatron."

At that, Soundwave flinched as if someone had pinched his cables. He didn't deny it, but to Jazz, the mech revealed too much in his blinking optics and the way he still tried to find the purple mark on his still-cracked open chest.

"For a deserter," Ironhide said, tilting his helm, "you sure don't seem happy about leaving."

Prime's helm shifted only slightly, catching Ironhide in his peripheral vision enough to make sure his bodyguard hadn't raised his rifle. His optics stayed firmly trained on Soundwave.

"He has a point," Optimus continued when Soundwave didn't speak. "Do you hope to become a recognized Autobot?"

Jazz's chronometer ticked by like reverberations in his cortex. Soundwave had fallen apart trying to explain that just to himself. Asking him point blank could trigger him into another meltdown, and Jazz didn't want to have to bring him back from the brink again.

"Megatron, known quantity," Soundwave said. His pedes, splayed out before him, now curled up to protect his open inner mechanics. He rested his arm on his knee, holding his helm in mounting frustration. "Optimus Prime, unknown quantity. Unknown now preferable to known."

"I don't understand," Optimus said.

"Megatron, promised freedom to all Cybertron," Soundwave started, his gaze flicking towards Jazz before moving back to Optimus. "Destroy the Senate, destroy Autobot and Enforcer remnants of Senatorial power. All traces of the Senate must be eliminated before reconstruction can begin."

"But Shockwave has control of Cybertron right now," Optimus said, less to argue and more to draw out more of an explanation. "Our guerrilla forces there haven't changed that."

"Optimus assertion, correct," Soundwave nodded. "Energon shortage blamed upon the war. War blamed on Autobots. This logic, infallible and clear, and yet..."

His armor rattled. Soundwave's neural circuits sparked so hard that his helm snapped to one side. Wincing, he drew in a long, tremulous vent, shaking with effort, and hugged his knee closer.

"War, no longer logical," Soundwave hissed, straining through gritted denta. "Megatron's goals now broadened to other planets, other species. Cybertron, secondary consideration. Senate, all but forgotten."

"You're Megatron's most loyal officer," Optimus said. "You've followed his orders even when you thought he was—Soundwave?"

TheDecepticon put his arms out, grabbing at the seams in the wall, the edge of the unused prison berth, clenching the edges so hard that his fingers creaked. Sparks crackled along his helm like static electricity, rippling over his face.

"Disloyal...disloyal..."

"Don't drive yourself into system crash," Optimus cautioned him, taking an abortive step forward even as he heard Ironhide's engine rev in warning. His bodyguard wasn't above putting yanking Optimus out of what he considered harm's way, and half a dozen meters from the cell was already overclocking the old mech's cortex.

"Megatron, power hungry." Soundwave's vocal processor strained through heavy static, began to smoke as his circuitry overheated. "Corrupt. Soundwave—"

"Enough!" Optimus said, holding out his hand. "You'll melt down—"

Behind him, Ironhide had his rifle up, not convinced that this wasn't a trick and thinking to pull Prime back, even though they'd confirmed that Soundwave wasn't rigged to explode. To his left, Jazz turned a pace, speaking lowly through his comm unit.

"Ratchet," Jazz said. "You're needed in the brig...yeah, he's crashing again, not as bad this time—"

"Soundwave...nnnot crashing."

At first, the sudden silence made Jazz think that Soundwave had thoroughly melted down. He'd seen mechs go critical on the battlefield, their inner chips and circuitboards melting and dripping liquid alloy out of their mouths and optics. The abrupt loss of their voice was identical each time, and it never failed to make Jazz want to climb out of his own armor.

But Soundwave hadn't melted himself. Hands on either side of his helm, he dragged in tight vents, each one shuddering through his denta, first shallow, then deep. His shoulders shook with the effort.

"Soundwave...disloyal to Megatron." He forced the words out with a small trickle of molten steel past his lips. "Loyal to Cybertron."

"Tch," Ironhide vented, slinging his rifle again. "Damn carrier models. S'all psychological with 'em."

"Loyal to Cybertron. Loyal to Cybertron." Soundwave repeated it again, breathing it out with a tinge of silver on his glossa. "Loyal. Loyal."

"Jazz," Optimus asked, still watching Soundwave. "Is Ratchet on his way?"

"Yup," Jazz said. "Double time."

Optimus nodded once. "Soundwave...if you're loyal to Cybertron, then what? You're no longer a Decepticon? Do you intend to become neutral?"

His optics half-shut, staring at the ceiling now, Soundwave shook his helm once.

"Negative. Neutrality meaningless. But..."

"'But'?" Optimus echoed.

"But...unsure of Autobots." Soundwave glared at him from the corner of his optics, his helm still thrown back in exhaustion. It made his suspicion look all the more entrenched. "Autobots, Senate remnants. Enforcers, Senate remnants. Senate, evil and power crazed."

"Ain't that rich," Ironhide muttered. "The Decepticon ain't sure if he can trust us."

Optimus held up one hand, shushing him, and regarded Soundwave. Broken open and half-slagged, Megatron's most loyal soldier looked more like an old war veteran strung out on pain hacks and kerosene packs. If it was an act, it was a good one.

Jazz, Optimus called over their internal comm. Your assessment of his sincerity.

Shaking his helm as Optimus' voice came through on a scrambled pattern, Jazz scratched at his audio, tapping once to try to get rid of the itch that extra static left. For all the noise they made about Soundwave leaving the Decepticons, they still treated any communication around the telepath as highly suspect, running internal static to mask their thoughts.

Mech's all messed up, Jazz answered in kind. Ain't no one to be loyal to, and too broken up to do anything about it. If you want him, Prime, I think you got a good chance of convincing him.

The door slid open with Ratchet coming in, his toolkit slung under one arm, and he only waited long enough for Ironhide to nod his approval before he was inside the cell, kneeling beside their prisoner. Soundwave allowed his touch without comment, twitching occasionally when Ratchet grazed frayed wires.

"His link to his symbiotes is still active," Optimus said, startling Jazz. "Said it shorted and activated again."

Ratchet muttered something under his breath, already halfway to opening Soundwave's helm armor. The heavy plating groaned as he lifted it up at an angle. A thin line of melted steel slid over his fingers and dried up again.

"Not surprising," Ratchet said, snapping on his wrist light and craning his head for a good look. "Looks like the sparking blew some of the diodes in here...this is gonna take awhile."

"Understood," Optimus said. "Keep me appraised of his condition. Let me know when he can converse again."

Soundwave frowned. "This unit, still operational, still cognizant."

"True," Optimus said. "But you're in pain, and I don't want to discuss our historical and philosophical differences when your cortex is compromised. It would render our entire discussion suspect."

Soundwave pressed his lips together, his optics and mouth betraying so much of his own confusion that Jazz wanted to laugh. No mask and no visor left Soundwave as vulnerable as one of the newly sparked Aerialbots. The lack of social programming, however, was a red flag to a mind as devious as Jazz's and as comprehensive as Prowl's—a mech who valued only useful combat programming. As confused as he looked, Soundwave's mistrust was not to be underestimated. Small wonder that Optimus took the time to explain something so obvious to the Autobots.

"...accepted," Soundwave said, closing his optics. "Your reasoning, valid."

Optimus nodded. "Then I'll wait for Ratchet's report on your health and reschedule our conversation for when you've improved. I must admit, I am looking forward to it."

Reseting his optics, Soundwave lifted his head and met Optimus' gaze, not noticing Ratchet's mutter as he moved. The Prime stood still, facing him squarely and with no trace of subterfuge. Even the faceplate didn't hide Optimus' sincerity, and Soundwave blamed his wounded cortex for how long he took to understand the Prime's reasoning.

"Captured, high ranking officer...rare," Soundwave acknowledged.

"True," Optimus said. "But a ranking officer who might be honest in wanting to defect? I imagine we have a lot to talk about, especially since you seem sincere."

Soundwave lowered his head again, closing his optics. He didn't move after that, save when Ratchet tilted his helm for a better angle with his soldering tools.

However, the conversation for now was clearly over. Optimus turned and passed Jazz, pausing only to briefly rest his hand on the smaller bot's shoulder.

Will you stay here and watch Ratchet? he asked. I don't want him alone, even if Soundwave's intentions are completely honest.

Was already planning on it, Jazz said. Boss, what was all that about his link with his symbiotes?

His excess energy caused the link to come back on, Optimus said. Or so he said. I want to believe it was a sign of good faith, but Ratchet will find out for us one way or the other, and meanwhile his symbiotes are due for multiple interrogations.

Probably where Prowl's headed, Jazz nodded, a little smile creeping over his face as he rubbed the back of his hand, recalling where Prowl had set his lips. Interrogating Soundwave and his little terrors? Prowl's gonna be floating like he's on high grade for an orn.*

Like someone else I could mention, Optimus said, giving his shoulder a squeeze as he chuckled. "Let me know if there's any change."

Jazz froze as Optimus went by, and the growing smirk on Ironhide's face didn't help. The older mech laughed and clapped his hand on Jazz's back.

Now I get it, Ironhide said, jostling him with a grin. Finally noticed, huh? You know, for being head of Spec Ops, you sure can be blind sometimes.

'Blind'? Jazz gaped as he understood, watching Ironhide's back follow after Optimus. Wait...wait, what?

Nope, promised never to tell. Ironhide turned only to wag one finger at Jazz. But that mech's quiet in more ways than one, huh?

Stunned, Jazz stared at the empty doorway, his mouth pressed into a little quirk. A hot flush warmed his whole frame, and he looked down at himself. Was he standing awkwardly? Was his system humming differently? He tilted his helm. No, he'd been humming a little...

Chapter Text

Jazz's rush of self-consciousness faded as he heard Ratchet calling his name, waving him over to the cell.

"Jazz, c'mere."

Ratchet adjusted so that he was kneeling beside Soundwave, optics only inches from the sparks crackling over the exposed cortex. Cleaning out melted steel from the scorched circuitry, Ratchet cursed under his breath as he began to disconnect tiny diodes and mini-mainframes.

"Shine a light in here, will ya?" Ratchet asked, nodding toward the dark corners in Soundwave's helm. "Visibility's lousy down here, and I need both hands free for this."

Jazz pointed one of his small stealth beams where Ratchet motioned, a little above and behind Soundwave's optic. And my hands free in case he tries something?

The thought had crossed my mind, Ratchet answered. I wanna make sure his telepathy doesn't came back online, either.

"I'm surprised you mentioned you could hear your little terrors," Jazz said, lightly tapping Soundwave's shoulder. "It ain't like we'd noticed."

"Autobot total control of area electrical wavelength assumed," Soundwave said softly, his optics half shut as he moved compliantly in Ratchet's hands. "Better to make a show of good faith than to try to hide the signal."

"And your cassettes?" Jazz asked. "They doing the same?"

Soundwave made a soft noise that Jazz couldn't decipher. "Unknown. Contact with cassettes attempted, unsuccessful. Brig well shielded."

Not moving so he didn't disturb Ratchet's work, Soundwave peered up at Jazz, golden optics blinking as something broken in him refused to adjust to the lights behind the smaller bot. He bit one lip, fingertips curling on the floor, without noticing how the Autobots tensed up as if expecting him to attack.

"Symbiotes...alive?" he asked. "Functional?"

"Don't worry about them," Jazz said, relaxing a little. "They're recovering. Probably be fine in a week or two, and then we'll have a whole new set of problems."

Namely what to do about a handful of tiny handfuls of chaos. Soundwave's cassettes weren't called terrors for nothing. Their presence on a battlefield could make or break a fight, and Ravage alone had left scratches and gouges on Jazz's own armor. How were they going to keep Rumble from setting the earth shaking, if he put his mind to it? A bullet in the little slagger's helm seemed like the best choice, but...

Jazz met Soundwave's optics again. So golden, and worse, so sincere in worrying about his symbiotes. With his loyalty to Megatron compromised, Soundwave was latching onto any loyalties that he had that were constant. And as Jazz was discovering, Soundwave's unguarded expressions made him as easy to read as telepathy.

"I'll have to approve it with Red and Prime," Jazz started, "but I'll see if we can't arrange a couple meetings. You'd probably feel better with them inside your casing, after all."

From the corner of his optic, Ratchet appraised Jazz's promise with open skepticism but he didn't contradict him. If the Third in Command offered such a deal, he had the rank to back it up. And from the way Soundwave sat a little straighter, almost losing another memory chip as he nodded despite Ratchet's hands in his helm, their prisoner believed him fully.

"Confirmation of their well-being, desired," Soundwave said. "Autobots, require exchange of information for this favor?"

"Autobots appreciate offers of faith and sincerity," Jazz said.

He knelt down in front of Soundwave, one hand on the other mech's cheek. Soundwave's look bored into him, normally full of Decepticon cunning, but now wide-opticked as Jazz touched him. The larger mech leaned into his hand, his engines rumbling in relief as Ratchet slowly took the pain away.

"You can talk philosophy and politics with Prime all day long," Jazz said. "But we need information. If you're honest about leaving Megatron, then you can work with us on that, right?"

Soundwave nodded once, slowly, his optics shutting to thin slits. "Download, expected. To be administered at Second in Command Prowl's order?"

"Oh, he'll be rolling around in that like a cybercat with a big fat glitchmouse." Jazz ran his thumb under Soundwave's optic, drawing a deep rumble from his engine. "But I'm interested in different things. Like...how come Megatron ain't banging down our door trying to find ya? You're a big catch for us. Why ain't he trying to kill ya, if not get you back?"

Soundwave squeezed his optics shut, beginning to tense up...when Ratchet smacked him squarely across the edges of his opened helm.

"Quit that," he grumbled. "You'll start melting again. You're gonna lose circuitry as it is. Any more and you could lose the whole positronic center, too."

"Soundwave, loyal to Cybertron," Jazz said, drawing the mech's attention again. "You know that. So why is Megatron happy to let you go?"

With a long vent, Soundwave tried to cool his systems only for them to grow hot again. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then met Jazz's look again and tried one more time.

"Soundwave...lied."

His voice was heavy, pushing out the word like a confession. Ratchet paid little attention, gently holding a circuitboard in place as he unfastened it from its setting, lifting it to see the burned steel beneath. At Soundwave's hissed intake, Ratchet paused, blowing away lingering heat.

"Really melted a couple of these," Ratchet whispered. "Jazz, careful how you push him. These are still pretty hot."

"No problem," Jazz murmured, watching Soundwave's gold optics droop and fight to meet his own. "No philosophy here. Just two mechs talking."

He cupped Soundwave's face in his hands, leaning close. Soundwave blinked hard, hissing as he drew in cooling vents, and he turned slightly into Jazz's palm. The heat off his helm warmed Jazz's hands, and his whole frame shuddered against the cooler touch. Jazz served as a heatsink, drawing out Soundwave's excess as he pressed steel against steel.

Over Soundwave's helm, Ratchet caught Jazz's optic and gave a little questioning nod, flicking his gaze from his patient back to Jazz. Their head of Special Operations sometimes used questionable ethics, using any tools the enemy gave him. But leading on a Decepticon?

Jazz half-shrugged and grinned, ignoring Ratchet as the questioning continued.

"...lied?" he echoed, sweeping his fingers over Soundwave's cheek.

"To Decepticon high command," Soundwave whispered.

A crackle of static popped between Ratchet's fingers, but nothing worse. Ratchet shot Jazz a look and continued lifting out a ruined diode, blackened and melted at the edges.

"Megatron, required surveys of geographic area termed Oro Grande," Soundwave said, shuttering his optics as he spoke. "Starscream, demanded additional data on Autobot activities in the northern polar cap. I told each I would complete the other's task."

Jazz chuckled, leaning close enough to touch his helm to Soundwave's. The larger mech's engines rumbled at a low level just enough to hum against his armor, playing a soothing note as they both tried to ignore Ratchet removing ruined portions of his cortex.

"Nifty little trick," Jazz said. "So each of them thinks you're busy somewhere else. What happens when they figure it out?"

"Starscream, notoriously defensive. Will rant at Megatron for days before answering—"

He suddenly seized Jazz's wrist, gripping tight as he winced. Jazz frowned, one hand already drawn back and flipping out a knife without thought, pausing only at the acrid scent of smoke and the glow of smoldering polycarbon as Ratchet drew out the worst bit of damage. A melted and twisted chip no longer than a finger lay in the medic's palm, glowing red.

"There's the culprit." Ratchet reached into his subspace and withdrew a sealant pack, injecting gel into Soundwave's singed connectors. "I already firewalled some of your cranial sensors, but I'm gonna shut most of them completely down. You're gonna feel lightheaded, so hang onto something if you start losing your balance."

"Way ahead of ya," Jazz said, retracting the blade and holding Soundwave's shoulder. "Shouldn't he be laying down for this?"

"I'd rather have him in my bay," Ratchet said, shifting so that his knee ran against Soundwave's side to further brace him, "but he'll be fine this way. And it's just a couple burned out components, not a full cranial extraction."

Ratchet set back the flipped up circuitry, lowering back in the small chips with infinite gentleness.

"Now when I replace everything, then I'll need him laid out and unconscious." He shrugged, resetting Soundwave's armor. "For now, he needs rest. A good recharge and defrag will help start his self-repair functions. Plus, his balance is gonna be shoddy until he's fixed."

"Gotcha." Jazz looked back at Soundwave, motioning to the berth beside them. "Wanna lie down?"

"Negative." Soundwave tried to shake his helm, quickly aborting the move as his gyros spun without control. "Confused. Tired. Symbiotes...?"

"They're fine," Jazz murmured. "You can see 'em later. You were saying about you'd lied to Megatron and Starscream...?"

Soundwave hesitated, then gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Estimated time to discovery, only half a deca-cycle. Starscream, at least, will know something is wrong by then."

"Why just Starscream?" Jazz asked, holding his helm as Soundwave bobbed unsteadily.

And then Soundwave froze.

At first Jazz thought that Soundwave had quietly glitched, but a look at Ratchet showed the medic just as confused as he was. Jazz stared at Soundwave, leaning away as he watched the mech's hands. He didn't think the Decepticon would try anything as stupid as attacking them now, but Jazz had seen his Spec Ops mechs walk in circles and repeat the same phrase over and over after a cortex injury. Soundwave reverting to earlier programming was not farfetched.

"Soundwave..." Jazz said slowly. "Why just Starscream?"

"Jazz, will be angry."

Lifting his helm, Soundwave pressed his cheek into Jazz's hand. The sudden nuzzling, closing his optics and resting against the saboteur's fingers, startled him into sitting straight and meeting Ratchet's own surprise.

"Soundwave, does not desire to anger the Autobot Jazz."

In the silence that followed, a small snicker.

Ratchet put his hand over his mouth, but it didn't cover his growing grin or wickedly delighted optics. He switched to his internal comm even as he shook his head in disbelief.

Looks like the mech's sweet on you, Ratchet laughed. Prowl, now Soundwave. You like 'em high ranking, huh?

You rotten mech—

Hey, I'm not the shiny bot here.

Cutting off transmission, Jazz turned his attention fully to Soundwave, giving him a small nudge.

"I won't get mad," he promised. "And I need to know."

Soundwave's vocalizer hiccuped, then coughed and reset itself. After a long moment, he nodded once.

"Soundwave, never missed a forum update before. Starscream, Starburst, strict upload schedule."

Silence, inside the cell and between the two autobots. Ratchet's jaw dropped, and Jazz stared at their prisoner as if Soundwave's helm had ejected off of his shoulders. No one spoke. Sure that he had upset them, Soundwave turned away as if hiding in Jazz's palm.

"You mean those stories on the forum," Jazz said, drawing out each syllable. "Don't you?"

Soundwave nodded once. The Autobots shared a look, not sure if they should feel surprise or disgust or curiosity. The brig felt suddenly very awkward.

"So." Jazz cleared his filter. "Starscream, Starburst."

"What's it about?" Ratchet interrupted before he could stop himself.

"Skyfire, force-downloads Starscream," was his immediate answer. "Many times."

"Wait, what?" Ratchet barked a laugh, too lost to do anything else and ignoring Jazz's scolding gaze. "You're writing that, and Starscream reads it? Often enough to notice if you don't update?"

"Starscream, fan," Soundwave said, and was that a touch of pride in his vocalizer? "Always first one to comment. However, not sure if that is because he can delete posts so he is always first."

"Whoa, whoa, more importantly," Jazz said, shaking his helm at Ratchet in a vain attempt to switch the subject. "Starscream, Starburst? That wasn't on the list we had of stories you probably wrote."

"Story, exception to my rule," Soundwave said. "Starscream, posted request to anonymous board. No one answered. Soundwave, assumed writing would lead to bargaining chip in the future."

"Mechs and femmes," Jazz murmured, leaning against Soundwave in disbelief, "this is Decepticon high command. Argh...I'm gonna need to read it."

Jazz shot Ratchet a look, cutting him off even as the medical bot opened his mouth. "Not a word outta you, mech. Not a word."

"Spoilsport." Deprived of his toy, Ratchet grew serious again and nodded at the berth. "He's just about done. Help me get him down? I don't wanna leave him sitting up."

Jazz patted Soundwave's shoulder, turning him toward the berth. The larger mech groaned, tightening his grip as the room started to spin, sending his gyros into a tailspin. With his other fist pressed to his mouth against nausea, Soundwave whimpered in the back of his throat, leaning on Ratchet's shoulder. The medical bot steadied him as he turned, one arm behind his waist as Soundwave went backwards.

"This unit, falling—" Soundwave gasped, scrabbling at both of them.

"You're fine," Ratchet said as he set him down, taking his hand and pressing it down. "Almost...there."

Stretched out on the berth, Soundwave didn't resist as they arranged his limbs on the soft plasticene surface. Ratchet touched one of the buttons along the side, and strong magnetics locked Soundwave in place. A sigh escaped his vents as his optics half closed and swam.

"I'm gonna put him under for about eight orns," Ratchet said, programming the berth locks.

"Set it but don't knock him out just yet," Jazz said. "I gotta get a little more out of him first."

"Sure," Ratchet smiled, getting back to his pedes. "We'll call it Spec Ops Mission three hundred, Soundwave in the magnetized berth of the Autobot—"

"Finish that sentence," Jazz warned, "and I'm making Sunny and Sides' do their next community service in your medbay."

"...you are no fun, you know that?" Ratchet tapped the berth above a large button. "When you're done, touch that. It'll send out that tone that knocks you out."

Jazz stuck out his tongue at Ratchet's back, making sure his friend was well out of the brig before turning his attention back to Soundwave. He didn't touch his hand, staying clear of the berth's magnetics, but he sat up where Soundwave could see, slowly blinking as his frame finally began to cool.

"Can you hear me?" Jazz asked.

A low rumble from Soundwave's engine answered first, as if the mech were rediscovering his vocal processor.

"Yess," he slurred.

"When do you have to get the next part of that story written?"

Soundwave considered for several seconds. "Three days...? Uncertain. This unit, confused."

"Uh-huh..." Jazz pressed his lips together. "Does it take you that long to write it?"

"Already...mostly done," Soundwave murmured.

"Hm."

Jazz sat in deep thought, threading his fingers as he stared down at the mech in front of him. If Soundwave saw him, he couldn't tell. The golden optics wavered this way and that, lingering on the ceiling tiles. In a few kliks, he wouldn't have to push the button. Soundwave would drift off on his own.

"Why me?"

Somehow those optics came back into sharp focus, like an over-energized mech sobered up by fear. He didn't glance at Jazz, but he didn't have to. Jazz knew he had Soundwave's full attention, despite the damage. All of them had fought with severe helm injuries before, knew the little tricks of how to overclock what was left of their positronics to wring out that last bit of clear thought.

"Jazz, morality gray," Soundwave said. "Not as idealistic as other Autobots."

Jazz half-smiled without humor. "Yeah, I've seen some messy work done at night. So?"

"Estimated forty percent chance of successful contact, persuasion and surrender." His engine slipped into lower gear, slowing his internal clocks and dragging at his conscious mind. "No other Autobots provided as high a chance."

"No other Autobots would forgive being chained up," Jazz reminded him, "and nearly overloaded."

The gold optics closed. Soundwave's engine slipped completely into recharge, locking him into deep rest. Annoyed that the Decepticon avoided having to give a reply, Jazz pushed the button anyway simply to be sure Soundwave wouldn't wake up any time soon. With a grumble, he stood up and left the cell, closing the door with a soft click.

"No other Autobots...so shiny."

Jazz held the bars of the door firmly shut, a cold flush running through his system in a routine prep for battle. He hadn't imagined that last, tired mumble. Most mechs locked up during recharge, but a rare handful spared a little processing power while otherwise unconscious. Was Soundwave still partially aware? He called out his name but heard no reply.

Filing that away as something else for Ratchet to check, Jazz left the brig, confirming two guards left at the door as he walked by. He called Prowl with a loud ping, his cold frame warming as Prowl replied. The mech's internal voice sounded much like his normal speaking voice, but the electronic tone hummed lightly in his helm, reminding him of fingers over his cords.

Prowler, got a lot to report and no time for writing it all down.

A sigh, somehow audible through the comm. How surprising. Talk, I'll take it down in notation.

Jazz grinned, slowing his pace so he'd reach Prowl's office just as he finished. Let's see. Soundwave's gonna have to take a raincheck on talking philosophy with Prime seeing as how he blew a circuit or two just explaining things. Check with Ratchet for the medical report. Probably gonna have to postpone downloading him 'till after he's repaired.

At least I have his cassettes for now, Prowl muttered. Continue.

Asked him why Megatron ain't banging down our doors trying to get at him, Jazz said. Get this. Mech says he lied to him and Starscream both, telling them he was going on the other mech's missions. I'll explain more later. Important thing is, Starscream's gonna know he's gone in 'bout three days. Turns out he's reading one of Soundwave's trashy stories, and Soundwave keeps a tight schedule.

Starscream is reading...

Prowl's voice trailed off. Jazz laughed, wishing he could see his face. Of course they knew Decepticons were like Autobots, indulging in a little tactile now and then, but to have the enemy's cheap overload habits dropped in their lap felt voyeuristic.

It ain't about me, thank Primus, Jazz said before he could ask. It's 'Starscream, Starburst,' about Skyfire force-downloading Starscream lots of times.

...of course it is.

Now, Jazz said, coming around the corner so that the office door was in sight. I know you're gonna come up with more options than me, but I got struck by a bit of an idea and I wanted to run it by you, see what you think.

A joor later, Jazz stood in front of the Autobot top command, one hand resting on the table so he could look down at the datapad and not at the officers around him. Not that the datapad was much better.

"I don't think you've been entirely truthful with me," Skyfire said, pressing his pede firmly into Starscream's back. "I don't know why you keep trying to hide it. You know I'll pull it out of your cortex eventually."

Hands locked in front of him in stasis cuffs, Starscream squeezed his optics shut in pain and horrible anticipation. Skyfire knew his weaknesses, knew the sweet spots to touch gently or grind beneath his heel. Eventually Skyfire would tear him open, and in so many ways. He whimpered as his enemy's hand grabbed the edge of his ragged wing, obscenely gentle as Skyfire pulled him up on his knees.

"Ready to scream again, little star?"

Grimacing, hating himself for his own plan, Jazz shook his helm and made himself look up.

"Mechs...we gotta get Soundwave to finish writing his damn story."

Chapter Text

Skyfire stood before the entire Autobot officer cadre, taking long kliks to process what they had told him. When he'd been summoned to the closed meeting, he'd first thought back to see if he had done anything wrong and forgotten about it. Breaking the rules by accident was a common issue for him. The military protocol that the others followed so naturally to him felt awkward, sometimes completely illogical. The Autobots had all had millions of years to adjust to hierarchy and chain of command, whereas he often found himself unsure of his own function as a scientist in a ship of soldiers.

When they'd sealed the door behind him, he'd nearly frozen in fear. Most of the officers wouldn't even look at him. Had he violated a vital rule?

Although from the way Red Alert and Perceptor hid their faces in their hands, Skyfire didn't think that they were angry. In fact, Ironhide was grinning at the ceiling.

And then Jazz had explained.

Skyfire understood, then. Felt absolute embarrassment and the urge to blast a hole in the floor and jump into it. Even Optimus looked strained, pressing his fist to his face plate. Only Ironhide was unaffected, typing something into his datapad. Across the table, Perceptor glanced a message on his own datapad, then huffed and glared at Ironhide.

"That's where it stands," Jazz said, sliding the story across to Skyfire. "And I figured before we could make any decisions, we better talk to you first."

Now they all looked at him, although in Red Alert's case, he only peered at him from the corner of his optic, too wound up to move. Skyfire met their looks evenly and picked up the datapad, skimming the section that Jazz had read.

Starscream knelt, stasis cuffs locked around his wrists, whimpering behind the vocal lock that his master had placed upon his throat. Skyfire stood before him, fingers digging into the edges of Starscream's helm, as he brought up the cloth soaked in solvent. As gently as when he polished the jet to overload, Skyfire ran the solvent in soft circles over Starscream's purple marks.

Bubbling along the surface, flaking at the edges, the Decepticon insignia wore away with each stroke. Purple ink ran down his frame, slipping along his skid plate and trickling down his thigh. Starscream shuddered, watching the symbols of his faction and rank blur and vanish under Skyfire's hand, then looked up, helpless to stop him.

"Mine again," Skyfire said, cupping his cheek.

"This story is among those Polyhex Manuals on the Ark forums?" Skyfire asked, idly tapping the datapad.

"Yup," Jazz said, possibly the only officer who could seriously talk about it. He sat back with his pedes on the table, taking advantage of no one being willing to tell him to sit straight. "And Starscream comments on it with every update."

"'Every update'," Skyfire murmured, scrolling down toward the end and finding mostly interfacing, with Starscream always under Skyfire's heel.

"Thing is," Jazz said, "we got a shot at a trap, but we ain't got much time to plan and spring it. That story's new update goes live two orns from now, and Starscream reads and answers about half a breem later."

"And my part in this?" Skyfire asked, if only to have it spoken out loud.

"One tempting honey trap." Ironhide finally lifted his head to answer, grinning with such satisfaction that they might as well have had Starscream already in the brig. "And all you gotta do is follow a script."

Prowl tapped his datapad to call up a roughly sketched plan. "The idea is that you comment upon the story immediately after its upload, entice Starscream into a conversation, then lure him out into our ambush."

"I realize this is unorthodox," Optimus said, composing himself again. "But these manuals have already resulted in the capture of one high ranking Decepticon, and we have a hope of doing it again. I will understand if you cannot bring yourself to it."

"I'll do it," Skyfire said, expressionless.

Even Ironhide reset his optics at how quickly he agreed.

Red Alert bent over his own datapad, connecting to Prowl's cloud as they began planning out the mission. Beside him, Perceptor stared longingly at Red Alert's work and wished he had his own distraction. He couldn't help lifting his optics to Skyfire, standing strangely still at the far end of the table.

"How can you bring yourself to do it?" Perceptor asked faintly. "It will be in...in front of so many mechs."

"I have two conditions, though," Skyfire said, ignoring him and facing Prowl's annoyed look. "I craft the responses to Starscream myself. And once he's alone with me, you let me do the talking. No script for me to follow."

"Why?" Prowl demanded, the thunk of his finger on the screen telling everyone exactly what he thought of that idea. "You aren't practiced at psychological warfare, let alone the fact that you're too close to this. Starscream was your friend. If this story didn't force us to use you, I wouldn't have signed off on your involvement."

Skyfire stood straight, drawing himself to his full height. At first Prowl frowned at the display, but Jazz's hand on his arm cooled the Enforcer's rising temperature. The other mech wasn't trying to intimidate him. He wasn't even facing Prowl. Skyfire was trying to steel himself—he wouldn't even meet Prowl's optics.

"You're right," Skyfire said, staring only at the table. "But I'm the only one who knows exactly what to say to make him believe me."

They all waited a klik, but Skyfire didn't elaborate. Prowl shared a look with Jazz, who shrugged, and then looked back up at the taller mech.

"How can you be sure?" Prowl pressed. "I am putting the lives of many Autobots on the line for this. I need justification for that kind of leeway."

"Because," Skyfire said, pausing for a moment, then venting and making himself continue. "You're right. I am too close to Starscream. There is...history there."

All of them stared in silence, and Skyfire squirmed under their looks. Had he pushed their military sensibilities too far this time? Was past fraternization with the enemy also forbidden, as impossible as that was?

Ironhide recovered first, kicking one of the free chairs and sending it rolling to Skyfire, who stopped it in one hand.

"Siddown," Ironhide ordered, shaking his head with a soft laugh of disbelief. "You better believe we got a lot more to talk about now."

As if preparing himself for battle, Skyfire turned the chair and sat down slowly, not sure of where to set his hands. He ended up folding them on the table.

"And please," Ironhide chuckled, "be real detailed."

Perceptor's datapad stylus bounced off of Ironhide's helm.

Polyhex Forum :: Decepticon crossovers :: Starscream :: Skyfire :: "Starscream, Starburst"

Authored by :: MaskedMech

Warnings :: Defection, Force-Downloading, Rank Play

The larger mech toyed with Starscream, holding him flush against his frame with one hand. Pinioned between them, Starscream's wings tilted on their hinges, uselessly fluttering against Skyfire. The interface cables pulled taut but stubbornly resisted popping loose, anchored deep into both of their ports.

For all the force of their coupling, Skyfire's berth was nearly silent. Only the hum of their systems rumbling together, Starscream's fingers scraping on Skyfire's confining arm as his whole frame revved faster and faster, matching the speed of his master's much larger engine. He thrashed, but Skyfire's hold was too complete, making his movements small as he synched up to the transport's more powerful systems.

"No threats?" Skyfire whispered, his lips lightly brushing Starscream's audio. "No screams? You were so noisy a moment ago."

With his vocals completely locked up, Starscream gasped in mute desperation, venting the stubborn heat that sweltered inside his core. Swimming in a heat-fueled haze, he threw his helm back, lost in tactile overload.

Endfile :: Page 5/5

To be resumed

Select 'Review' to leave a comment::

On_Ice :: Starscream gives in far too easily here. He should have resisted for at least another chapter. He never knows what's good for him.

M4gn1f1c3ntSkyPr1nc3:: HOW DARE YOU INSULT STARSCREAM? Why, he is the Pride of Vox War academy! The most brilliant of our arial fighters! If he doesn't surrender it is simply because he has an untamable spirit! An unquenchable fire!

On_Ice :: And yet, with all those qualities he hasn't a drop of common sense.

M4gn1f1c3ntSkyPr1nc3:: You ignorant buffoon! I'll have your helm! Name a time and place, and we shall duel! MISSILES AT DAWN!

On_Ice :: Certainly. How about neutral territory, coordinates 323.1 N3 S5? Bring Thundercracker as your second. Skywarp's got a lousy attitude.

M4gn1f1c3ntSkyPr1nc3:: I WILL. Wait. How do you know about that site?

On_Ice :: Are you backing down, Wonderous Sky Prince? Running off in fear?

M4gn1f1c3ntSkyPr1nc3:: NEVAR!

Miles out of Oro Grande, Skyfire stood in the basin of a dug out quarry, watching the clouds drift by. His gaze flicked to his HUD and the chrono in the corner. Less than a breem now. His spark trembled in anticipation.

How you holding up out there? Jazz's voice on their internal communication array came through tinny and full of static. Not overheating, I hope.

I'm fine, Skyfire said, nodding once. Dust everywhere, though.

Yeah, Prowl doesn't pick these places for our comfort, Jazz chuckled. But a little dust ain't so bad if we can keep an optic on you.

Skyfire glanced around the quarry again, scanning the staggered levels of mined out rubble. Ages ago, he and Starscream had scanned this very region of the planet together. The pristine landscape had given way to human stripmining, and now the ecological devastation became one more battlefield hiding Autobot special forces. Skyfire frowned. His sensors found nothing and his HUD gave him an all clear sign.

I don't know how you do it. I can't spot any of you.

Good, Jazz said, his grin obvious in his voice. Be pretty pathetic if anyone could see us, huh? Don't worry—we got you surrounded. And you got Mirage for close support when you need it.

"When," not if. The odds were not good that Starscream would go along with their surprise and walk peacefully into a trap. As flighty and erratic as the Decepticon could be, he was also leader of the Armada for a reason. Who knew how those millennia had affected Starscream? He might see Skyfire and launch a missile barrage instead. The Decepticon faction was not stable, and from what he'd seen of his old friend, Starscream had come through the millennia grossly altered.

Skyfire shifted his weight to his other pede and didn't reply.

Nervous? Jazz asked.

A little, Skyfire said admitted. A dust devil whirled by, glancing off his pedes, and he brushed a a handful of sand off his shoulder. You say Mirage is down here with me?

Whoop, crazy canary sighted, Jazz cheered, and Skyfire looked to the sky. Good luck, and don't worry 'bout nothing. There's a couple dozen mechs here, guns drawn. He's ours the moment he drops.

Don't shoot him immediately, Skyfire sent, not realizing he'd spoken aloud as well. I believe I can bring him to heel...so to speak.

Mech, you got the whole command cadre interested in that 'so to speak', Jazz said. But I promise I won't tell Prowl I let you try to put the moves on a Decepticon before firing. Just make sure I don't regret that, got it?

Understood. Now he saw the small spec against the clouds, a growing streak of red and silver that came lower and lower toward the line of the horizon. Beside it, a similar blue dot followed, Thundercracker shadowing Starscream.

Skyfire frowned. He hadn't wanted to bring the other mech into it, but Prowl had insisted. Otherwise Starscream would have brought both members of his trine with him, and better if the Autobots could influence who he brought and how many.

In a sharp arc, Starscream came to an abrupt halt above the quarry, Thundercracker hovering beside him. Both of them transformed in midair, calmly sweeping over the layers of cut stone and hovering. Starscream stared at Skyfire, hardly tilting his helm when Thundercracker said something.

Skyfire waited, his armor prickling in the heat. No matter how good their trap was, he didn't want to be at the center of it when it closed around him and two Decepticons. And Mirage. He reminded himself that Mirage was out here, probably already taking aim.

And then Thundercracker flashed his thrusters and flew back into the clouds, disappearing from sight. Skyfire blinked, startled by how quickly Thundercracker left. Starscream looked just as surprised, watching the other jet vanish, but he recovered and snapped around again.

Silent, Starscream stared at Skyfire for several kliks, motionless save for how he hovered in the wind.

Chapter Text

Wordlessly, Starscream came down, landing so that small plumes of dust blew about his pedes. Silent, he and Skyfire regarded each other, studying the features and posture that had faded into out-of-date memory files.

Starscream saw little he did not already recognize—the tough armor meant for meteors and space debris rather than repelling bullets. Thrusters meant for deep space, not aerial combat. A few armaments lay haphazardly mounted here and there, some shielding, a standard firearm. His old friend was not meant for war and had barely changed in his brief time out of the ice.

Skyfire, rather, saw numerous changes. Without the overwhelming rush of information and war he'd received when first waking in the arctic, he now noted missiles and mounted canons, jet engines well-tuned and overpowered for tight turns instead of long data-gathering flights. Still symmetrical and handsome, Starscream was now weighed down with awkward shoulder armaments. Once there had been smooth lines and observational equipment. Now the soldier had swallowed the scientist.

"Skyfire," Starscream said, spitting the name like an insult. "Worthless scrap heap. I should burn you down where you stand."

Skyfire smiled, tilting his helm. "So you like 'Starscream, Starburst'?"

The Decepticon pressed his mouth into a thin line and didn't answer. The hot wind blew between them, and Skyfire watched him with all the anxiety of wondering if Starscream's spark might be shot through at any second. This was a mission of capture, not a kill, but some Spec Op bot might have decided to shoot and take the reprimand from Autobot command, who probably wouldn't mind all that much anyway.

Every orn brought a new way to hate the war. He had to avoiding being shot by Starscream and avoiding seeing Starscream shot by his new friends. And he had to do it in less than a breem.

Fortunately, although his fellow scientist had been awake for millennia, their relationship was still fresh in Skyfire's memory.

"Tell me," Skyfire said, "since I've been gone so long...what do you like best about it? Was it where I scrape your wings with my denta?"

The hiss that came from Starscream slid through the air, echoing in the quarry. Behind him, his wings twitched in unwilling response. He bent, leaning forward, hands clenched, and his pedes slid in the dirt.

"Traitor!" he raged. "You have no right—! Who told you? You never would have found it on your own! It wasn't yours to see!"

Undeterred by Starscream's anger, Skyfire continued as calmly as before. "Or was it how I ground your wires under my heel—"

"Don't—!" Starscream demanded, cutting him off as if he couldn't bear to hear the words spoken. "Don't you dare say it! You have no right! You have no claim on me! None!"

The jet's voice rose to a fevered pitch, wavering from the sheer volume. He raised his null beam, holding it in a shaky aim at Skyfire's helm.

"I could end you here and now!" Starscream turned so that he aligned with his weapon, his side presented to Skyfire as he stared down the length of the canon. "Destroy you like you should have been four million years ago! You never should have woken up! You—"

"Or..." Skyfire said, undeterred. "Was it how I picked you up off the battlefield and held you?"

Starscream fired. A shield expanded in front of Skyfire just in time for the beam to splash ineffectively against it. A klik later, Mirage faded into view as he unloaded a round into Starscream's shoulder. From across the quarry, a second round blasted Starscream's knee joint into twisted metal. With a howl of pain, the Decepticon spun and crashed into the dirt, already curling up and turning on his front to try to crawl. His thrusters sputtered and leaked energon, sparking as they offlined.

"Coward," Starscream cried, stammering as the scorched receptors in his wing axles ground together. "Lying coward—you meant nothing! A trap, nothing but a trap—"

Hang back, Jazz said in Skyfire's commlink. We'll round him up.

Skyfire startled as Spec Op bots appeared from the crevices and impossibly shallow pits in the ground, shaking off camouflaging dust as they stood, guns drawn and leveled at the fallen mech.

Wait! Skyfire looked at Jazz, who'd somehow found a shadow that matched his hood's paint lines. Let me finish speaking to him.

'Bot, are you cross-wired? Starscream ain't one for listening, and he just took a coupl'a rounds in his frame. Ain't a mech alive who wants to shoot the breeze after that.

Please, trust me!

Skyfire looked at the handful of bots coming closer, all of them friends that he knew, now completely alien as they approached cautiously, their rifle barrels aimed at Starscream's helm. If Skyfire wanted to salvage this, he had to convince the head of Special Operations to stand down.

Skyfire—

He'll surrender! Skyfire insisted. I can make him surrender!

Jazz stopped. A second later, so did Bumblebee and Smokescreen. Mirage vanished again but he left a faint line of dust clouds as he climbed back to the top of the quarry to act as sentry. The air crackled with the internal messages flying back and forth from Jazz to his mechs, all holding Starscream's life in the balance.

You got one breem, Jazz said, every trace of mirth wrung from his voice. If I even think he's calling for backup, we cut his cables and cuff what's left.

...thank you, Skyfire said with a bob of his helm. As cold as Jazz sounded, he didn't have to give Skyfire that time.

And that precious amount of kliks left meant Skyfire couldn't be gentle. Going up to the wounded Decepticon, he knelt and grabbed Starscream's wing, hauling up him on his intact knee. Starscream cried out as his mangled limbs twisted and fell limp, energon and gear lubricant leaking out onto the rocks.

Skyfire was nearly twice Starscream's size. Flush against each other, the Autobot's advantage was obvious, easily clutching the smaller mech in his arms. He bent his helm beside Starscream's, whispering in his audio.

"Struggling only makes it hurt more," he said, holding him so that he carried most of Starscream's weight. "You're caught—"

"Megatron will find me—"

Starscream yelped as Skyfire snaked his fingers down to his windshield and flicked an outside switch, forcing up the glass and then running his hand deep into his cockpit. Writhing at the sudden intimacy, Starscream gasped as a switch was turned and then locked down.

"I can't have you transmitting messages out," Skyfire said softly. "Not that it would do you any good. You're wounded and surrounded. Look around yourself. How could you escape?"

Starscream refused to look up, resolutely staring at the ground, but his struggling softened into little more than trembling. A hot wind blew over his exposed cords and armor, sparking in the open air, and he shivered with a moan.

"I hate to hurt you," Skyfire whispered. "I hate to see you in pain. But the Autobots said they could capture you, and I leaped at the chance."

"I hate you," Starscream hissed, his voice hitching as his engine skipped. "I hate you."

"But you came here," Skyfire said. "And when you saw it was me, you flew down. What did you expect would happen?"

"I should've known it was a trap." Howling, Starscream cried out at the sky, giving a token thrash before slumping further into Skyfire's arm. "You'd never...never..."

His engine skipped again, hitching his voice into a sob.

"Wouldn't what?"

Skyfire kept one hand in Starscream's cockpit, delicately tracing the small components. His other hand ran down Starscream's abdomen to his pedes, nudging them apart. The broken joint slid uselessly on the ground as Skyfire began to stroke his inner armor. Starscream jerked, unable to resist as Skyfire arranged him easily.

"This?" Skyfire continued. "Did you hope we would begin where we left off?"

"Stop," Starscream whispered. "Skyfire, I can't..."

"I know you can't," Skyfire said, gratified as Starscream turned his helm to face him, optics wide with disbelief. "Your foolish alliance with Megatron, becoming a Decepticon. You can't turn away from all that on your own."

He slipped his hand from Starscream's cockpit, running his hand up until he cupped the softer steel of his cheek. Starscream fit as neatly as he remembered, and the smaller jet seemed to feel it, relaxing against him as shock and overtaxed repair drives kicked in.

"So I'm taking away your choice," Skyfire said. "You're mine. The Autobots might have caught you but you're mine."

Starscream's lips parted in a gasp, and Skyfire stole a kiss, crushing him close while lightly touching his glossa to Starscream's denta. To his delight, after a token resistance, the Decepticon gave in, allowing Skyfire to delve as deeply as he wished, exploring the mouth he hadn't tasted in millennia. A tricky task when the lover was only half his size, but a task he thoroughly enjoyed.

Below, Starscream's pedes spread wider, pressing his weight on Skyfire's hand. The motion was obvious, the intent clear. In front of the Spec Ops bot and no longer caring, Skyfire rubbed firmly against Starscream's sensitive skidplate, drawing out deep groans even as Starscream let his helm fall back on the larger mech's shoulder.

"You had your chance to come back willingly. Now I'm taking you."

And then his hand stopped. He lifted his helm, fully aware of Starscream trying to follow, and looked into the smaller mech's wide optics. In leaning after him, Starscream lost any semblance of balance and hung in Skyfire's arms, whimpering in the back of his vocalizer.

"Surrender," Skyfire said. "And I'm yours again."

"I can't," Starscream moaned, sounding as if he wanted to but was held back, and for a moment Skyfire froze.

"You don't want this?" Skyfire whispered, afraid he was wrong, afraid that Jazz would put a dozen rounds into the mech in his arms.

"I tried to find you." Starscream lowered his helm, pushing his face against Skyfire's hip and muting his voice. "I ran out of fuel. They wouldn't let me come back. I tried...I..."

As Starscream choked on excuse after excuse, Skyfire touched his back, rubbing a comforting circle, but he heard Jazz shift pede's impatiently and knew he had to end this. No doubt his breem was nearly up.

"I know you did," Skyfire murmured. "I expected nothing less. And we'll talk about that, and us, and the war and everything that's happened...after you surrender."

With his engine skipping and struggling to keep up with his vents, Starscream let Skyfire ease him straight, still supporting his weight to ease the pressure on his wounds. Self-repair functions had cut off the energon flow, but he still trembled in pain, embarrassingly clanking against Skyfire.

"Starscream?"

"You still want me?" Starscream covered his face with his good hand, his other arm hanging limp at the shoulder. "After...everything?"

"Yes," Skyfire said, pushing his hand away and tipping his chin up, forcing him to meet his look. "Now surrender. To me."

Starscream went very still, hesitating with the weight of Megatron and millennia of war hovering over him.

"I...surrender."

Stasis cuffs snapped over his wrists as soon as he said it, their electric resonance synchronizing with his own and nullifying the majority of his functions. As he went numb, he vented out in relief even as he sank down to his knees. The pain vanished, leaving behind a dull ache and a cloudy haze in his cortex.

"Now that was something," Jazz breathed, holstering his weapon. With a low, disbelieving whistle, he stared at a broken Starscream cradled in Skyfire's arms. "And it's gonna make for a hell of a debrief."

"Do you think they'll kill him?" Skyfire whispered, likewise staring at his Decepticon, running his thumb over the grey helm. "Or does he have a chance?"

"Good question," Jazz said. "If you can keep a leash on him, who knows? But...don't get your hopes up too much. Starscream's one sadistic, messed up bastard of a mech. He missed you just as much when he tried to kill ya."

Not arguing, Skyfire nodded once. He transformed into his alt mode, safely stowing Starscream and allowing everyone inside his cargo space. As he flew silently, he didn't partake in the Spec Ops bots' speculation about Thundercracker or what Optimus would do about their two Decepticon captives.

Starscream's systems hummed inside him for the first time in millennia. He concentrated on that comforting presence, savoring it the entire way back to the Ark.

Chapter Text

Just out of caution and the possibility that some Autobot might shoot their prisoner, Jazz had the entire entrance and main hall of the Ark cleared as they landed. Optimus and Ironhide waited at the door, both of them standing aside as Skyfire came forward with Starscream nestled deep in his arms. His wounded shoulder and pede had been field patched, numbed and sealed, and the jet drowsed with unfocused optics, his cortex fogged and blissfully unaware.

"Primus bless the porn," Ironhide vented, shaking his helm in wonder. "Two Decepticons with nary a shot fired."

"A couple shots," Jazz said, waving in Skyfire as his mechs circled around them in a loose perimeter. Until they and their prisoner were safely ensconced inside, none of them would relax. "But nothing that connected."

"That sounds about right for Starscream," Optimus nodded, turning and walking with them. "Good job taking him in one piece. It doesn't look like Ratchet'll have to patch him up too much."

"Wish we could take the credit for that," Jazz said. "But that was all Skyfire. He got that pile of rust to surrender."

"'Surrender'?" Optimus echoed, staring at Skyfire in impressed appreciation. All of them knew what the jet was like in a fight. Lording his presence high overhead, flying faster than they could follow and then attacking with the most reckless tactics imaginable, if he wasn't turning on Megatron at the same time. "You managed to get him to surrender?"

"Well, after Starscream shot at him," Bumblebee mumbled.

"It was to be expected," Skyfire said when they all looked at him. "Starscream was never the most stable mech."

"Must've kept things interesting—" Ironhide started, then stumbled as Optimus lightly popped the back of his helm.

"So, the real question is..." Jazz paused at the elevator, punching in the button sequence to take them to lower levels. "Did you guys decide which brig to stick him in?"

"It's a weird problem to suddenly have," Ironhide said. "We haven't had to use more'n just the one in so long."

Skyfire went into the lift first, standing at the very back, while Optimus, Ironhide and Jazz squeezed in. Before the doors closed, Jazz reached out and dragged Bumblebee in with them, stuffing him into the space between Skyfire and the wall. As the doors closed again, they glimpsed Smokescreen turning to stand guard over the lift while Mirage headed for the stairs.

"Prowl said there was no choice," Optimus said, scanning Starscream's injuries. "When you said he was wounded, we cleared out a cell past Soundwave's."

"Really?" Jazz shook his helm. "I would'a thunk he'd clear out another brig."

"The third brig used to be Wheeljack's lab," Ironhide shrugged. "I think there's still scorch marks on the ceiling."

"More importantly," Optimus said, "the cell doors don't lock and the bars melted out."

Jazz whistled in appreciation. Yup. That sounded like Wheeljack.

The doors to the lift opened, and Jazz gratefully stepped out into the open space, stretching as the rest of them followed. Bumblebee groaned and stumbled from behind Skyfire, catching his balance before he could act as guard again.

In the main brig, Soundwave lay quietly on his berth, still clamped in magnetic locks. The Decepticon tilted his helm enough to see them come in, his optics widening when he saw Starscream. He tensed, holding in a vent. Would they kill the air commander? They had let Soundwave live, let his casseticons live, but Starscream was the Decepticon second, a violent threat even when imprisoned.

A medical berth lay in the center of the brig's open space, the same one Soundwave had been repaired on. With surprising gentleness, Skyfire set Starscream on the slab, arranging his wounded pede out for repair and then checking the stasis cuffs. It was how Skyfire touched the commander's helm, how the commander turned into that touch, that Soundwave realized he wasn't going to witness a force download and execution.

Which reassured him about his own chances as well.

Mirage appeared at the stairs, followed closely by Ratchet. With a nod from Jazz, both Spec Ops bots took their positions at the door, guarding the entrance.

As the medical bot came closer, Ironhide had to come next to Skyfire and nudge him back, leaving Starscream prone. Only half awake, Starscream moaned, barely audible, and found Skyfire with half-shut optics.

"I'm right here," Skyfire assured him. "I'm not going anywhere."

"What..." Starscream slurred whatever else he meant to say.

"Don't move," Ratchet said, initiating the berth's locks before anything else. "Just gonna get the download started, and then I can get to patching him up."

"'Down...load'?" Starscream looked back at Skyfire, closing his optics for so long that for a moment they all thought he'd gone into recharge. When he opened them again, he could no longer focus, staring first at Skyfire and then at the empty space past the larger bot. "Forced...?"

Ratchet was already popping the plating of the Decepticon's helm, but he paused despite himself. No matter how necessary, a force download disgusted him. But the demands of war meant that he'd had to crack the cortex of enemies in the past, and after a klik, Ratchet continued unsealing Starscream's cranial access panel.

"It won't hurt," Skyfire said, putting out his hand toward Starscream before Ironhide stopped him from accidentally touching the berth's magnets. "Don't fight it. You're mine, remember? Don't fight it and it won't hurt."

Again, Starscream closed his optics, venting slowly as he hovered at the edge of recharge. Ratchet plugged in the interface cords, connecting the Decepticon to the mainframe and monitor by the berth. Numbers flashed on the screen, the program booting up while accessing Starscream's firewalls.

Internal gates slammed shut reflexively, Starscream's defenses sealing any route that Ratchet might use. At seeing the Decepticon lock them out, Skyfire vented in sharply, startled that it had actually happened.

"This could take awhile," Ratchet warned them. "He's got some pretty complex passwords I'll have to decode."

"Not surprising," Optimus said. "I can't blame him for not wanting to be downloaded."

Skyfire lowered his helm. No one else noticed, but Jazz put his hand on the larger mech's arm.

"Don't get too down," Jazz said. "He gave up 'cause of you. No one expected more'n one miracle outta ya."

"I did," Skyfire vented. "I just thought...I really thought..."

"He's a stubborn mech," Jazz said. "There's no way he'd—"

The program rang, a clear sharp note that signaled the decoding process complete. They all stared at the monitor, then at Starscream, who murmured something unintelligible and closed his optics again.

"Huh." Ratchet poked a few buttons, glancing at their prisoner again. "I'm in. Looks like he gave me full access."

Ignoring how the magnetic locks tugged at his own hand, Skyfire lightly touched Starscream's good shoulder and smiled.

Closing off the download feed, Ratchet sat up straight and stretched. The lights had gone off earlier, leaving him in the blueish glow of his monitors. Long joor had passed while he analyzed line after line of Starscream's code. His job included sifting out viruses, attack protocols and intentional gibberish that could glitch an analyst, especially Prowl, who was vulnerable simply because he was so meticulous. Ratchet had no doubt their Second in Command would find volumes of useful information in Starscream's code, but first he had to examine every bit and byte.

"So...is he clean?"

Across the room, lying on the floor with his pedes up against the wall, Jazz tapped his datapad, sending a rainbow cat tumbling through space gathering strawberries and cakes. His visor reflected the sparkly graphics of the game, coloring his face red and white and pink.

Ratchet slumped back in his chair. "He's a mess. An official mess."

"Well, we knew that," Jazz chuckled, coming upright. The datapad clicked off and disappeared into his subspace. "Starscream is the very model of a modern mech malfunction."

"Don't say it too loud." Ratchet couldn't help glancing at Skyfire, slumped against the berth in recharge. "His boyfriend'll hear ya."

"Now now, that's s'posed to be classified," Jazz said, waving his hand idly and standing by the larger mech, resting his hand on Skyfire's shoulder. "Even if it is painfully obvious."

"I guess it makes a sick kinda sense." Ratchet motioned at the monitor filled with Starscream's code. "He's got viruses on top of viruses designed to keep us out. And all those viruses kinda sat back and watched me work. Spooky, but that's not the bad part."

"What's the bad part?" Jazz asked. "More o'them lousy Polyhex Manuals in his helm?'

"He's...he ain't right," Ratchet said, ignoring his comment and pointing out lines of code. "Look. All of us added on weaponry and all of us came out a little different, right? Transform the code and you transform the mech."

"Yeah," Jazz nodded. "Bunch'a civilians adding on guns and missiles...it's no wonder some of us didn't come out quite right afterward."

"Well, multiply that a couple dozen times over for our patient here." Ratchet heaved a long vent. "He's got missile programs and defense protocols latched into his basic functions. I don't know who did his installations, but it was a real hatchet job. I mean, frag, his base declarative programming's been cross-wired with imperative weapons commands!"

"Say what?" Jazz asked, not even bothering to look at the monitor.

"They strapped guns on a scientist," Ratchet said. "It just don't work. You've seen Perceptor, Beachcomber. Science mechs do not great warriors make."

"Huh." Jazz stared at Starscream again, taking in the various armaments draped on his frame. "And according to Skyfire, this guy was a team lead scientist in the Planetary Science Corps."

They paused for several kliks, staring at Starscream as if an easy answer would appear. The steel of his blown joint had been patched and the slashed energon couplings in his shoulder had been sealed, but they hadn't roused him out of recharge and he hadn't moved during the download. Ratchet sighed again.

"Well, we were gonna have to strip out all his weaponry anyway, and I deactivated everything down to his thrusters. I'll just have to edit the code later." He sent the raw code to Prowl's office and closed down the monitor, turning off most of the berth's machinery. "Help me move him to his cell, huh? I don't wanna wake On_Ice down there."

Jazz shook his head once. "I'm kinda scared how much you know. Tell me I'm not that bad at my job."

Uncoupling the berth from the floor, Ratchet took one end while Jazz pushed the other, maneuvering Starscream around Skyfire's sizable frame and toward a cell on the farthest end of the brig. Starscream and Soundwave wouldn't be able to see each other, and though they would be able to talk, at least their conversations would be monitored.

"Nah," Ratchet said as they eased the berth through the cell door. "First Aid again. The little rust bucket lurks on all those story forums. Apparently there's a forum devoted to the 'magnificent sky prince' here, chronicling all his responses to the stories with him in a starring role."

"I guess when you know who you're looking for, the names do kinda stand out," Jazz nodded. "But why him? They just copy what he writes?"

"First Aid showed me some of it," Ratchet said, chuckling as he slid the berth into place and clamped it down again. "I'll get him to send you the link. Let's just say Starscream's a bigger diva than anyone knew."

"Send Prowl the link," Jazz warned him. "I want nothing to do with it. I got enough of this fragger on the battlefield."

Performing a final check, Ratchet took one more scan of Starscream's functions, then ensured that the mech was firmly locked in magnetic restraints. The stasis cuffs had been removed, leaving their prisoner in a normal recharge, but he showed no signs of waking.

"I'll come down myself later on," Ratchet said as they both left the cell, shutting the door with a soft click. "Just to check on his self-repairs, see how it's coming along. Like I said before, the shots weren't as bad as they could've been."

He turned, motioning toward the door. "You coming?"

Jazz stayed at the bars, looking into the cell. "In a klik. I'ma get Skyfire up and outta here. Don't wait up."

With an easy nod, Ratchet headed out of the brig, waving at Mirage and Bumblebee still at their posts. Neither of them would change until Jazz said so, which often offended the Ark's usual guards. But Jazz wanted no one but his own bots, not when he had two of the Decepticon's highest ranking officers in his custody.

It was so strange, looking down on the mech that had often been high up in the sky, nearly unreachable, laughing maniacally at the Autobots and often at Megatron. The Autobots were almost universally grounders. The Decepticons had the armada, who only rarely came down in a fight, and a jet on its back like this was a prime target. Jazz had to keep rerouting an internal query as to whether he should shoot Starscream and get it over with.

"Starscream, to be executed?"

Jazz half-smiled, more out of exhaustion than humor. Soundwave had been silent for the entire duration of the download, sometimes staring, sometimes drifting back into recharge. So far the carrier had been a model prisoner. Jazz had the feeling that was less than from Soundwave's earnest feelings about respecting Autobots and more out of fear of being shot when no longer useful.

"Who knows?" Jazz shrugged even though Soundwave couldn't see him. "It really depends on Starscream. I'll never trust him farther than I could shoot him, but hell, if Skyfire can keep him on a leash...and if Prime says so..."

While Soundwave paused, thinking that over, Jazz walked over to his cell. Though still locked down, albeit more for his own good than for security's sake, Soundwave seemed less fragile. His helm and cortex had been patched, and his voice no longer wavered, and his optics didn't swim in and out of consciousness anymore.

"Optimus...not like other Primes," Soundwave said softly.

"Finally cluing in, huh?" Jazz rapped his fist on the bars. "Come on, you been fighting him for how many vorns and you didn't know what he was like?"

Soundwave didn't answer for several kliks. In the darkness, the glow of his gold optics spread over his face, first gazing askance at the wall, then sweeping across toward Jazz. A long blink, slow vents, and Jazz realized that if he deactivated the locks, Soundwave would still be too exhausted to move.

"Optimus, only seen from across the battlefield. Rarely up close." He winced as something in his cortex clicked into place, prodded there by his self-repair. "Zeta Prime, destroyed Nyon and Vos. Sentinel Prime, curtailed liberties, sent Decepticon sympathizers to reeducation centers. Primes, were Autobots."

"...yeah," Jazz said slowly. "I get what you mean."

Optimus had been Orion then, and Jazz only knew some of those early politics tangentially, but the Autobots he knew and fought for had broken away from a much darker, corrupt faction. An honorable Autobot from the early days might seem as unlikely as a defecting Decepticon.

"Finding out what those two Primes were really like..." Jazz mused. He shrugged with a broad grin. "Well, I guess it'd be a bit like finding out your boss ain't got Cybertron's best interests at heart. Know what I mean?"

A pause. And then Soundwave laughed. Once, low in tone, more of a vibration in his engine than a true laugh, but the acknowledgement was there.

"Yes. I know."

"Good night, mech." Jazz tapped the bars one more time. "I'll see you in the morning."

Soundwave lay still for a long time, listening to Jazz rouse a bleary Skyfire and let him take another look at Starscream, then the both of them walking past his cell and leaving their prisoners alone to rest. The soft steps outside told him that he still had a pair of guards standing just by the door, and no doubt there were listening devices throughout the room. But for now, this was as private as the brig would be.

"Starscream, awake?"

"...that you, Soundwave?" Starscream's voice slurred, echoing strangely in the darkness.

"Affirmative. Starscream, query."

"...I am in pain, tired, and captured by Autobots," Starscream mumbled. "And don't think I don't know who's responsible somehow. Stuff your 'query'."

Soundwave could almost hear the air commander trying to sneer at him.

"'Starscream, Starburst'...you desire it to continue?""

A groan answered him. "Oh, for the love of Primus...you were the one writing it?"

"Affirmative."

Long breem passed. Soundwave assumed that Starscream had slipped back into recharge, and he closed his optics, listening to the faint electric hums and muted voices from the floor above.

"Keep writing it," Starscream suddenly said, sounding more aware than he had when surrounded by the Autobot officers. "I want to see how this ends."

Chapter Text

Soundwave woke, resetting his optics twice as his lenses came into focus. The lights were off, and somewhere in another cell, Starscream's barely perceptible vents were the only sound. So they were still alone, then.

Soundwave had fallen into recharge while sitting against the wall, pedes out, and he tilted at the waist, loosening cables that had gone stiff. While writing, it was his preferred position, and he felt a little less vulnerable in his cell if he wasn't lying down.

How far had he gotten on the next chapter? Sometimes the story continued in his mind after recharge took him, and he scrolled back through his document file on his HUD.

"I will never serve the Prime," Starscream sobbed, shaking his head even as Skyfire lay the Autobot stencil across his wing. "I'm a Decepticon! I'm a Decepticon!"

Skyfire ignored the smaller mech's groans and instead stroked his wings, calming Starscream's fit. His little jet couldn't understand yet how he was wrong, had been wrong for so many millenia. But then Starscream had always needed a guiding hand to temper his wild mood swings and steer his desires. It was a job Skyfire looked forward to reclaiming...as was his bondmate, even if Starscream needed reminding.

Soundwave huffed. He'd imagined much more than that while he slept. So much to catch up on.

Adjusting his pedes on the floor, he raised his helm—

—and froze, his servos locking up for an instant. He wasn't alone.

Stupid! he berated himself, thinking himself secure just because he hadn't heard anything, and he scanned Jazz for any obvious firearms. Still his visitor said nothing. After a klik, Soundwave vented again, tucking the story file away in his cortex for later.

"Jazz, real?"

On the other side of the bars, the Third in Command frowned. "You been hallucinating?"

"Negative." Soundwave shook his helm, not wanting Jazz to think he was still glitching. "Images during recharge, stronger lately, sometimes linger into waking. It is not the first time I have seen you there."

"Uh-huh." Jazz glanced at the door, clearly waiting for somemech. "And what was I doing in those dreams? More kinky story slag?"

"...Jazz, shot Soundwave." Low and more of a vent than a voice, Soundwave's answer nonetheless filled the space between them, turning the air heavy.

Jazz didn't argue. Both of them knew it was a possible outcome.

Silent, Jazz nodded to some internal communication. Whatever he was waiting for must have happened. He looked back at Soundwave, standing straight, and touched the door mechanism. But he hesitated, tapping his finger on the lock a few times.

Silent, Soundwave waited.

"Optimus wants to talk to you upstairs," Jazz said. "Continue that conversation y'all were having."

"'Upstairs'?" Soundwave echoed. "Not here?"

"A conversation," Jazz said in emphasis. "Mech to mech. Not Prime to a prisoner."

A full vent cycle passed. Soundwave put his hand over his repaired casing. His Decepticon insignia had not been removed, nor had he asked for solvent or tried to scrape it off. For all anyone cared, he was very much their enemy. And still the Prime wanted to talk to him?

"Optimus Prime, either very strange," he murmured, "or very cunning."

Jazz snorted, surprising Soundwave.

"I love Optimus to pieces," Jazz snickered once, "but cunning's got nothing to do with him."

That Soundwave was skeptical was not commented on. Of course he was skeptical. Primes had all but ruined Cybertron in one long downhill succession. And yet Jazz served—Soundwave corrected himself. Jazz followed Optimus with an almost blind devotion. Either the Autobots were all religious fanatics, as zealous about their Prime as Megatron was about galactic domination...or else there really was something about Optimus that Soundwave had yet to understand.

"This conversation," he asked, "when?"

Jazz tapped the lock again, tilting his helm.

"In a couple breem," he said. "But there's a problem I didn't think about 'till now."

Soundwave's face pinched so slightly, running through the list of issues he could imagine. Was it dangerous to move him around Autobots? Then the Prime would be down here. An imminent attack? Then Jazz wouldn't have come. Was Soundwave too dangerous to trust?

"The last time I was alone with you," Jazz said softly, "you locked me up and tried to overload me."

Soundwave stared at him for several kliks, his optics opening wider in understanding. But then he frowned again, tilting his head as if Jazz were standing sideways.

"But..." he tried, "overloads, pleasureable. Desirable."

Jazz scowled, leaning forward to an icy glare that made Soundwave sit straight, thunking his helm against the wall. Clearly that was not something the smaller mech wanted to discuss. And yet Soundwave couldn't help a stab of humiliation.

"Soundwave, so clumsy at overloading?" he whispered.

"How would you like it," Jazz said through clenched denta, "if I chained you up and overloaded you right now?"

His optics widening as large as his specifications allowed, Soundwave felt a rush of heat to his faceplate. Belatedly he clamped down on his engine so fast that he coughed, and his whole frame tensed in an effort to hide exactly how he'd like it if Jazz followed up on that threat. Even with the looming possibility of execution over his helm, that exact scene in Spec Ops #219: Third in Command, First in Desire had been one of his favorites to write.

"Not such a fun idea now, is it?" Completely misreading Soundwave's reaction, Jazz curled his fist around one of the bars, his voice taut.

But clearly it wasn't one of Jazz's favorites. Quite the opposite. Soundwave flinched from the heat of Jazz's anger. No, the little Autobot did not care for restrained overloads one bit.

"Did not realize..." Soundwave trailed off, and he lowered his helm so he didn't have to see Jazz. He'd only conceptualized two types of interfacing, force-downloads and overloading. This was a mistake he did not know how to fix.

"Did not—" Soundwave stopped and took a vent, shuddering deep in his frame. There was nothing he could say to improve this. He squeezed his optics shut. "Soundwave, sorry. Did not know. Did not know."

Long kliks passed. The door opened a crack, letting in a long spill of light into the gloomy brig. Jazz sighed and stood straight.

"Yeah, well." He shrugged. "Just not looking forward to escorting you. That's all."

Motioning for him to stand, Jazz held out a pair of stasis cuffs. Realizing he needed to move lest Jazz grow even more angry with him, Soundwave bent and slid his wrists into the restraints. A low level ripple of static crackled across his sensors, nothing like a full stasis charge, and he stood back as Jazz opened the cell.

Both of them regarded each other for a moment. Jazz frowned, and Soundwave felt the very obvious twist of self-conscious anxiety flit across his face. He ducked his helm as if inspecting his shoulder panel.

"Walk...very long?" he asked.

"Not really." Jazz leaned forward, angling to see his face. "You feeling wobbly?"

"Malfunctioning gyro negligible," Soundwave answered with a shake of his helm. "Clarification: no mask. No visor. Visible emotions, disconcerting." His voice ended on a higher pitch, obviously questioning without asking.

"Shouldn't be any mechs between here and there to see you," Jazz said. "Just my bots. And 'sides, Prowl says no. Says not having 'em lowers your threat rating."

Soundwave considered that for a moment, calculating a percentage for efficiency of concealing emotion, subtracting the sum from his most current threat level calculation. Then grudgingly nodded once. "By five percent. Analysis unarguable."

Jazz backed up several steps, giving him room to move by, and Soundwave bowed his helm slightly as he came under the cell door—

—and found Jazz's knife sliding up between his armor plating, nestling in amongst his cables.

Both of them froze. Jazz looked as surprised as Soundwave felt. Cassette emergency summons and fight or flight protocols blared warning after warning that the Decepticon struggled to ignore, knowing logically that reacting in any way meant death. Already overheated, he flooded with coolant. Warring commands clashed in his cortex, and a wave of nausea tilted his gyros, shuddering the final stabilizer still under heavy repair. The brig tilted wildly, nauseating his fuel reserves.

When Jazz withdrew his knife, clean of any energon or oil, Soundwave groaned and sank to one knee.

"Room, spinning." Soundwave winced, leaning against the bars.

"It's okay," Jazz vented with one hand pressed to his mouth. "I didn't cut nothing. It's okay."

Squeezing his optics shut, Soundwave didn't feel at all reassured by that. Then he realized that Jazz was talking to himself, calming his own jumpy spark. Soundwave didn't raise his voice to confirm that he was all right. Jazz had not yet put away the blade, holding the clean edge up to his optics.

"Okay..." Jazz vented in, out, in a little longer, out a little longer. Then took a full vent and looked at Soundwave, still kneeling in front of him. "Okay. So. Soundwave walking toward me triggers stabby response number one."

Despite himself, still with his optics shut, Soundwave gave a weak chuckle. Jazz sounded as shaky as he felt.

"Walk will be highly inefficient," Soundwave said. "If stabbed every step."

"See? Told ya you got a sense of humor." Jazz didn't laugh, but he grimaced and pressed his hand against his helm. "Well, slag. Okay, I gotta get you to Prime and I ain't got time to waste on me being trigger happy. Since I don't think you wanna walk around on a leash, I'll let Mirage—"

"Leash, acceptable."

The words were out of Soundwave's mouth before he realized he'd thought it. He didn't dare look at Jazz. Did the Autobot think he had misheard? Or that Soundwave was being stupidly logical? Or that the Decepticon really did have a thing for small, shiny bots?

"You gotta be..." Jazz cut himself off, holding up his hands in defeat. "Okay, you know what? Fine. Fine. We'll do it that way. I ain't got time for anything else."

Soundwave didn't know where Jazz found an energon chain. Most likely the brig had all sorts of restraints in storage. What his cortex focused on was the slimmer, dexterous hands setting the chain over his neck, wrapping it around once, twice. Then came the soft click of the lock cinching it just tight enough to be snug.

Amazed, recording every second for later playback, Soundwave lifted his helm. On his knees in stasis cuffs, he looked up at Jazz who held the end of the energon leash. Aside from the fact that Jazz looked less controlling and more like he couldn't believe he was doing this, it was just like Soundwave had imagined in Spec Ops #219.

"Okay," Jazz said, giving the leash a tug. "Get up and let's see if I can hold myself back."

A command! Soundwave slowly came up on his pedes, perfectly still. He would move only when ordered. He didn't think he'd be so lucky as to have the plot come to life, but—

"Follow me," Jazz said, leading the way out and pulling the leash taut. "And keep pace. Don't try to walk faster'n me or Primus only knows what might happen."

Soundwave squashed the warble in his engine. He couldn't afford to show anything. Jazz didn't like mixing overloading and imprisonment. If Jazz knew how Soundwave really felt about this, he might take the leash off entirely. Schooling his face to remain as blank as possible, knowing his optics were overly wide and obviously focused on Jazz's shiny aft, he followed at the slower speed the smaller mech set, blinking in the bright corridor.

Smokescreen led the way, Mirage brought up the rear, and Bumblebee followed right beside Soundwave. All of them open-carried their rifles, and Bumblebee kept a constant watch on every twitch of their prisoner's hands, every waver of his vents.

Bumblebee raised an optic ridge. Hey, Jazz?

Yeah? Jazz answered. He doing something tricky?

No, Bumblebee said slowly. Just that...boss, he looks like he wants to eat you.

Jazz looked over his shoulder. A few cycles ago, he would have considered such a strong stare to be hostile or a sign of defiance. But now he was older and, sadly, wiser. He huffed and faced front again.

Bot's got issues, 'Bee. Ignore it.

Sure, boss.

It didn't matter that he wasn't looking at Soundwave. Jazz could feel the stare sweeping over him, just as he had before when Soundwave first removed his visor. He considered talking to Prowl and urging him to reconsider. The golden optics made their prisoner all the more vulnerable, but his looks were likewise as potent.

He tightened his grip on the leash. And damned if the creepy mech didn't make the energon chain into something more erotic than it had any right to be. Jazz made a note that, after dropping off the prisoner, he'd ask Prowl to meet him in his berth. Immediately.

He hoped Optimus would want to have a long, long talk with Soundwave before sending him back to the brig.

Chapter Text

Despite so many vorns fighting Autobots and gathering intelligence on high ranking mechs, the Decepticons knew precious little about the Autobot's Chief Medical Officer. They knew that Ratchet could deliver an impressive flying kick. He could resurrect mechs from battle wounds that should have been fatal. And he could disable a mech piecemeal, so that the unfortunate Decepticon who found himself on Ratchet's slab would scream through a silent voice processor as their frame slowly disintegrated around them.

Starscream believed the Decepticon propaganda. Scraping his fingertips on the medical berth, staring with wide optics blinded by the overhead lights, he writhed against the heavy steel restraints locking him in place. His vocal processor was mute, but his gears and servos ground together in loud agony as he strained.

"Dammit, I ain't even doing anything!" Ratchet yelled over his shoulder, one hand braced on the table as he facepalmed, already knowing Starscream wouldn't listen. "Quit tensing up before you rupture something!"

Starscream ignored him, venting so loudly that it didn't matter that he'd been silenced-he might as well have been shrieking. Ratchet muttered to himself and thought about calling First Aid to help settle him.

A moment later, the brig door slammed open and Skyfire pushed passed a startled guard, heading straight to Starscream's side. The sound of groaning metal finally faded as Skyfire touched his arm, stroking him and easing the jet's rushed vents.

"I'm here," he said, kneeling beside him. "Calm down. It's all right. I'm here."

Starscream's optics stared past his face, unfocused in the bright surgical lights, but he locked on Skyfire's face like a lifeline. Gasping, he turned his helm toward Skyfire's palm, and his engine hiccupped as it downshifted into a low rumble. Still just as tense, he pushed his face against Skyfire's fingers, hiding in the larger mech's hold.

"Finally," Ratchet growled, turning and glaring at Skyfire. "I called you nearly a joor ago!"

"They were offloading energon out of my cargo bay." Skyfire melted under Ratchet's intensified scowl, ducking his head. "We just got back from Cape Canaveral. I couldn't transform with all that fuel inside me."

"'All that fuel'?" Ratchet echoed. "Energon doesn't take that long to unload."

Despite Starscream's shuddering and the angry mech snarling at him, Skyfire grinned. "This time it did. Prowl had us in the air and raiding one of their bases before he'd decoded everything in Starscream's download."

"Decepticon fuel?" Ratchet chuckled and, with a roll of his optics, turned to pick up the tools beside the berth again. "Fine, fine. Good news almost makes all his howling worth it. Here, talk some sense into the dumb jet. He won't listen to me."

With a few keystrokes on his medical interface, Ratchet reconnected Starscream's vocal processor and stood back. Even with his legendary bedside manner, he still grimaced, bracing himself for the coming barrage.

"Skyfire!" Even with his face muffled under his hand, Starscream's wail echoed off the walls. "He's taking me apart! Don't let him take me apart!"

"He isn't disassembling you," Skyfire said, cupping his face in his hands. "He's removing your weaponry."

"Lies! Ratchet takes mechs apart—everyone knows that! Ratchet the Hatchet, he'll break you down to spare parts while you're still alive!"

Skyfire looked up at Ratchet, who shrugged with a growing smile.

"I think that means they've got propaganda out about me," Ratchet said. "I admit, it warms my spark to know I'm their bogeyman."

Ratchet said something else, but Starscream's whimper prompted Skyfire's continuing touch, and he used his larger size to physically block the jet from seeing the rest of the brig or the tools beside them. He couldn't lift Starscream away from the berth or hold him close, but he could force Starscream to focus only on him.

"Starscream," Skyfire said softly, petting his helm. "Starscream, listen to me. He's not going to disassemble you. You're safe."

The jet's wailing subsided into a whining engine. "He already took pieces off..."

Skyfire glanced at the two canons in a pile by Ratchet's pedes, then at the spots on Starscream's arms. Freshly removed, the canon rivets had left six perfectly spaced, grooved holes, each a small window into Starscream's inner limb cords and servos. Skyfire stared at the punctured armor, lightly running his fingertips along the grooves. To see him again the way he used to be, clean of that awkward, jutting laser but with deep wounds to mark its place... his spark knotted in a way he hadn't anticipated.

"...Skyfire?"

Starscream watched him, his look flicking between his lover and Ratchet, his thoughts obvious. Had he made his final, greatest mistake? Did the shuttle really want Starscream disassembled? Had he been lying before about wanting him back?

"Does it hurt?" Skyfire asked.

About to wail again, Starscream paused as he realized that no, it didn't. He shook his helm once.

"And it won't hurt. Every bit of weaponry is coming off. It isn't torture. It's so you can't hurt anyone ever again." Skyfire stood straight, holding his jet's hand below the restraint. "And I want you to do this. Do you understand?"

Starscream stared at him for a long moment, unblinking, then jerked as Ratchet opened his laserbanks and began work with the hydrospanner. Wincing, Starscream glanced back up at Skyfire, searching his face for any hint of a way out. When he saw the shuttle's familiar stern look, he squeezed his optics shut and nodded once.

"Good." Skyfire knelt down beside him, still touching his hand. "I'll stay with you if you want."

With a frantic nod, Starscream turned his hand to grasp Skyfire's, shaking with shuddering vents. Ratchet knocked the back of his hand against the jet's wing.

"Quit venting like that," he grumbled. "You'll make me slip. And you—"

He pointed at Skyfire, the sonic cutter in his hand dripping a tiny amount of oil. "If you're gonna clutter up my medical brig, you're gonna at least make yerself useful. Get those canons out of my way and grab me one of those packs of cable couplings. Your boyfriend needs a stasis lock while I pull some of these systems out."

Wincing at the oil-covered cutter, Skyfire nodded obediently and patted Starscream one more time, then took the canons to the shelves in back. He tried to make as little noise as he could, rifling through the various medical packs to grab what he hoped were the right cables. As he came back, he stopped in his tracks, staring at the cells.

"Soundwave's gone," he gasped.

"S'okay," Ratchet said over the high whine of a sonic saw. "Jazz took him out on a walk."

Skyfire blinked, expecting more of an explanation. When he didn't get one, he hoped Jazz knew what he was doing and came back to the berth. For an instant, he glimpsed Starscream's displayed components, saw Ratchet disconnecting vital cables and junctions with oil spilling across his hands—

Muffling a moan so Starscream didn't panic, Skyfire turned away and kept his optics focused on the far wall.

"By the way," Ratchet said, tilting his helm toward the monitor. "You should check out that datapad by my tools."

Grateful for the distraction, Skyfire leaned to one side and reached out, carefully picking it up. One of the major downsides of being larger than most of the mechs around him, besides having to watch where he stepped, was that he could crush their tiny datapads if he wasn't careful. He didn't want to think what Ratchet would do if he broke one of his datapads.

"Courtesy of Red Alert," Ratchet said even as he pulled a boxy chunk of steel and tight copper coils up and out of Starscream's frame. "An archive of all the really special comments the magnificent skyprince here left on stories with him in 'em."

"Wha—?" Starscream groaned low in his engine and shook his helm once. "That's not...no, don't..."

Boosting his optic magnification, Skyfire squeezed Starscream's hand once. Nevermind that his jet didn't want him to read it. He needed something to focus on beside Ratchet clamping cables spurting oil and drizzled energon, and what could be worse than Starscream trying to shoot him? And these were just his comments on those forum stories Jazz had shown him. How bad could Starscream's comments be?

M4gn1f1c3ntSkyPr1nc3::Air Commander Starscream, taken out by a MEDIC? And not even by trickery, but in hand to hand combat? PERPOSTERUOS.

Skyfire blinked. What on Cybertron...?

M4gn1f1c3ntSkyPr1nc3::Starscream was far too easily decived and overcome! He would never have been so easily mislead, nor would he have surrended so quickly, and with such meekness! The glory of Starscream is his boldness, his passion!

Oh. Understanding washed over him, and he glanced at Starscream...

...who'd opted to close his optics and pretend that Ratchet really was disassembling him and that he wouldn't have to see Skyfire reading his comments. Damn that First Aid! Why was it so funny to collect all of Starscream's responses? Maybe if he was lucky, Ratchet would rip out his optics.

So he couldn't see Skyfire half smiling and scrolling through, relieved to find more and more of his highstrung friend buried within the unstable Decepticon.

M4gn1f1c3ntSkyPr1nc3::Where is the dessecration of the decals, the teasing of turbines, the molten heat of humiliation as his own frame becomes a weapon against him? Starscream is an exotic, a creature of air and fire who's very existance calls to the poetry in one's spark! Even Autobots cannot deny it—

His optic ridge went up. Teased turbines he knew about, but desecrating decals? Come to think about it, that particular kink had featured in 'Starscream, Starburst.' Soundwave was the writer, but the jet had read it faithfully.

"Ratchet," Skyfire said, still not looking at the medic's handiwork. "Were you planning on stripping off his Decepticon insignia?"

"Pfft." Ratchet jerked a shoulder in a shrug. "I got my hands full right now. 'Sides, he ain't any less of a threat without 'em."

Skyfire nodded once. That would give him all the opportunity he needed. He glanced at Starscream, cupping the jet's helm in his hand and running his thumb over one red strut.

When Starscream chanced opening his optics again, sure he would see Skyfire's irritation, even scorn, he instead breathed a deep vent of relief. Skyfire was smiling at him, touching him and keeping the horrible Autobot from ripping him apart. He relaxed, rubbing his face against the larger mechs' fingertips.

"Finally," Ratchet said, wrist deep in Starscream's systems. "Whatever you're doing, keep it up. Those rupturing coils're finally relaxing."

"Sure," Skyfire said, continuing to stroke Starscream's helm. As the jet mooned at him, warm vents brushing his steel in such a familiar way, Skyfire wondered if Jazz would authorize a little paint stripper for his use.

Chapter Text

By the time Jazz had Soundwave safely seated a private conference room, his cuffed hands resting on a long table, no one had any doubts as to why the Decepticon had allowed the leash. His engines rumbled despite every effort to keep them silent, revving every time Jazz touched him. Jazz unlocked the chain and pulled it from Soundwave, coiling it up in his subspace, and quirked his mouth at the larger mech.

"I just don't get you," Jazz muttered, crossing his arms. "Or Starscream for that matter, but he's a lot less subtle about it than you, and that's saying something."

Soundwave gave a long vent as his shoulders drooped. "My behavior, glitching and erratic. Outside dominance, helps establish my own semblance of control."

"And my aft is shiny," Jazz snarled.

"Negative," Soundwave said, then stumbled over his own answer. "Clarification: affirmative, Jazz is shiny. Negative, that shininess alters desired leashing."

"Don't...don't phrase it like that," Jazz said, backing away to lean against the wall. Thank Primus he'd left his mechs outside. "So you're saying Bumblebee or Mirage wouldn't get a second look from you, 'izzat it?"

"Affirmative," Soundwave nodded. "Jazz, only Autobot with such chaotic yet loyal programming. Jazz, superior among Autobots. Soundwave, superior among Decepticons. My interest in you is to be expected."

"I dunno if I should be flattered or creeped out," Jazz said. "Does Megatron know you're like this?"

"'Like this'?" Soundwave echoed. "Clarification requested."

"Being treated like a pet," Jazz said. "Abuse. Forced tactile, all that."

Conversation whiled away the boring minutes waiting, but it also served to give Jazz valuable data on their prisoner. The more that Jazz watched him, the more he recognized some of Soundwave's more nuanced emotions. The slightest narrowing of his optics, the minute tilt of his helm, and especially the soft downturn of his lips all signaled confusion, the kind that made Soundwave look a little surprised that Jazz would ask.

"Such behavior, common among Decepticons," Soundwave said. "Noticed among some Autobots as well—"

Soundwave broke off there, shaking his helm once and looking back down at the table. "Apologies. I do not wish to anger you."

Now that called for a roll of Jazz's optics. "Oh, puh-lease, I understand bots being kinky. Ain't gotta explain that to me. But you...mech, you are locked up in an enemy base and if we don't think you're being honest, there's a very real chance we'll have to shoot you. How in the pit do you find that fun?"

Outside came the growing sounds of heavy pedes on metal floors, and a courtesy ping to warn them that Optimus and Ironhide were on their way. Relieved that the conversation could end, and by Primus let it be ended forever, Jazz straightened up a little and hoped that Optimus would dismiss him for a little "R and R" time, preferably Relaxing and Recharging with Prowl.

An instant before the door slid open, he glanced at Soundwave again. And paused. The larger mech looked between him and the door twice, then leaned forward as if rushing to give Jazz a vital, war-ending secret.

"Not 'fun'," Soundwave whispered quickly. "Desired. Even...required. Soundwave, not leader. Require a strong commander. Lost otherwise."

As he sat back, he turned away with a full coolant cycle easing the sudden heat swamping his systems, and Jazz had the uncanny feeling that Soundwave had dropped information on him that wouldn't have been forthcoming without the leash. Just like Starscream wouldn't have surrendered without Skyfire's control.

The door opened. Jazz and Soundwave acted as if they hadn't spoken at all, barely knew each other, in fact. But it wasn't Optimus at the door, nor Ironhide. Prowl stood still for a moment, scanning the room first, a datapad in one hand, following up with an apologetic look at Jazz.

Don't tell me— Jazz started, his doorwings drooping low.

Sorry, Prowl nodded. Optimus is running late and this is the only time I'll be able to fit in a real debriefing.

You owe me, Jazz said, wagging his finger at him. You're the one who got me revved up. You gotta take me for a spin once in awhile.

I would never shirk my responsibilities, Prowl said with a small smile. Soon. Just...not now.

Gotcha, Jazz said. You want me to send in my bots?

The room is fully secured, Prowl said, and even if this was a poorly thought out attack, I'm not such an easy target as that.

Standing aside, Prowl let Jazz by, letting their hands brush together briefly. And then the door closed, and he sat opposite of Soundwave. If he felt any hint of danger, he didn't show it, setting out his datapad and stylus just so before he started.

"This is Prowl, Second in Command of the Autobot faction," Prowl said, activating the datapad's recording function, "beginning debriefing of Soundwave, Communications Officer of the Decepticon faction. Is there anything else to add before we begin?"

Soundwave frowned. Something about this mech annoyed him. His overly straight back, the way he set his datapad perfectly straight in front of himself, the cant of his helm, the way he looked at Jazz. The way Jazz smiled at him. Soundwave drew himself up to his full height, looking down at Prowl who refused to change his expression.

"Soundwave, Decepticon Communications Officer, Spymaster, Commander of Cybertron Planetary Cassettes, Chief Intelligence Officer in charge of Sabotage and Deception, Tactical Operations Second in Command." His mouth pressed into a firm line. "And you?"

Prowl's optics narrowed.

"Prowl, Autobot Second in Command and Tactician of the entire Autobot faction." He smiled. "That includes Special Operations Coordinator. Jazz's unit."

Soundwave's optics narrowed. He didn't respond. Prowl, on the other hand, picked up the datapad in satisfaction, scrolling over his notes.

"I've already gone over your download provided by Ratchet," Prowl said. "However, there are gaps here and there that I need filled, and I'll require perspective on several key points, seeing as how you are such a high ranking officer."

As Prowl scrolled, however, Soundwave felt some of the annoyance leave him. A sense of loss dimmed his optics, a keen awareness of the cuffs holding his wrists.

"Soundwave, no longer high ranking officer," he said softly. "Soundwave, defector."

Prowl slowly turned his helm, regarding him like a wounded snake. Still dangerous, only tolerable because it couldn't bite anymore.

"You might be," Prowl conceded. "But we have to consider that this is one elaborate trap. You are a potential defector. There is always the chance we have to execute you."

"Understood," Soundwave answered more in a vent. "Soundwave risk factor, thirty-eight percent."

"Thirty-two, actually." Prowl found the spot in his notes that he'd been skimming for, not noticing how Soundwave looked up.

"Thirty-eight," Soundwave insisted.

Prowl frowned. "Thirty-two. I personally ran the numbers."

"Soundwave, little to do besides run numbers."

"And write," Prowl said with a slight smirk.

Soundwave drew in a long vent. Some things were simply not to be tolerated.

"Factored for glitch self-repair?" he asked with an edge to his voice. "Compensated for fatigue and stress?"

"And added in your close proximity and previous honest behavior," Prowl said, more struck than when Soundwave had listed his full titles. Few mechs even dared question his calculations. He struck a few icons on his datapad and flashed the screen. "Thirty-two percent."

"Incorrect," Soundwave said, his revealed face betraying indignation and wide optics. "Thirty-eight."

Prowl answered through clenched denta. "Care to check the numbers?"

Which was how Optimus and Ironhide opened the door to find Prowl and Soundwave bent side by side over a datapad, talking over each other as they pointed to different parts of the screen.

"—disregarded casseticons? But—"

"—not immediately with you, and you have no contact—"

"Completely ignoring—"

"—what should be ignored—"

Optimus cleared his intake. When they didn't look up, Ironhide banged his hand on the wall, making the pair jump and look up. Prowl's optics went wide, and then he and Soundwave both coughed and stood straight.

"My apologies," Prowl said, gathering the datapad back. "We were in the middle of debriefing. About his threat level. Debriefing...he was wrong." His voice trailed off to nothing and he furiously typed in something to the file.

Soundwave glared at him sideways but said nothing.

"Prime," Ironhide sighed, "is this gonna turn into another math nerd session? 'Cause I got enough of that earlier with Perceptor."

"I doubt it," Optimus said, chuckling now that the raised voices had turned out to be an argument reminiscent of the occasional flare-ups between Perceptor and Brainstorm, and that alone gave him another burst of hope over Soundwave's defection. "Did you need to finish right now?"

"No, sir," Prowl said quickly, tucking the datapad away and moving around the table. "I'll be in my office."

"Try Jazz's office instead," Ironhide said with a growing grin as Prowl passed. "I think he's waiting for ya."

Prowl stopped in surprise, looking at him with wide optics. "Really?"

"Yup." Ironhide patted his shoulder and gave him a slight push. "Go on, kid. You've earned a break."

Huffing, Prowl turned his face to hide a sudden flush of embarrassment, but he quickened his steps as he headed down the hall. Optimus gave Ironhide a look, but by now he was growing used to his bodyguard's glee at teasing the other officers. Ignoring it as best he could, he faced Soundwave and motioned toward the chairs.

"Have a seat," he said. "I've been wanting to continue this conversation for awhile now."

Hesitating, Soundwave kept his optics on Optimus as he awkwardly pulled a chair out and sat down, resting his hands in his lap. His synthetic synapses grew uncomfortably energized, and his whole frame tensed as the Autobot Prime sat down nearly within arm's reach. This red and blue mech was Megatron's opposite, capable of trading blows and commanding a similarly powerful if chaotic army. To stand beside Megatron was to stand beside power incarnate and aggression personified. And now he was face to face with Optimus Prime.

Soundwave had felt safer with bars between them.

"The last time we spoke," Optimus started, "you said that Megatron had grown corrupt."

Soundwave nodded once. "Megatron, power hungry. Abandoned hope of restoring Cybertron, focused instead on expanding Decepticon rule across the galaxy."

"So far we agree," Optimus said. "My question now is why did you join him at the beginning of the war? What was different about him then?"

Soundwave's gaze slipped down as he recalled ancient memory files. He prided himself on accurate recordings that spanned millennia, but watching the early parts of the war brought a flood of emotion that surprised him.

"Megatron, heroic. Brave. Gladiator, demanded to be allowed to surpass imposed function." Soundwave curled his hands into fists as he recalled the grand speeches from those days, looking up at Megatron as he spoke to growing crowds of mechs fed up with Functionism. "'A mech is more than the function imposed on his spark. A mech must be allowed to pursue his own functions, to build upon the processor imbued upon him by the Well of Sparks, forming connections not limited to his guild. Cybertron is more than a ball of steel and iron. We are more than steel and iron, even when we die in service to the great cause.'"

"I...think I remember that speech," Optimus said slowly, allowing the search to filter through his archives. "We thought Megatron would be little more than a short-lived rabble rouser. The Senate was so powerful then."

"Senate, very powerful," Soundwave agreed. "Senate, Functionists and Autobots. Any protest, considered insurrection. All protestors imprisoned in Kaon."

"The Decepticon city," Ironhide said. "S'why there were so many there before it fell to you guys."

"Any mech caught listening to Megatron," Soundwave said, "imprisoned in Kaon. Later, Decepticon insignia became a death warrant. Attack on Kaon, Megatron's great risk. Had we failed, war would have ended with us."

"I understand last-ditch fights," Optimus said. "And I understand taking up arms against the Functionists. There was no way they were going to give up power. None of them would listen to me, even when I clearly wielded the Matrix."

Soundwave's gaze flickered to the center of Optimus' frame where the Matrix lay. A nigh holy relic, it sat inside the mech before him, just in arm's reach. He was curious, yes, but also relieved that he couldn't see it. Stories and rumors passed among the rank and file that the Autobot Prime could control a mech's cortex and force obedience, even wipe clean a cortex. From the military leader they only ever saw in a fight, it did not seem all that farfetched. How could any mech follow an Autobot, the faction that had supported the Senate, when Megatron espoused nothing but power derived from their own ability?

"But you felt deep loyalty toward Megatron," Optimus continued. "For a long time. I know that you've grown disillusioned enough to break away from him, but what did he say that swayed you so much before? What gave Megatron such a powerful command of your loyalty?"

Soundwave was silent for a long klik, remembering the fervor and devotion he once felt when he looked up at Megatron. The former gladiator had turned politics and warfare into his new arena, and he slung words just as easily as his fists and firepower. No doubt he had sat long joor in his cell, waiting to be summoned for the next bout, hammering out his thoughts and growing dissident beliefs, that by the time he came to stand on a grayed out Autobot corpse, he'd found it all too easy to overcome the crowd's shock and sway them to his side.

"'We are defined by our function'," Soundwave said slowly, repeating Megatron's ancient speech. "'We are formed, we function and we die, serving the Senate until the orn we grey out. Like servos working together, we keep the planet functioning. We even take names based on the labor we do.

"'But what if that is a lie? Were we truly formed? Or were we sparked? How many of us feel our inner fire burning against our frame, forced into our function by presumptuous priests who glossed over our spark? Who pretend to know the will of Primus? Which of you were told to ignore your own desires, that your need for something besides a millennia of lifting crates or changing wires was a glitch? A malfunction?

"'Why must gladiators fight until we fall apart? Why must transport units drive until they break down? I have seen our smaller comrades, cassettes and storage drives, called Disposables. Are any of us disposable? Or are we something greater? Are we functions or are we sparks? Are we servants of Cybertron, or are we Cybertron itself?

"The Functionists have given us their answer. They told me I was built to fight. So I will take up this fight and take them my own answer. If freedom is a lie, then I say we will find our salvation in lies and deception. If you would be free, who will take up the lie, my brothers? My Decepticons.'"

Soundwave finished, sitting quietly again, and in the silence, Ironhide huffed, clearing his filter.

"Ain't gotta be a brainiac to figure who said all that," Ironhide said.

"I can imagine how inspiring Megatron was," Optimus admitted as he sat back. "After the Functionists controlled the planet for so many millennia, and the Senate backed them...many mechs would have relished even a noble death, let alone the promise of a life of freedom and choice."

His gaze held Soundwave, as unyielding as Megatron's but without anger or demand. Soundwave felt as if he were being held rather than gripped, led rather than pushed. As if answering Optimus' next question was his own idea.

"And now?" Optimus asked. "What has changed about him? What made you decide to leave?"

Soundwave held very still. Inwardly his cortex began to grow warm as his old loyalties and admiration clashed with merciless logic. Although he didn't notice it, his right optic twitched, and both Autobots straightened. Glitches had clear symptoms, and they were both attuned to the signs of a crashing mech.

"Megatron..."

His voice pitched higher and then cut off. Venting in short gulps, Soundwave bowed his head, covering his face with his bound hands.

"Megatron, delayed latest energon shipment to Shockwave," he whispered. "Megatron, lied to Decepticons. Rationed energon severely. All excess energon supposed to be transported to Cybertron. Instead...instead..."

Ironhide and Optimus exchanged a brief look and, despite Ironhide's growing scowl, Optimus leaned across the table and put his hand on Soundwave's shoulder. He didn't ask or prod. He waited patiently and only provided physical comfort. For Soundwave, the touch made it that much worse.

"Megatron wants to build a base here." Soundwave broke, his voice hollow as always but flowing quickly now, as if he had to get it out all in one burst. "A city. New Tarn, or New Vos. Wants Earth to be the launching point of his galactic conquest. Forgotten Cybertron. Forgotten Cybertron. Forgotten–"

The hand on his shoulder squeezed, then relaxed. Didn't let go. And it was stupid of him, Soundwave knew—completely illogical for physical stimuli to affect his cortex like this, especially from someone so recently his enemy—but that hand fit comfortably around him and, through it, soothed him more than should have been possible. Was that the effect of the Matrix? Or was Optimus simply practiced at comforting mechs?

"Cybertron isn't forgotten," Optimus said. "We'll find a way to save it."

"Cybertron so far gone," Soundwave said, grimacing at how his vocalizer tensed so much that it hissed static. "Almost dead."

"There's always hope," Optimus said. "If there wasn't hope, we wouldn't be fighting. Although others have given up, we keep trying. I have to believe there's something for us to save, and as long as there's life left on Cybertron, I know we can bring it back to its full glory."

Soundwave held still, steadying himself, bringing his vocalizer back under control. After a moment, when he could vent fully without his engine hiccuping, he slowly set his hands back on the table and nodded once.

"...apologies," he murmured. "Momentary lapse, ceased."

"No apology necessary," Optimus said, chuckling softly as he sat back. "Discussing Cybertron brings out strong emotion in bots. This isn't the first time I've seen an overwraught mech."

Not sure that he wanted to trust his voice just yet, Soundwave nodded.

"Now," Optimus said, "since you've brought him up, let's talk about Megatron. You've been gone a long while and he still hasn't come looking for you."

"Soundwave, absence accounted for," he answered, venting deeply once more. "Starscream's absence, however, obvious. Megatron, probability already summoned me and received no reply. Will likely instigate a battle to draw out Autobot forces."

"And try to take prisoners," Ironhide guessed. "To interrogate. Probably come after the Ark if he thought he could swing it."

"Affirmative," Soundwave said. "Lacking Starscream and myself, Megatron will bring overwhelming forces to compensate. Autobot victory, uncertain."

"But if we know it's coming," Optimus said confidently, "then we can prepare. With your help, we'll be ready for him. And we'll see if we can't bring this war closer to an end."

Soundwave lifted his helm, staring up at Optimus in wonder that the Prime could sound so sure of himself. The Autobot commander lacked the bombast and drama of Megatron's speeches, had nothing of the theatrics of his commands. And yet...

"Now seeing that expression never gets old," Ironhide grinned, and his smile only broadened when Soundwave looked at him in confusion. "Don't take it personal. He's got that effect on everyone. Can't buy that kinda loyalty."

He laughed under his breath, speaking more to himself. "But you can get stories about it. Optimus Prime and His Chain of Command...heh."

This time it was Optimus' datapad that careened off Ironhide's helm.

Chapter Text

When Prowl arrived at his office, he was not surprised to find the door wide open and Jazz curled up in his chair, pedes on the desk as usual. Neither of them spoke as Prowl closed and locked the door behind himself, tossing his datapad on the desk so that it knocked against Jazz's armor. Prowl dropped in his spare seat, venting heavily.

"Soundwave?" Jazz grumbled.

"Soundwave." Prowl draped his arm over his face, hiding from the world for a moment. "And...well."

"Hm?" Jazz tilted his helm to see him better, reaching one hand out to touch Prowl's fingertips. "What?"

"Prime walked in on us," Prowl sighed with a loud vent. "As we were arguing."

"'Arguing'?" Jazz echoed. "'Bout what?"

"That Decepticon questioned my math," Prowl growled. "Said I had miscalculated his threat rating."

"Ooh."

Jazz whistled lowly. He'd seen mechs try to second guess Prowl's math, or worse, try to correct him. So far, he'd never known Prowl to be wrong, and he had seen many chastened mechs duck and backpedal out of his office faster than a battle retreat.

"Did you let him live?"

"He..." Prowl huffed and turned his head. "If he's what passes for Decepticon intelligence, it's amazing they've lasted as long as they have. Mech wanted to calculate in his casseticons when his connection to them has been severed, as if his emotional attachment to them meant anything significant–"

"Whoa, whoa," Jazz said, squeezing Prowl's hand as he sat up. "Mech's bad at math, okay. But you're sure he can't talk to his little terrors?"

"Certain," Prowl nodded. "Ratchet assured me of that himself."

"Well then." Jazz stood and stretched, reaching toward the ceiling so hard that his frame trembled, and then relaxed, one hand resting on his hip. "Let's forget it for now. We're both technically off shift, and I believe you made me a promise."

Despite his irritation, Prowl's frown slowly faded and then grew into a smile. He peered at Jazz from between his fingers, and he adjusted in his chair to face him.

"I did," Prowl acknowledged, holding one hand out to him. "It's been a long shift, though."

"Tell me about it," Jazz said, and he used taking that hand as an excuse to straddle Prowl's lap, scooting his thighs and aft until he was sitting comfortably. "That rotten mech...did you know he has a chain kink?"

Prowl nodded once, somehow following Jazz's conversation even though his hands were following the line of Jazz's waist.

"Yes, in one of his Spec Ops books," Prowl said. "There were a few others, but that's the one where he's chained on a leash and overloaded in the brig."

Jazz paused, staring at Prowl to make sure the other mech wasn't making that up. And then he groaned and fell flush against Prowl, burying his face in the other mech's neck cabling.

Not one to question a lapful of Jazz suddenly snuggling close, Prowl held him and idly allowed his fingers to explore the underside of Jazz's hood. If he was open about it, maybe the smaller mech wouldn't react badly to his touch.

"That's why his engine acted all funny," Jazz mumbled, his voice muffled by Prowl's armor. "Perverted mech was revving up on it."

"What?" Prowl's hand stopped, and he leaned back trying to see Jazz's face. "'Revved up' on what?"

"I..." Jazz peered into Prowl's face, pressing his lips together as he considered how to answer. "You agree that Spec Ops sometimes has to follow unorthodox procedure, right? And nothing happened, so you gotta promise no ratting me out to Prime."

Prowl's frown deepened. "What happened?"

"Promise me," Jazz insisted.

"I promise I'll have Soundwave scuttled," Prowl said, his scowl darkening his faceplate. "What happened?"

Jazz felt Prowl's grip growing tight, pulling him taut against Prowl's waist. There were a dozen ways that Jazz could escape, but he found that he liked the sensation and told both his escape and assassination processes to stand down. Yes, he thought, wiggling on Prowl's hips. A jealous Enforcer was quite comfortable to sit on.

"Just that I was pressed for time," Jazz said, "and Soundwave kinda sets off my self-defense function, so the only way I could get him upstairs quick without killing him was...you promise you won't tell Optimus?"

"Jazz..."

"Or anyone else? Especially Ironhide—seriously, he is becoming a one bot menace—"

"Third in Command Autobot Jazz," Prowl demanded, "what happened?"

"Spoilsport," Jazz muttered, looking away. "I...kinda had to use a chain on him."

Prowl's optics darkened. "A chain?"

"Like a leash," Jazz said, wilting as he saw Prowl's reaction. "Nothing happened—"

"Of course nothing happened," Prowl growled. "He probably followed every command of yours to the letter. You could've told him to crawl and he would have."

"I didn't know!" Jazz said, pushing back at arm's length. "Not 'till 'Bee said he was focused on my...um. Yeah, anyway, I did not know about his thing for chains."

Prowl still looked furious, although it had taken Jazz long millennia to learn Prowl's more subtle expressions. The precise way his mouth sealed, the faint narrowing of his optics, the way his hands curled tightly around Jazz's aft and held him securely in place.

And then Prowl sighed and lowered his helm. It wasn't worth getting angry over, at least not toward Jazz. Better to direct his anger at that math-questioning Decepticon.

"I will create a list of his fetishes," Prowl said. "So you can avoid them."

"I...uh. Yeah." Jazz touched Prowl's face, tracing the faint lines in the flexisteel and the ridge where the plate met the helm. "About that."

"Yes?" Prowl's frown faded, brushed away by Jazz's attentions.

"I didn't tell anyone but..." Jazz leaned closer, whispering as if mechs were listening in at the doorway. "I kinda get why he liked the leash."

Prowl went very still. For vorn, he'd longed for Jazz, secretly, quietly, keeping such a tight clamp on his emotions that only Ironhide had ever figured out that he felt anything for the smaller mech. To have Jazz so happily in his lap, asking for his affection, was more than he ever hoped for. Jazz's lethal reactions, though unexpected, were an acceptable risk. But to have him already confiding something so unexpected...

"Really?" Prowl whispered. "Tell me why."

"Prowl-l-l..." Jazz turned, ducking his helm.

His small movements had him wiggling in Prowl's lap, enthralling the Enforcer. He'd never seen Jazz so much as flustered, and here the Third in Command was on the cusp of outright embarrassment, his faceplate warming up in a full flush.

"You don't do things by half measures," Prowl murmured. "First letting me interface, and now this newfound liking of leashes? What else will you confess, hm?"

"It ain't like that," Jazz protested, though he laughed as Prowl pressed a kiss to his arm, then kissed up a little higher to his shoulder, slowly coming up toward his throat. "That tickles!"

"A necessary precaution," Prowl said, though the quirk to his optic ridge belied that. "I wouldn't want you to feel threatened. Now..."

Jazz leaned in for a kiss that Prowl gladly gave, allowing the smaller mech's glossa to tentatively explore, still not confident in what liberties he was allowed. Prowl smiled around the kiss, relishing the shyness that he was sure wouldn't last long. And when Jazz broke away, pressing his helm to Prowl's, he chuckled as Prowl's fingers moved up his waist and slid under his hood.

"What was it," Prowl asked, "that you enjoyed so much about a leash?"

"You got a real one track mind there," Jazz said, biting his lip as sensitive cabling was caressed. He tensed, half-expecting Prowl to slip a little too high toward something sensitive, but the Enforcer had learned exactly what to touch and what not to touch, carefully avoiding Jazz's self-defense reactions.

"I have a Jazz track mind," Prowl said. He bowed his helm, lavishing attention on Jazz's headlight, circling his glossa along its rim. "Was it the rush of power? Or was it the thought of having it around someone's neck in particular?"

Jazz's engine hitched, and he put his hand behind Prowl's helm, holding him close to his hood. He watched with wide optics, awed at seeing the Second in Command like this, normally so stoic and professional, now treating Jazz like his delicate toy. He pressed his fist against his mouth, stifling the little noises in his throat.

I trust you, Jazz said, unwilling to say it out loud but needing to get it out. I wouldn't ever—I mean, I don't do this so easy, you know? I have to disable so many alerts just to let you touch me and...

Lifting his helm, Prowl paused, listening intently even though he heard Jazz's voice clearly in his audios. Patient, he waited for him to continue, although he did take Jazz's hand to individually kiss his fingers.

When we had to move him, Jazz said. When I took him out of the cell...I reacted. Without thinking.

Prowl hesitated, then turned Jazz's hand over and pressed a kiss into his palm. Dangerous as Jazz could be, Soundwave had made it to the interrogation room safe and in one piece, without suffering any missing limbs or severed cables.

Soundwave looked intact and functional, he said slowly. And said nothing about ill treatment.

Jazz grimaced. Pervy bot probably liked it...

Liked what? Prowl asked, frowning. I don't think I want him around you anymore.

With a sigh, Jazz shook his helm. Prowl's ministrations soothed his nerves, and though the Enforcer's engines ran quiet, Jazz felt a comforting vibration rumbling through Prowl's thighs and his hood. It seemed to carry on a personal wavelength, resonating deep within him.

I stabbed him, Jazz said, wincing as Prowl's vents skipped. I didn't cut nothin'. He came walking toward me, and I couldn't—I mean, he's bigger but I know I could take him, especially if he's cuffed, but it was just...

You reacted to him coming at you, Prowl said when it became clear Jazz wouldn't finish. It triggered a response, likely from your brief captivity. Still...you stabbed him? He didn't seem to be losing energon.

Got lucky, Jazz said. Didn't hit anything vital.

Prowl's frown deepened, and he held onto Jazz's hand with a little more force than needed, refusing to let go. You held yourself back.

Good thing, huh? Jazz smiled, but his mouth gave a bitter quirk. Soundwave wants to defect, and I nearly kill him.

I...am sure Optimus is glad you didn't, Prowl said after a moment.

Jazz heard what Prowl left unsaid and grinned ruefully, tipping his helm forward to rest against the edge of Prowl's hood. So close to his engines, he heard the smooth purr of the other mech's systems, and Prowl put his arms securely around him, rubbing the base of his doorwings. Jazz arched back, pushing his own hood against Prowl, hissing in a vent and groaning in satisfaction as Prowl worked his fingertips into the soft, flexible joints.

It won't happen again, Jazz swore. I can always have Smokescreen escort him.

No leash? Prowl smiled, lifting his head to brush Jazz's cheek with his own.

Prowl, Jazz said, dragging out his name in a complaining grumble.

Maybe I should send him a present, Prowl said, leaning back so that Jazz lay more and more flush against himself. He slipped one hand down Jazz's back, cupping his aft and running his thumb along the seam of one thigh joint. I imagined just touching you like this for so long, and now you're mentioning leashes.

"I don't—" Jazz squeaked as Prowl kissed him, pushing his mouth against Jazz's to keep him silent.

I like keeping you like this, Prowl said, lightly touching his glossa to Jazz's denta, asking permission to taste. I know you could cut me apart with ease, but you let me do this. You let me...

I like what you do to me. Jazz allowed him in, tilting his helm. I never really understood it, y'know? How mechs could lower their guard so much. Let someone this close.

And now? Prowl drew back, wanting to see Jazz for the answer. With a quiet ping, he warned the other mech even as he raised his hand, touching Jazz's visor.

I still think you're crazy always going on about my optics, Jazz said, venting even as he disengaged the locks and let Prowl gently remove the blue polycarbon.

Your optics are perfection, Prowl corrected him. And you let me see them. Hundreds of mechs wondering what's under that visor, but I get to see.

Still shy about letting someone else see them, Jazz turned away, only for Prowl to touch his cheek and turn him back, coaxing his optics to open with a soft brush of his thumb.

Do you mind? Prowl asked. That I do this? I know you never took any other partners, so...

Special Operations mechs can't trust anyone, Jazz said, reaching up and putting his hands on either side of Prowl's helm. But I trust you. Completely. It ain't easy telling all my programming to let you in.

Prowl's optics shut, and he pressed his chevron against the edge of Jazz's helm, resting against him for a long moment. Content to rest like this, Jazz relished the faint wisp of the Enforcer's vent against his faceplate.

You let me in. Prowl's echo, even across their internal comm, was a sigh. Thank you.

I should be the one thanking you, Jazz murmured.

They sat quietly for almost a breem, languidly touching the lines of their armor, the seams of their joints, exploring each other without talking and idling away the minutes as if the war would wait.

So about that leash, Prowl started.

I'm starting to think you're as bad as he is! Jazz groaned, but he was laughing despite himself.

Chapter Text

Screams and curses echoed off the walls in the brig, and the cell bars reverberated as Starscream hurled an empty tray with such force that it shattered. His shriek carried out into the hall, almost as loud despite the steel door. As soon as the shriek ended, a moment of silence passed as he vented out excess heat, and then he began screaming again.

Outside, Sideswipe exchanged a look with Sunstreak, and his twin shook his helm once. Being twins, they understood each other without always having to speak, and Sunstreak could read the look in his brother's optics instantly.

"I don't care how crazy he's gone," Sunstreak said. "We ain't going in there."

"But he's gotta be doing that for a reason," Sideswipe said. "Maybe he's dying."

"We should be so lucky."

Sideswipe huffed. "I know, but do you wanna get yelled at by Prowl?"

Sunstreak frowned, weighing losing a prisoner against being yelled at again. They were on guard duty precisely because Prowl had no sense of humor. He had a feeling that letting Starscream die would be worse than double-teaming Cliffjumper, but then Prowl hadn't heard that little scrapheap reading stories about the twins out loud. If Sunstreak hadn't smashed Cliffjumper across the face, Powerglide and Brawn had been about to. Really, they'd just saved Prowl from having to stop a riot, but did that stuck up Enforcer realize it? Of course not.

With a rumbling vent, Sunstreak called out on the designated security frequency.

Ironhide, Jazz...heck, Prowl, anyone out there?

Sideswipe listened in, waiting for their mutual orders. A long moment passed. There was no response. They shared another look, fidgeting as the silence stretched out. Sideswipe nodded at him to try again, and Sunstreak made a face at him.

"You try it," Sunstreak said. "Maybe they'll talk to you."

"I don't think they would ignore you," Sideswipe said. "And I don't wanna call them."

"Well, I don't wanna call them."

"Just do it!"

With a long, loud vent, Sunstreak raised one hand to point at Sideswipe's face when another scream made them both jump. Snarling at himself and his twin and the whole situation, Sunstreak slapped on the frequency again.

Sunstreak to anyone—there's a situation down here at the brig if anyone cares. Hello?

Again, silence. Sunstreak groaned and stomped his pede once, looking up and down the empty hall as if someone might appear.

That's it, he grumbled to his twin. I'm gonna go in there and mute him myself—

You will do nothing of the sort, Prowl interrupted. How many times have I told you—?

I called three times! Sunstreak snapped. I figured since no one was answering that no one cared and—

Hold yer engines, Ironhide interrupted him. We got a bit of a situation up here, too. Is anyone down there dyin'?

No, Sunstreak sulked. Unfortunately. But Starscream's—

Another shriek followed, followed by a long howl that drowned out even his internal com. As the echo died away, Ironhide's awed whistle followed after.

Wow, livin' up to his name, huh? Ironhide said. No one went in, right?

He's all by himself, Sunstreak said. Except for Soundwave, but he hasn't said anything.

Not surprising, Prowl said. None of us can come right now, but I'm sending Skyfire down. Hopefully he'll find out what's wrong. When he arrives, let him through.

Yessir, Sunstreak said.

You said you have a situation up there, Sideswipe said. Do you want one of us to go up?

...no. Prowl hesitated. There's been a minor...altercation, but we should be able to take care of it.

'Altercation'? Sunstreak echoed to his twin, forgetting they were talking on the security frequency. They mean a fight, right?

We mean a brawl, Ironhide chuckled. The whole damn cafeteria broke out into a fight. I'm glad Prowl got you down there before things went south up here. Bad enough we got regular mechs in there, but you two front-liners in this would've given us some real casualties.

Cliffjumper, Sunstreak snarled.

He ain't the only one, Ironhide said. Something about grounders an' jets an' whatever the pit 'shippin' means. Look, just stay put, okay, an' be happy you ain't getting the police detail these idiots're gonna get.

Sir yessir, Sideswipe answered, tempted to try for one more question when they heard the elevator door ding. Both of them turned and readied their weapons out of habit, but they relaxed when they saw Skyfire appear.

They narrowed their optics. "What's that?"

Skyfire shrugged as he came closer, giving them a look at the large cylinder in his hand. "Thinner. Prowl said Starscream is throwing a tantrum. If his previous behavior is any indication, a little of this will help calm him down."

The twins both raised an optic ridge as they frowned, but the larger mech looked so confident and sure of himself that neither of them was willing to question it. Paint thinner? They both stepped aside and let him pass, looking at the other for any clue.

"Prowl or the other officers might come down," Skyfire said before he closed the door. "This might seem pretty bad, but please give anyone coming after me them my assurances that it's for the best. Including for Starscream."

"Uh, sure," Sideswipe said, "whatever you say."

The moment Skyfire went inside and the door shut completely, Sideswipe and Sunstreak both commed the security line in unison.

Ironhide, Prowl...Skyfire said something really weird...

As Skyfire came inside, Starscream's shriek cut short, echoing for only a klik before the brig grew silent. Neither of them said anything as they sized each other up, Starscream's optics flicking toward the bucket and Skyfire examining his friend for any sparking wounds or weak spots in his armor.

"Like what you see?" Starscream demanded with a cold grin.

"Starscr–"

"Or are you just checking up on your prize!" Starscream threw a handful of the pieces of a broken tray at him, snarling in frustration that they harmlessly bounced off his frame. "Your trophy locked up in a case! Are they throwing you a party? All the little Autobots cheering that you brought me down like a little sparkling?"

Venting deep, Skyfire faced him like a battle to be fought. He glanced at Soundwave briefly, just long enough to note that the blue mech had curled in a corner of his cell and seemed intent on staying silent. Then Skyfire focused back at Starscream.

"You're raving," Skyfire said softly. "You're not making sense."

"You'd like to think so!" Starscream shrieked. "You'd like to forget me! Trick me into surrendering and then leave me down here!"

Skyfire crossed the brig, coming up to the bars. Starscream took a step back, glaring up at him, then followed Skyfire's hand as the larger mech keyed in the security code.

"Or beat me into silence?" Starscream raged, backing away as Skyfire opened the door and came in, so much taller and imposing. "Finish your medic's hatchet job and rip out my vocalizer!"

Skyfire shut the door, locking them both in, and he set the container on the floor. Silent, he faced Starscream for a long vent cycle. The jet's moods were legendary on the battlefield, mercurial and often insane, and one of Starscream's optics glowed dimmer than the other, flickering as the jet twitched. Skyfire couldn't know what was going on in Starscream's cortex, but Ratchet had described the programming contradictions in the jet's mind, the weapon coding conflicting with a scientist's natural reasoning. Skyfire guessed that his friend's defrag and compiling was ongoing. As wildly as Starscream raved, Skyfire felt a touch of sympathy. The internal static and reshuffling must have been exhausting.

"Nothing's being ripped out," Skyfire said. "There's nothing to rip out. Your armaments are completely removed."

"Of course!" Starscream sneered. "You'd want me helpless, incapable of fighting back! Autobots demand nothing but complete capitulation, complete surrender! Hypocrites! Liars–!"

Starscream's yell hitched as Skyfire leaned toward him, one hand out. With a startled metallic screech, Starscream skirted the edge of the cell, staying as far out of the shuttle's reach as he could. As Skyfire drew closer, however, filling the cell with his presence, Starscream found himself pressing against the bars, turning his helm as Skyfire came near.

"Not the Autobots," Skyfire said, cupping his helm long enough to feel Starscream's vents slow down and deepen. Trapped in place, the jet stared up at him with wide optics, mouth parted, trembling in his palm.

And then Skyfire lowered his hand and grasped Starscream's waist, pinning his arm against his side. The smaller mech gasped, turning as if he could shy away. Instead Skyfire came to hold him with both hands, using his greater weight and size to leverage the jet down and on his back.

"I want you helpless," Skyfire said, straddling Starscream's legs. "So you can't hurt anyone."

Skyfire took Starscream's arm and held it down against his cockpit, forcing his other arm across the jet's armor and pinning it under his palm. "So you can't fight in this war ever again."

And then he pulled the cylinder and cloth across the floor, setting it in easy reach.

Turning his head, Starscream glanced between Skyfire and the container he'd brought, a thousand different guesses flashing through his misaligned cortex. A disassembly kit? Cerebro shell? Restraints?

The top opened, hitting him with the scent of paint thinner.

With a deep vent, Starscream opened his mouth and shrieked at top volume, straining his vocal processor until static and feedback interfered with the sound.

The last time a brawl had erupted on the Ark, as far as Jazz remembered, involved some mech accidentally using Sunstreak's polish in the washracks. That hadn't been pretty—the frontliner could do a lot of damage in a few kliks, and Jazz had nearly resorted to cutting the young mech's cables just to stop him from blasting off the offender's face.

Although none of them were really combat models, some of the civilians-turned-soldiers were just as heavily armored, and millennia of war had honed them all into hair-triggered bundles of stressed circuits. None of them were built for beating each other into scrap, but all of them had done as much to Decepticons on the battlefield. A brawl was nothing to take lightly.

So when the alert came across the security frequency that mechs were beating each other up in the cafeteria, Jazz gave Prowl a quick kiss and then hopped over his desk, moving at top speed through the corridors. As soon as he had room, he transformed into his alt mode, indulging in the rare opportunity for authorized racing in the halls.

Tell me, he asked over the same frequency. On a scale of one to Ironhide, how ugly does it look?

Real cute, Ironhide said dryly. Get your aft down here, will ya? It ain't but me and Gears trying to break up the party, and I'm getting tired of watching him get kicked from one side of the cafeteria to the other.

Ignore him, Gears grumbled over the comm. If Ironhide wasn't going so easy on these mechs, we'd have cleaned up this fight alr–

Transmission faded into static that cut off quickly.

Annnd there he goes again, Ironhide sighed. Glorified hockey puck. You almost here?

Coming around the corner, Jazz promised. Just wanted to get a headstart on—

You didn't, Prowl said, his tone promising a reckoning as soon as he caught up. I'm just as fast as you are.

Prowl, Jazz said, eschewing the security line for their private frequency. Sweet spark, mech of mine, shiny of shinies...

Don't try to sweet talk me, Prowl snapped. I know why you took off like that–

I didn't wanna bring it up, Jazz said, finally coming to the door and looking in.

It didn't look good. At least none of them had been so stupid as to spill energon out of their cubes, but most of the mechs inside were wearing energon, seeping out of the cracks in their armor and splashed on their knuckles. Steel trays flew across the room and careened off of helms, followed up by taunts Jazz didn't understand and didn't want to understand.

"Cross-faction is sick!" Brawn tackled Mirage, throwing him into one of the tables.

"Don't like, don't read!" Mirage yelled, kicking him off and vanishing. A moment later, Brawn went flying backward.

In the middle of what had been a row of tables, Air Raid and Blades dodged each other's punches while alternating between "Wing fetishist!" and "Spark fetishist!"

As Cliffjumper stumbled from being sideswiped by Brawn, he grabbed Blaster's pede and pulled himself right again, giving Blaster's side a hit for good measure. "And you and that damn height rule! Short bots ain't pushovers!"

Gears slid by again, this time knocking over Cliffjumper, and Mirage reappeared as he fell backward over their combined momentum.

"And you're always getting things wrong!" Bumblebee howled over his shoulder as Hound lifted him up off the ground, off another mech. "Eight million years and you don't know our armaments? You're ignoring canons!"

Jazz's doorwings drooped as he scanned the room, lost in a wash of story jargon and nicknames. He felt corroded just listening to them.

Prowl, he said, I know you're Second and I'm Third, but for just this once, listen to me and stay outta this.

'For once'? Prowl replied. I always take your advice under consideration.

Then stay put, Jazz said. You're just too sensitive for this kinda work.

...don't hurt them too badly, Prowl said, and his wheels audibly came to a halt wherever he was. Ratchet won't forgive you if he has to patch up the whole base.

Ironhide slammed into the wall next to Jazz, his faceplate dented and scratched, and he wiped a streak of energon against the back of his fist. His other hand held Cliffjumper by the pede.

"I don't care what you do to 'em," Ironhide rumbled, dropping the minibot. "Just do it now!"

"You got it."

Jazz transformed back into alt mode and lunged into the middle of the room, bowling over Hound and Blur on the way. He turned his wheels hard, drifting his tail end so he faced the majority of fighters.

"Let's rock this joint!"

The resultant sound and light show rattled the walls and sent every bot to the floor. His speakers poured out what should have been classic rock if the volume had been low enough to make out the notes. A brilliant flash of sparks followed from the mechs at his pedes, stunning everyone in range until their vocals seized up and refused to let them scream.

Enough! Ironhide struggled to talk even over the comm. Enough! They're all down!

Aw, ruining my fun, Jazz said, but he dropped the volume and lights immediately and reverted back to root mode.

Mechs littered the floor, curled up on their sides and groaning as optics and audios came out of painful reset. Thoroughly disgusted, Jazz bent and dragged Bumblebee up by his arm, giving Mirage a solid kick to the pede as he stepped over him.

"Get up," Jazz ordered. "Prowl might be punishing everyone else, but you two belong to me."

"Acceptable," Prowl said from the doorway. He stood, hands clasped behind his back as if he'd just come to do a surprise inspection, but his tightly drawn doorwings betrayed how close his sensitive systems had come to Jazz's overwhelming attack.

Jazz vented, wanting to make sure he was all right and settling for Prowl's curt nod.

"I'll take these two down below," Jazz said. "An' check on...everything else down there."

"I'll join you as soon as I have this cleaned up," Prowl said, walking past him and standing over the piles of mechs. "Although that may take awhile."

"Throw the book at 'em," Jazz said, then grimaced. "Better not, actually, considering what books they like."

"Yeah," Bumblebee muttered under his breath. "Lousy alt universe writers—gack!"

Jazz shook him once as he dragged him, stumbling, backwards away from the cafeteria. "Shut up, you little scrap of tinfoil—I swear to Primus I'll confiscate every last datapad you got, see if won't!"

"They started it," Mirage grumbled, brushing off dust and paint chips from his shoulder. He drew up short when he saw Jazz's glare, his voice stuttering into silence.

"I swear, I'll—" Jazz started.

Emergency! Sunstreaker called. Anyone! Down here in the brig! Is anyone listening—?

Loud and clear, Ironhide called quickly, cutting off both Prowl and Jazz. What's the sit'rep?

Situation report in brief, Sunstreaker said. Skyfire went into Starscream's cell. The dumb jet's freaking out and Skyfire...I can't tell what he's doing to him, but he's sitting on top of him and Starscream sounds like his vocalizer's gonna explode.

Ironhide shared a look with Jazz and Prowl. With a weary vent, Prowl watched as Jazz yanked his two bots with him, remaining behind while they followed Ironhide. Now doubly annoyed at being left behind twice, Prowl turned his attention to the battered mechs sprawled around him, each of whom groaned as they sat upright, taking stock of their injuries.

"We'll begin," Prowl said, taking out his datapad and accessing his punishment detail roster, "with month-long police duty clearing debris from around the Ark..."

Chapter Text

Ironhide and Jazz skidded to a stop at the brig just as the screams came to a sudden halt. Exchanging a look, the two went inside as Jazz motioned for his bots Bumblebee and Mirage to stay close on his heels. Starscream's mercurial moods could mean anything, and none of them took the jet lightly.

Inside the brig, however, they found Optimus already standing by the cell, one hand raised toward Skyfire who still crouched over Starscream. None of them moved as if locked in a detente.

Jazz shot a quick glimpse at Soundwave. The carrier sat in a corner, hands pressed against his audios, his ridges furrowed as if he'd been in pain. He bit his lip, optics trained on the standoff between Skyfire and Optimus.

"I realize your relationship with Starscream is...complex," Optimus said, still focused on the shuttle. "Regardless, you cannot do this to a prisoner. We'd consider it cruel if a Decepticon did this to an Autobot prisoner."

In the cell, Skyfire remained still, one hand pinning Starscream's arms, his other hand still holding the solvent over the smudged purple decal. He didn't argue or defend himself. His optics focused on Optimus, then slid back to Starscream.

"Did you hear that?" Skyfire said. "My commander has ordered me to stop."

Starscream stared at him with wide optics, his vents sounding as loud as his screams. His look darted from Skyfire to Optimus, then back, his mouth a wide O.

"If you don't say anything," Skyfire said, "I have to stop."

Starscream's vent caught in his throat. Disbelief turned to horror, and his face tightened as he realized what Skyfire was demanding. He shook his helm once, slowly.

Skyfire waited another moment. When Starscream stayed silent, he exhaled, then shifted his weight to get up.

"No!"

Optimus startled back a step as Starscream shot up, grabbing Skyfire's hand and holding it tight. Solvent splashed across them both, leaving a streak of white across Starscream's chest. The sudden movement made Ironhide pull his rifle at the same time that Jazz did, and both of them took steady aim at the Decepticon's helm.

"Don't make him stop." Starscream squeezed his optics shut, pressing against Skyfire's arm. "I can't do this without him. I'm not strong enough."

"What are you talking about?" Optimus demanded. "Primus, neither of you are making any sense."

Like grinding gears, a high-pitched keen came out of Starscream and his heels made tiny rapid kicks of frustration on the floor. Skyfire held him, stroking his back, and he turned the jet to better face Optimus.

"I can't do this without him," Starscream said, feeling his faceplate burn hot with humiliation. "I've been a Decepticon for millenia, and...I couldn't stop. Not even for Skyfire—he had to force me. He had to..."

His voice hitched again. Above his helm, Optimus and Skyfire exchanged a look, and Skyfire couldn't help but glance at the mechs behind his commander, their guns drawn.

Sir, Skyfire commed Optimus, please give him a moment—

Skyfire, tell me you're not coaching him, Optimus demanded.

What—no! Skyfire blinked as if he hadn't considered that. He's just embarrassed.

Why? Optimus said. Removing his decals? If this is part of your berth habits—

"I can't do it by myself," Starscream said, oblivious to the conversation over him. His trembling vents began to settle as Skyfire kept rubbing his wings. "He has to be the one to take them off. I...the decals have to come off, but..."

His voice trailed off. No one moved, least of all Ironhide and Jazz.

"'Well'?" Skyfire prompted, wary of the rifles still trained on his jet.

"I can't say it out loud just like that!" Starscream whined. "Leave me some dignity at least!"

"What dignity?" Ironhide muttered.

"No, no, I think I get it," Optimus said, one hand against his helm in exasperation. "Primus, I've seen Decepticons torturing Autobots that didn't make such a fuss."

"Well," Jazz whispered, "he's called Starscream for a reason."

Behind Optimus, Jazz kept his rifle trained on Starscream, trying to keep a bead on the mech's helm without putting Skyfire in the line of fire. While the drama unfolded in front of him—and he wondered just how much patience his commander had before he just couldn't deal with Starscream anymore—

A whisper came from his left. Barely audible, Soundwave called out Jazz's name, then crept a little closer when he didn't seem to hear.

"Jazz-"

"I heard ya," Jazz hissed. "An' unless you got some magical insight to that dumb jet's cortex, then I don't wanna hear ya."

Soundwave took a deep vent, biting his lip in what Jazz was coming to see as a nervous habit of his. And as Soundwave glanced at Starscream again, looking back at Jazz with a grimace, the Autobot felt a sinking sensation to the depths of his spark chamber.

"All right," Jazz sighed. "I'm gonna regret this, and I'm sure I'll need a strong hit of high grade afterward, but...go on."

"'Starscream, Starburst'," Soundwave said, rushing so that his hollow voice slurred his words, "part twenty. Starscream, captured by Skyfire and forcibly converted to Autobot faction. Starscream, most comfortable when ordered."

It was impossible not to overhear in the cramped brig, and while Starscream groaned, Jazz and Ironhide both stared in surprise at the sudden new information. Jazz's system slipped into higher gear, and his engine coughed once as he forced it to slow again. He glanced at Ironhide and frowned at the older mech's knowing snort.

Optimus sighed, glancing over his shoulder at Soundwave. "Just to make sure I have this straight, the illusion of being forced makes it easier for him to actually surrender?"

Soundwave nodded. "Affirmative. And his berth habits reflect his sense of military protocol."

As one, all of them turned to look back at Starscream, who'd overheated from his faceplate to his pedes. His wings still flared back, displaying the streak of purple dripping onto the floor. So not only had Skyfire been caught bending brig protocol, but he and Starscream had been caught mixing the war with their berth games. Skyfire, however, refused to show any embarrassment. As far as he was concerned, this was simply a necessary step in his lover's continuing surrender.

Deciding that Starscream was not a threat, Ironhide stood straight, stowing his rifle. He exchanged a quick nod with Jazz, venting once in annoyance.

"Gotta admit," Ironhide said, "didn't see that coming. And it makes all the times Megacreep smacked him around just that much more intriguing."

"I'm going upstairs," Optimus said, already walking past them. "Jazz, as soon as they're ready, get someone to escort those two to an interrogation room. I need to deal with this today and I have other fires to put out."

"Sir, yes sir," Jazz said softly, backing out of his way and stowing his rifle.

"Might wanna keep a careful watch on 'em," Ironhide whispered as he went by. "You an' Prowl could get ideas."

Oh, like the Pit was he going to put up with whatever garbage Ironhide wanted to smirk about. The red bot usually got away with his snark by virtue of being out of the chain of command, but as far as Jazz was concerned, that chain was just a guideline showing him where to leave his bribes to smooth over any hurt feelings or singed afts.

Go ahead—keep pushing, Jazz warned him, grinning without a touch of humor. You been acting like a smug scrap of tinfoil since all this slag started. What if I ask ol' Shakespeare here to turn his tender mercies on a new main character?

The red mech's denta clicked shut. He glanced at Soundwave, who narrowed his gold optics as he realized they were talking about him. Ironhide scanned Jazz's face for the clues to just how resolved the bot was to following up on that threat. The steady glow of his visor, the slightest uptick to his mouth, the way his faint vent raised his hood and his helm followed, lifting in confidence.

"You wouldn't," Ironhide said slowly, testing Jazz's resolve.

"Hey, Soundwave," Jazz said, still looking only at Ironhide. "Think you could use Ironhide here for a new series?"

Soundwave's engine rumbled at Jazz noticing him, and his look briefly rested on Ironhide before snapping back to Jazz's doorwings. Wishing the smaller bot would turn and look at him, Soundwave nodded.

"Stories, easy to craft," Soundwave said. "Soft Bots for Ironhide's Discipline—"

"Whoa—" Ironhide said, glancing between Soundwave and Jazz, not sure who to focus on. "No one said nothin' 'bout the kinky stuff—"

"Abnormal Spark Impulses: Sparks of Perversion," Soundwave said.

"That could be about anyone—!"

"Ironhide's Autoerotic Armory Ardour—"

"Okay, I give!" Ironhide smiled, chuckled and took a step back, hands up in surrender. "Fine, fine... You play too rough. I'll save my teasing for Red Alert an' Perceptor."

Jazz's smile didn't change, and it followed Ironhide out until the door fell shut again. With a long vent, Jazz stretched, easing the twists in his cables that came from tensing too much. Ironhide had a habit of pushing too much, but he should have known that interfacing was a sore topic with Jazz—finally exploring a little plug and play with Prowl, after being forced into tactile with...

He vented again. With the very mech he'd just used like another tool in his arsenal, and who'd played along perfectly. Jazz glanced over his shoulder.

"Thanks, mech," he said softly. "That was cool."

"...approval, appreciated."

Jazz didn't look at him, didn't reply. Just walked out, pinging Skyfire to hurry the Pit up.

Starscream had finally gone silent, probably in recharge. Soundwave heard his vents around the corner, deep and constant. Whatever the Prime had said to him and Skyfire, their dual interrogation had apparently settled Starscream's spark so that the the Decepticon said nothing when his Autobot mate brought him back.

Subdued, his wings clean of any decals, Starscream had quietly walked beside Skyfire, holding his hand despite the stasis cuffs around his own wrists. He'd looked exhausted, dragging his pedes, but a smile had curved the mech's faceplate. There were no screams, no protests, not even the sulky grumblings that always accompanied one of Megatron's orders. Nothing but Starscream's calm acceptance and contented gaze up at Skyfire, staring with all the devotion of a loyal pet.

How the Prime had tamed such a high strung mech, Soundwave doubted he would ever know, but Optimus had done it. What Megatron couldn't achieve in long millennia, Optimus Prime accomplished in one meeting.

Truly divine.

"You get lost in thought pretty easy."

Called back from his reverie, Soundwave bolted straight in his corner, optics wide, his mouth tense as if he expected an attack. Even in the heart of the Autobot base, he couldn't help startling badly, not with the threat of Megatron looming over him. True, that threat was only at 12.4%, but it demanded disproportionate attention.

Instead of Megatron, however, he found Jazz unlocking his door.

"No wonder you hide behind your visor," Jazz chuckled, tapping his own once. "But I don't think you'd wanna miss this."

"Boss!"

The cell door opened, and Soundwave's look slid to the floor. A sharp intake of his vents, and he threw his arms open wide as Frenzy and Ravage came in. His oldest cassette's paws were scratched, as were Frenzy's pedes, reminiscent of sand damage, but both showed signs of polish and sealant, and their optics, though dim, were at least equally dim. Unequal optics would have meant cortex damage of some kind.

He pinged his cassettes communication lines and received no reply, but that didn't surprise him. The Autobots didn't trust them enough to allow them closed messages. No matter. He could see them, hold them. It was far more than he'd expected. Both of them wore stasis restraints, with two cuffs around one of Ravage's paws—along with their wireless communications array being silenced, they couldn't transform into cassettes. But he could bring them up on his lap, nestled against himself.

"They're still a little shaky from crossing the desert," Jazz said, locking the cell again. "The sand tore 'em up, especially inside, but Ratchet says they'll be okay soon enough."

Soundwave heard him but barely listened, instead pulling his cassettes close. Ravage lowered his head and curled against his casing, content to snatch a quick recharge in his arms, while Frenzy grinned and sat up, scanning Soundwave's exposed faceplate.

"Wow, boss," he said, looking from the patch job on his casing to his optics. "I knew they'd probably work you over, but geez. They didn't even let you keep your mask?"

Frenzy put his hand on the plating with its new lack of any insignia. He leaned back, trying to see any other changes to Soundwave's frame or colors.

"Assumption, incorrect," Soundwave said, putting a hand on Frenzy's back so he didn't lean too far and fall. "Mask and visor, willingly removed."

"What?" Frenzy vented. He looked at Jazz in confirmation, gaping at his nod, then back at Soundwave. "You're kidding. You never takes it off for nobody."

"Correct," Soundwave said, his vocal processor lowering volume. He didn't want to answer further, but he couldn't reply privately and his cassette deserved more of an answer than that. "Jazz...not nobody."

Ravage twitched but didn't say anything. He'd been with Soundwave the longest, for far more vorn before the war even began. Before Soundwave succumbed to paranoia or fell to the Decepticon cause or ever put on his mask and visor.

Frenzy, however, sharply vented as his jaw dropped. He stared at Jazz again, this time looking the Autobot over fully, and he frowned as if he didn't like what he saw.

"Seriously, boss..." Frenzy said, still peering at Jazz. "Tell me one reason why that lousy little minibot is worth all this slag?"

Outside the cell, Jazz put one hand on his hip, tilting his helm as if Frenzy was cute to think he was allowed an opinion.

"'Minibot'? You're one to talk, pintsize."

Ignoring him, Frenzy waved one hand at the walls around them. The brig, the bars, the scary medical berth in the center, the Autobot guard and the entire faction all around them. Soundwave had given up being third in command of the Decepticon forces for this? For Jazz?

Soundwave vented, considering his answer.

Recognizing that look, Frenzy frowned. "And don't say he's shiny."

Soundwave's jaw shut with a click. Jazz had to keep from snorting. The Decepticon looked so annoyed that Jazz was reminded of Bluestreak when particularly frustrated, bursting with thoughts he wasn't allowed to air. Soundwave's ridges furrowed, his mouth pursed, and his optics flared in annoyance as his faceplate warmed.

"Jazz, superior," Soundwave finally answered.

"Why?" Frenzy demanded. "I ain't believing he can do all that slag you write him doing."

"Frenzy-"

"Boss, we crossed the desert for you," Frenzy said, unflinching as he held Soundwave's look. "We left Megatron. Laserbeak's still getting oil flushed through her system. So...why?"

The flush vanished from Soundwave's faceplate. His optics opened to such a degree that Jazz lightly took hold of the cell bars, staring openly at the mech's face. Well framed, certainly, with appealing golden optics, sure, but it was Soundwave's reaction to his cassette that drew Jazz's rapt attention.

Jazz didn't quite understand what Blaster had meant about being linked with his cassettes. They weren't lovers, they weren't pets, and they weren't peripheral equipment. But here he began to understand. Soundwave called the shots but Frenzy had just made a demand, and damned if Soundwave didn't look like he had to answer.

The larger mech's guard completely dropped. Being in the brig demanded some sense of protecting himself, some semblance of a shield even as he struggled to convince the Autobots of his intention. But Frenzy's question cut straight to his spark, and Soundwave—for an instant—looked at a complete loss.

Especially as he glanced slowly to the side and saw that Jazz had no intention of leaving. The smaller bot shifted on his pedes to lean against the bars, only inches away.

"Don't mind me," Jazz said, but there was a lack of humor in his voice. He met Soundwave's look steadily, without even a smirk. "I've been wondering the same thing."

Soundwave bit his lip. Jazz half-smiled, more in surprise than amusement. What kind of programming did Soundwave prioritize so highly that he'd never downloaded even the slightest social protocols?

"Jazz..." Soundwave said slowly. "Superior."

"You always say superior," Frenzy sighed. "What else?"

"Jazz, chaotic," Soundwave said, speaking as if he were reading off a list he'd been compiling for ages. "Unpredictable. Impossible to anticipate and, at best, difficult to detect. Jazz, paradoxical understanding of both sound and silence."

He paused, hoping that would satisfy Frenzy. When his cassette leaned back in his hands and began tapping his pede impatiently, Soundwave huffed.

"Autobot, regularly infiltrates Decepticon bases. This suggests understanding of enemy thought and reactions. Understanding the enemy..." Soundwave caught his breath, gritting his denta, then groaned as he fought past his processors slowing out of sync. "...allowed Jazz to recognize my defection attempt."

"Uh-huh," Frenzy said, tilting his helm. "Boss, you been firewalling parts of your cortex from us for awhile now. You had tons of times you could'a just walked away. Why didn't you call him up before? And why him?"

"Decepticon high command does not just 'call up' to defect," Soundwave said softly, keenly aware of Jazz's presence but resigned to explaining. "Approach of Autobot base by Decepticon high command, inadvisable."

"Got that right," Jazz nodded. "We got a lot of twitchy snipers that'll take the purple off a Decepticon from five miles out."

"You sneak in all the time," Frenzy argued. "You just waltz in and out. You saying boss couldn'a gotten in, too?"

"Negative," Soundwave answered before Jazz could. "Soundwave, Communications. Jazz, Special Operative. Also, Jazz superior."

"You keep saying that," Jazz chuckled, leaning against the door. "What exactly do you mean? My superior aft? My superior frame? My superior taste in music?"

"Superior combat skills."

His ridges furrowing, Jazz's faint smile faded. "'Combat'-?"

"Viewed security footage of Jazz's infiltration. Autobot..." Soundwave lowered his helm, taking a long vent, then composed himself again and continued. "Impossible to avoid thinking about. Daring. Brave. Clever. Escape during full base lockdown in Burma, brilliant."

Jazz frowned in thought. "You saw me?"

"After careful review of security footage," Soundwave nodded too quickly, looking up at him with sudden fervor that Jazz stepped back. "Difficult to spot, but your use of space between the walls, inspired. And the way you drove out at top speed, transformed into rootmode midair to jump the blockade, then landed on four wheels—!"

As Soundwave grew more animated, forgetting to be embarrassed, Jazz leaned close again, studying him much the way Soundwave had studied his own missions. The more and more Soundwave forgot himself, the more he acted like Bumblebee or First Aid reading one of their lousy stories. The larger mech's optics widened in excitement as he described Jazz's missions, summing up his jobs as if they'd been daring adventures.

"Soundwave..." Jazz murmured. "Those weren't fun. You're making them out to be joyrides."

Soundwave froze, and his brightening optics dimmed again. His shoulders slumped down again, and he lowered his helm.

"Negative. Not joyrides." Soundwave looked up at him, his faceplate tightening. "Lost several good mechs. Nearly lost Laserbeak to your shooting. Spent two orn in medbay from your explosives. Not joyrides. But...still admirable."

"I killed mechs," Jazz said as if Soundwave had forgotten. "Your own mechs. I tried to kill you so many times I lost count. How can you call that admirable?"

For a long moment, Soundwave couldn't answer. His jaw worked wordlessly and he looked at the floor, then at Frenzy. The cassette shrugged with a quick helmshake.

"Don't ask me, boss. You're the one who fell for a civvie."

Soundwave pressed his lips together in annoyance, then shook his head, refusing to accept that.

"Jazz, impeccable skill. Skills require discipline, intelligence. Jazz superior, therefore discipline, intelligence superior."

Jazz's fingers curled around the bars, his gaze trailing away from Soundwave, staring through the wall into nothing. "Mech...you can word it as fancy as you like. Still sounds like I'm some great murderer."

Ratios flashed in front of Soundwave's optics. Jazz's demeanor, his distant look, his sotto sound, the decrease of his fans—83% probability that this topic was painful. And 67% that Jazz had debated this with himself before, to a negative conclusion.

"Not murderer!" Soundwave sat straighter, cradling Ravage in one arm while holding Frenzy from falling off altogether. "Autobot force, largely civilian. Would not understand warbuild culture—"

Jazz frowned, optics narrowing. Soundwave corrected himself before Jazz could.

"Would not be comfortable with warbuild culture," he said, checking what he might say next for offense. The strain of self-correction crossed with the need to explain himself quickly overtaxed his usual speaking processors, and his vocal patterns began to break down. "Autobots, Decepticons, different but not alien. We don't admire the killing-"

"You just said-"

"The war is inescapable," Soundwave broke. "You can't help it. But the precision, the way you destroy only what you meant to, only kill who you had to, your targets..."

"I'm an admirable killer," Jazz muttered.

"Soldier," Soundwave said firmly. "Who looks at a Decepticon base and sees mechs, not 'filthy 'cons'." The only mech I could hope would see a glitching carrier, not an easy target."

For the first time that Jazz had spoken to him, had ever heard him speak, Soundwave's voice changed pitch. Subtly, but it altered. He wondered if he noticed only because he'd never before spoken to the former Decepticon for so long.

"Jazz, Autobot," Soundwave said. "Brave. Cunning. Confident of conviction. Not glitching every moment because all his convictions and beliefs were built on a lie."

For a long moment, Jazz watched him without answering. Soundwave professed all this admiration and understanding, admitted to studying Jazz and learning his moves and style. But then—instead of just opening a commline with him—abducted and assaulted him instead. What kind of culture was that? How did that come close to explaining?

But it seemed to satisfy his cassettes. Without another word, Frenzy settled in the crook of Soundwave's arm and knocked his helm against Ravage, slipping into recharge beside the other cassette. Soundwave readjusted them more comfortably against his frame. When he looked up, Jazz was gone.

Chapter Text

Prowl sat down, arranging his datapad just so on the table, typing in a quick set of commands as if he didn't have Soundwave seated across from, unbound, his gaze flickering from Prowl to the door where Sunstreak and Sideswipe both stood guard. When he'd been brought in, Soundwave had seen Cliffjumper and Brawn outside in the hall with rifles unslung, and the two of them kept their optics trained on him the whole time. Surrounded by Autobots, Soundwave felt both fear and pride—fear that they might execute him without warning in this little interrogation room, and yet...

Fear the scary Decepticon who requires four mechs for a guard.

"I am told," Prowl started as he typed, "that you received a visit from Frenzy and Ravage."

Soundwave nodded. "Visit, appreciated. Their care and well being, also appreciated."

Prowl said nothing. As he typed, Soundwave sat very still and wondered if he'd erred. When Megatron noted whatever privilege or reward he'd given, he expected some kind of kowtowing, prostrating and deep gratitude, no matter how small the gift. Was Prowl the same type? Did Prowl expect effusive gratitude?

But Jazz didn't seem like that type, and Prowl had Jazz's approval. But then Jazz was chaotic and unpredictable. Should Soundwave try to guess Prowl based on Jazz's behavior?

"Your information so far," Prowl started, "has led to the purging of five spies, the surrender of two more, and three energon storage depots falling into Autobot hands. We have also destroyed two smaller bases and have drawn up plans for raiding and destroying a base in New Mexico."

With one more keystroke, Prowl brought up a hologram of the base in question, a sketch in glowing blue lines. Soundwave recognized it immediately, a large depot for energon and munitions, with several Decepticon troops stationed inside. His optics traced the entrance, the long corridor that led to the barracks, but nothing else.

"Diagram, unfinished," Soundwave said. "Missing several chambers and exit."

"Which brings us here today," Prowl said. "I took the schematics from your memory banks, but you were glitching rather badly at the time. Since you seem more stable, we will finish the design."

Soundwave reset his optics, then reset them again, staring at Prowl for several seconds. His optics widened as his lips parted. If he'd had proper social protocols installed, his faceplate wouldn't have betrayed the full extent of his surprise. Instead, he ended up providing Prowl with an unintended report of his emotions.

"Prowl, trust Soundwave so much?"

"Shouldn't I?" Prowl folded his hands and looked at him, optic ridge raised.

The awkward silence that followed left Soundwave stumped. Sullen pride warred in his spark. He was Megatron's most loyal soldier, Decepticon Third in Command, Communications officer, his—

The processor in his helm flared painfully hot, and Soundwave pressed his hands to his helm, suppressing his old designations as his loyalty programming warred with himself. Gradually the heat faded, contracting back to its normal size, and Soundwave vented in relief.

Still silence. From between his fingers, he looked at Prowl, finding him in the same position with that smug little smile.

"Your confidence, illogical." Soundwave couldn't help his grumble as the helm-ache dissipated.

"Once again," Prowl said, "we disagree on percentages. Tell me, why shouldn't I trust you?"

Soundwave's reply choked off in his throat. If only Frenzy or Rumble were with him. They'd have known what to say, or at least could have snapped back something witty. Instead, intensely aware of Prowl's look and the waiting question, Soundwave blamed his glitching cortex and decided to run yet another deep defrag later that night.

"Query...yielded," Soundwave said slowly. "Retracted."

Prowl's small smile was enough of a reply. "Then shall we begin?"

Soundwave vented again, then waved his hand at the back of the hologram, where the edges blurred and wavered as if the hologram had been badly erased. His own memory of the base was haphazard as well, with missing sectors in random places. The Autobot's repair mech had done a good job of stabilizing Soundwave's processor as he crashed over and over, but some bits were corrupted beyond saving.

"Barracks, two doors," he started. "Northwest ten degrees, south five degrees. Corridor to south, ends in common room two hundred by one hundred meters. East exit to...wash racks..."

Prowl, adding in the new data and creating more rooms in the hologram, glanced up as he typed. "You're not certain?"

Soundwave frowned and pressed his hand against his helm that much harder. "Memory sector, badly damaged. No third outside exit there, no connecting corridor. Wash racks in no other logical place, therefore...should be there?"

"We'll pencil that one in," Prowl said, and the room in question appeared in a red outline instead of blue. "The racks do make sense there. What leads off from the other barracks corridor?"

"Basic small repair," Soundwave said. "Medical supply, minor fixes only. Two recharge berths. Thirty meters square. No other doors."

Slowly the schematic took shape, with one side fully developed. As Prowl began to work on the other side, a severe design flaw stood out, painfully obvious.

"The regular mechs are kept away from the munitions?" Prowl wondered. "What if there was an attack? Are they supposed to repel Autobot forces only with their own armaments?"

"Decepticon armada capable of scrambling within fifteen seconds," Soundwave said. "Radar maintains constant watch for two hundred kliks in all directions."

"Then what is in those munitions depots?" Prowl asked.

"...unsure."

Soundwave felt as if his right side were growing heavier, and he leaned his helm several inches that way before realizing that the sensation likely came from a processor imbalance, one set of servos overclocking and outrunning the rest. He forced himself upright and reset his gyros.

"Should I summon First Aid?" Prowl asked.

Soundwave shook his helm once. At least Prowl hadn't followed that up with a snide comment about his glitching. He vented once, adjusting the airflow to he processors around his spark, and continued.

"Residual processing errors, fading over time." Straightening, he looked back at the hologram. "Munitions, uncertain. Megatron does not always divulge his tactics to all officers."

"You were his third in command," Prowl said. "His most—"

Prowl broke off as Soundwave tensed, biting his lip and clearly warring with his coding. There was no need to push the mech into another crash just to emphasize how unlikely this story was, and he waited as Soundwave rallied himself once again.

"Megatron...jealous of his power," Soundwave managed. "Also secretive with resources. Soundwave, used to believe that was part of outmaneuvering Autobot spies. Now...probably Megatron juggling information to conceal accumulated resources."

"So the troops don't realize he's out for himself," Prowl said, nodding along. "All right. Your best guess, then. What's in that base?"

"Energon." Soundwave considered what he remembered of their supply chain and the resources that had appeared and then disappeared from his inventories. "Missiles, small grade. Armada, constantly running out."

Prowl noted that, and the necessary rooms appeared. As they slowly pieced the hologram together, a more complete picture emerged of a sprawling base with a skeleton screw to defend it. Occasionally he or Soundwave nudged a room or wall into place, but after all the adjustments and fine-tuning, Prowl frowned.

"It isn't situated right," he said. "The way this curves, this corridor goes nowhere. There's no exit. It ends in the earth."

Soundwave shook his helm. "That door, hidden behind waterfall."

Prowl straightened with widening optics. "But the amount of rust that would accumulate is prohibitive. It'd flake off a piece at a time when your fliers come in for landing. And you'd lose thirty percent of your defense right there."

"Exit, recessed sufficiently from falls," Soundwave said. "And gain back twenty percent in camouflage and timed flight details. Also, gain fifteen percent in surprise."

"It's too much of a risk," Prowl insisted, sounding more irritated as he went on, "and too much of a loss after it's discovered. The only real gain you'd get is if you think zooming out of the water looks intimidating."

As soon as he said it, Prowl understood, and he vented and stared at Soundwave. "It was Starscream's idea, wasn't it?"

"Technically Thundercracker's," Soundwave said. "Part of 'Armada Wet and Hot' screenplay. Starscream, fan of that series."

"I don't..." Prowl held up hands to stop him. "I don't want to know. I'll assign Rewind to that story. He can give me a synopsis. Good. I've been looking for something suitably painful for his part in all this."

Soundwave grimaced, ducking his helm. "Thundercracker screenplay, not bad. Rough, but not punishment-worthy."

Prowl raised an optic ridge. "Oh? You've read it, have you?"

"Thundercracker, most dedicated Decepticon writer. Soundwave, beta-read all of his fiction."

"...do I even want to know what that is?"

"Editing and revising," Soundwave said. "For coherence, characterization, mechanics of language. Thundercracker's screenplays, rough and stilted. In need of reworking."

"And he goes to you to sound smoother," Prowl snorted. "Ironic. So what was it about? The Armada, the porn version?"

Soundwave opened his mouth...then hesitated. His faceplate tightened in concentration, considering his words, making the Prowl suspicious. Their prisoner could go silent as he fought his glitching, but to pause to twist his words around? And so obviously... The lack of a social protocol for his faceplate made his emotions and thoughts clear as text.

Prowl's narrowing optics warned Soundwave of the Autobot's thoughts. Tactful or not, it had to be said.

"Not pornographic," he started. "Posturing, jockeying for position. Entire work is of Thundercracker's trine posturing and showing off. Waterfall, plays into this."

"I'm going to regret asking this," Prowl muttered. "But Primus help me, it might be important. How?"

How? Deceptively simple, the question had no easy answer.

"Shows of strength and precision," Soundwave said. "Flying in fast and stopping on point. Flexing their wing struts."

Prowl didn't change his expression, still watching intently as if he expected a real answer. Soundwave realized he wasn't going to be able to explain properly and instead called up an old file, reciting part of Thundercracker's story.

"Starscream landed last, disengaging thrusters and gliding down half a mile, transforming only as he cut through the water. Lightly stepping in, he stood for a moment to tilt his wingstruts one way, then another, arcing them in clear display of how pristine they were, devoid of any scorchmarks or afterburns. He'd flown circles around the Autobot anti-aircraft fire, and now he stood in the setting sunlight, wings outlined in gold as steam wafted from his hot engines."

"Well, he certainly captured that preening diva's personality," Prowl said. "Just like the twins, complaining if their paint gets scratched or seeing who can pull the tightest donut out on the sand."

At Soundwave's furrowed brow, Prowl explained.

"Just a little car culture, driving fast and spinning circles. It looks dramatic, but it chews up the wheels."

Soundwave nodded. "Like jets flying tight turns. Firing competitions at top speed."

Prowl didn't answer, but his face twisted and he went back to typing on his datapad, creating the image of a waterfall on the other end of the base. Soundwave had the sense that he'd offended the other mech somehow. A moment passed.

"Autobots, never compete in wargames?"

"Tch." Prowl shut down the hologram and gathered his datapad up. "We're not warbuilds, most of us. We're civilians with guns screwed on. We train. That's it."

The look in Prowl's optics warned off any other questions about that. The disdain was obvious. Civilians did not make a toy out of killing other mechs. Soundwave vented lightly. He had heard that before, an accusation hurled at warbuilds. Just as the warbuilds slighted the civilian mechs who purged energon the first time they shot at another mech, so weak they might as well be made out of tin. Civilian mechs didn't even have decent plated armor.

But they had the Prime. And the Decepticons had a greedy false despot.

"Megatron, activities known?"

"Somewhat." Prowl's answer, understandably evasive, at least reassured Soundwave that there had been no overt attacks on this particular base. "He knows you and Starscream have defected, and he's not happy."

Soundwave nodded once, more to himself. "Decepticons, wary then. Megatron's anger, always unfocused."

Prowl drummed his fingertips on the table, facing Soundwave for several long seconds. Just how far could a defector be trusted? Even one as evidently sincere as Soundwave? Especially for the former Third in Command. Not that Prowl had to be completely honest in his answers...

"Speaking of Starscream's trinemates," Prowl said. "We haven't seen them for weeks now. You wouldn't have any idea where they'd be, would you?"

"Negative. Soundwave, carrier and communications. Skywarp, Thundercracker, jets and armada. Interaction rare."

He paused as an idea struck him, and he grimaced at the thought. Prowl would not enjoy this suggestion.

"Thundercracker, writes under persona of M3cHwR1t3r." He spoke the name while adding specific character codes in his voicestream so that Prowl could hear the different spelling. "Checked forum updates?"

Prowl stared at him, his faceplate contorting slightly. The thought of diving into that cesspool of mech lust... He pulled his datapad close and sent a message to Red Alert, Jazz, and, after a moment's thought, Ironhide, telling them to comb through the story forums for anything by Thundercracker. Or else have one of their underlings do it for them, although he was sure Ironhide would happily go searching. Red Alert would probably ask Inferno and Jazz would have the entire Spec Ops cadre reading and swearing absolutely no enjoyment as they did so.

"I'll...take that under advisement," Prowl grumbled. "In the meantime, I have another question."

A pause. Soundwave wondered why Prowl didn't continue and concluded that he was giving Soundwave the moment to let his processors shift topics. Not that he needed it—his glitching was related to his loyalty protocols—but he appreciated the consideration.

"Prowl—query?"

"Yes," Prowl said. "We've been on opposite sides of the battlefield for thousands of vorn, constantly trying to win out the most miniscule percent of an advantage."

"Autobot forces, uncanny accuracy and foresight," Soundwave said.

"So how is it that that I'm not calculating the same output on your threat level as you are?" Prowl asked. "What formula are you favoring—Venn's Standardized Constant or the Bernoulli Modified Quantex?"

Soundwave grimaced as if he'd tasted bad energon. "Neither. Haytham's Anti-Euclidean Parabolic Fields."

Prowl scoffed. "Impossible. That theory was disproved millennia ago."

"By Autobot Senate," Soundwave said, his words clipped and quick. "Guild of Senate Analytics declared theorem disproven without considering Kaon proofs."

"Haytham created those probability scales on highly theoretical and untested phenomena," Prowl said. "You simply can't measure what's in motion. That's a basic constant."

"Haytham workaround, superior to Venn and Bernoulli." Soundwave's eyeridge raised. "Soundwave, formulated tabulation for military use. Prowl's own admission, similar outcomes to Autobot science."

Prowl took a quick vent to cool his heating core. "No doubt you used Autobot formulas to proof your results."

Soundwave adjusted slightly in his seat. "Purely for verification."

"Of course." Prowl turned his datapad, showing the very different result for their previous dispute. "So...why am I at thirty-two percent while you're at thirty-eight?"

Leaning forward, Soundwave scrolled through Prowl's numbers, examining the math. Some of the rows were darkened, blotted out so that Soundwave couldn't see all of the details of Prowl's classified arithmetic, but then the details were not important. The factors for input—Soundwave's glitching, his cooperation, his loyalty, his programming base—that was all that mattered.

Soundwave found no fault in Prowl's numbers. Knowing the other mech was staring, Soundwave sat back in his seat and examined his own data. That his own numbers varied slightly, no more than a thousandth of a percent, should not have made for such a vast difference in the outcome.

"...ah."

Discrepancy identified. Soundwave flinched and glanced aside.

"You found something," Prowl said.

"...affirmative." Soundwave put his helm in his hands again, venting heavily. "Jazz."

Prowl looked like he would scour the paint right off Soundwave's faceplate. "What about Jazz? Are you planning something?"

"Negative." Oh, why would Primus just melt him down here and now? "Soundwave, previous behavior with Jazz."

"You mean capturing him and playing out one of your little fantasies?" Prowl asked, gratified as Soundwave twisted in his seat. "But that's just one more act of aggression in a whole damn war. Why does that weigh so heavily in your formula?"

"Miscalculation," Soundwave said. "In the extreme. Failed to account for civilian sensibilities."

Prowl's mouth twisted. "...you mean you thought he'd enjoy it?"

Unwilling to speak, Soundwave nodded once and didn't meet his look.

Prowl added in Jazz's measurable reaction to Soundwave's advance and came up with a new number. "Thirty-seven point nine."

Awkward silence filled the room. Prowl slid his datapad back into subspace and stood. The interrogation was done for now.

"Your defection," he said, "is generally accepted. At least as accepted as such a high ranking officer's can be. But until you find a way to understand civilian culture, you will always be five point nine percent out of tune."

Again, no reply. Prowl went to the door, paused, then looked back over his shoulder. Although the millenia of war had hammered out any pity he might have for the other mech, Prowl could feel a small measure of sympathy. Soundwave had given up almost everything to leave Megatron. The survival of his cassettes was in itself a minor miracle.

"Rumble should be well enough to visit you," Prowl said, noting how Soundwave looked up with wide optics.

"Laserbeak?"

"She was hardest hit by the trek across the desert," Prowl said. "She'll be another week or so in medbay. I'll ask Ratchet to keep you up to date. Is there anything else?"

Soundwave opened his mouth, reconsidered, trapped in hesitation. Prowl added his behavior to his collective recordings. Soundwave, he gathered, only acted with uncertainty when considering the reactions of the Autobot civilians-turned-soldiers.

"Just say it," Prowl sighed.

"Access to fiction archive, possible?"

Prowl's automatic "no!" was halfway out of his mouth before he stopped himself. That particular sur-net could be isolated, physically if needed, so Soundwave's formidable programming couldn't break through into the Ark mainframe. More to the point, it was a bargaining chip, and anything Soundwave accessed would be fodder for further analysis. And after Soundwave's sacrifices, it was such a tiny accommodation in return.

"I'll see what I can do," Prowl said. At Soundwave's hopeful look, he held up a hand in caution. "I can't promise anything."

"Understood." Soundwave nodded. "Consideration, appreciated."

Prowl tipped his helm in acknowledgement, then entered the code that opened the door. As he walked out, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe stepped in, rifles at the ready. Only after Prowl vanished down the hallway did the twins angle their rifles, prompting Soundwave to stand and follow, one twin in front, one twin behind.

The hall was otherwise empty. Soundwave tilted his helm.

Down to just two guards. Frenzy would say he was moving up in the world.

Chapter Text

By the way that Mirage and Bumblebee fidgeted, Jazz already guessed why they were in his office.

He tossed his datapad down on his workstation and leaned forward, resting his helm in his hands. No one spoke for a moment as he groaned. Several other datapads lay haphazardly scattered over his workstation, and as his elbow nudged one, a handful spilled onto the floor.

Bumblebee stooped and gathered them up, putting them in a neat little pile without a word. That the top datapad's screen had a list of Soundwave's fiction told them where their boss' helm-ache came from.

"You wouldn't come here for nothing," Jazz muttered. "But you ain't talking. So it's something I ain't wanting to hear."

"Yes, sir," Mirage said in a small voice, staring at the wall.

"So it's gotta be about this damn story slag," Jazz said.

"Sorry, sir," Bumblebee said in an even smaller voice.

"And it's probably about me."

"No, sir," Mirage said, straightening. "It's about...well, car culture."

"That's what it was tagged, at least," Bumblebee said. "As well as war culture, civvies, and cross-faction."

"What?" Jazz looked at the datapad that Mirage held out. He grimaced as if it was a scraplet, but with a vent, he took it and began scrolling. "...the hell?"

Spec Ops #542 - War Games, Warring Sparks

The steel gauntlet had been thrown, and personal pride was at stake. First Aid rolled to the white line, his engine rumbling in time with his nerves. Representing the Ark's medbots placed horrible pressure on the little bot. Why was he pitting his own skills against that of Sunstreaker, infamous front liner?

The golden bot rolled up beside him, revving his engine in clear challenge. Sunlight gleamed off his perfect finish, unmarred somehow even by the dust blown up by their tires. Sunstreaker didn't feel like he was racing to win—he would be racing against his own time, not counting on First Aid to provide much of a fight.

Medbots on one side, front liners on the other, all of them calling out encouragement and trash talk. Ratchet promised extra shifts if First Aid didn't win, and the front liners promised dented fenders if he did.

On the sidelines, seated precariously on a rocky outcropping with all the balance of an earth cat, Jazz languidly lifted his right hand. If Sunstreaker was golden, then Jazz was a gleaming silhouette of white and black, no less miraculous for how he could vanish in plain sight—

Jazz broke off and glanced at his mechs.

"He goes on like that for another page," Mirage said, knowing where Jazz had read to without even looking. "Sorry."

Jazz vented again. At least it wasn't out and out perversion this time. He skimmed the worshipful paragraphs about himself until he found the last line with his name.

—with a carefree laugh, Jazz let his hand fall.

First Aid and Sunstreaker both launched from the line, flying down the straightaway so that dust hid both of them for a moment. On the first inside turn, Sunstreaker slowed just a touch, careful not to scrape his tires on the rocky gravel. Surprisingly, despite the heavier load on his back, First Aid kept up, leaning dangerously into the turn so that they pulled even on the next curve.

Uphill on a thirty degree slant, First Aid lost ground as he chewed the dirt, struggling to force his way despite the pain in his tires. Bouncing rocks clanged against his undercarriage, and when he came up to the top, he spotted Sunstreaker already halfway down, letting gravity pull him faster.

Firstaid's doorwings almost drooped. Even as he forced himself to follow, how could he possibly catch up?

"Did you forget where your acceleration is?" Ratchet yelled into his comm. "You're faster than this!"

"But he's so much sportier than I am!" Firstaid wailed. "I can't —"

"Ain't no can't in this mech's army," Ratchet said. "I got a wounded mech here on the finish line. Now you turn your sirens on and get here before that golden-aft 'Con, and that's an order!"

Something inside of Firstaid clicked. The race faded. This was a battle, and he had wounded to transport. His sirens blazed a clarion call as he accelerated, roaring up after Sunstreaker as if he was a Decepticon enemy. Startled by the medbot, Sunstreaker leaned away, hitting the shoulder and losing speed, then caught himself and drew even again.

Fender to fender, they left clouds of dust drifting across the terrain, blinding their audience as they rounded the far tower and began their return. Sunstreaker's engine purred ecstatically with the surprise of a worthy challenge, and First Aid pushed himself to the utmost to satisfy his commander's demands.

The finish line was in sight. They both opened full throttle, heedless of how they might stop themselves later, and passed by Jazz so close together that it was impossible to tell who had been in the lead.

Both drifted a wide circle to slow themselves, coming to a halt amidst the dust, transforming as they took in deep, cooling vents. As the medbots and frontliners ran in, each faction cheering their own champion, Jazz jumped from his perch and displayed the final recorded image from the race.

First Aid, a bare .01 span ahead.

First Aid stared in wonder while the rest of the medbots cheered and slapped him on the back and promised questionable fuels that Jazz magnanimously pretended not to hear. Sunstreaker, ignoring the consoling words from his comrades, turned to First Aid and nodded once, giving the ambulance a small punch to the shoulder.

"Gotta admit," he said. "I'll feel better on the battlefield knowing you're there."

Jostled by his friends, hearing the satisfied praise of his commanding officer in his audios, First Aid felt like he could fly.

Jazz smacked the datapad down with a hard thunk.

"That son of a bitch."

Ignoring the wide optics of his mechs, Jazz stood and paced. He couldn't pace far before he had to stop. Using a glorified broom closet as his office, barely big enough for himself and his desk, had been a way of keeping the other officers out of his way. Ironhide couldn't squish himself inside far enough to loom threateningly about one of Jazz's mechs disregarding orders, and Prowl couldn't stand his doorwings brushing the walls whenever he turned.

But it made pacing damn near impossible.

Jazz heaved a deep sigh and looked at Bumblebee. "He churn out any more of these?"

Bumblebee nodded. "Spec Ops #543 - Race to the Finish, Race to Victory. Spec Ops #544 - Spinning Out the Battlefield, and Spec Ops #545 - Hill Climb Beyond the Clouds."

Mirage coughed. "You're in all of them, but only as a side-character. Maybe he's gotten the hint?"

"Oh no," Jazz snorted without any trace of humor. "Subtlety ain't got nothing on this mech. No, I ain't the star this time 'cause I'm the one he's writing to."

Bumblebee and Mirage both seemed to consider that, that these were sorts of love letters from a swooning mech, and then Bumblebee made a soft sound of understanding.

"Yeah, that does make sense," he said. "I wondered why he was still writing under the same pseudonym when he was getting all those flames."

Jazz tilted his helm. "'Flames'?"

"Um, really mean comments," Bumblebee said. "See the little ticky box on the side? If you click it, you can see all the things everyone said about the story. All of his stories have hundreds now that everyone knows who he is, and the arguing is spreading out onto other stories that he didn't even write."

Jazz froze. His optics widened. He felt like the floor had opened up underneath him and he'd started to plummet down into darkness. His vents came shallow, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn't make himself breathe deep. He kept such strong control over himself that neither of his mechs noticed.

"He still has fans," Mirage said. "And some of those fans are being called traitors while other mechs are taking their sides. It's getting nasty, but it's hard to tell who's who when everyone's under a fake name."

That meant hundreds of mechs on hundreds of stories, all of them yelling and squawking and threatening to blow each other up. And the only way to figure out who was who would be to dive into that mass of hate and gossip and try to piece together screennames and writing styles and topics, matching them to work hours and time off, friends online to friends on the Ark. It'd be a database slog through hell, and all of it was landing on Jazz's lap.

His vents dragged through his filters as if he was suddenly clogged with road dust. Leaning against his desk, Jazz opened a line to Prowl.

Prowler, he called out. Prowler?

The response was instant.

Jazz, what is wrong? Talk to me.

Over the connection, although Jazz could hear nothing, he all but felt Prowl moving out of his chair, opening his office and heading down the hall. Prowl wouldn't take long, but the seconds dragged as his internal clock tried to grind to a halt.

Dammit, I said talk to me. That's an order, a direct order.

...think my workload just went infinite, Jazz said, pressing his hand on his helm. I told you we shoulda shot all the writers.

That would be murder, Prowl reminded him, not relaxing just because Jazz could still crack a joke. Jazz often made his whole squad laugh right before they collapsed in a wounded pile. Plus, that last comment might not have been a joke.

Ain't gotta be fatal, Jazz said. Just wing 'em. Make 'em limp so we know who all the perverts are.

Prowl came around the corner. Waving Bumblebee and Mirage out, Prowl came inside and sealed the door again, closing himself and Jazz away from prying eyes.

Jazz looked miserable. Helm down, shoulders drooped, his doorwings all but trailing on the desk—Prowl came around and cupped Jazz's faceplate in his palm, lifting his helm slightly.

Jazz?

"Prowler...did you know that all those stories got comments after 'em?" Jazz leaned heavily against Prowl. "From the readers."

Prowl processed that, then stood slightly.

"I had been aware of this," he said. "Although I had not tried to examine them. There was too much to deal with at the time to focus on reader commentary when it seemed that the writer and the story was all that mattered."

"Y'know, I should have figured," Jazz said, stepping close and burying his face in Prowl's neck cables. "I mean, Ratchet even showed me some of Starscream's. It just...it just didn't click, y'know? Like, this pile of slag just keeps going deeper and deeper, and I keep shoveling it and..."

"What's the matter?" Prowl asked, holding him. "Why is this so bad?"

"Soundwave," Jazz muttered, engine rumbling contentedly as Prowl held him tighter at that. "He's stirring up a hornet's nest and I don't think I can dig through all it. It's just so much and..."

Jazz's voice faded as he rested against Prowl's hood. Rather than ask for more, Prowl leaned over and picked up Jazz's discarded datapad, scanning the story.

"Oh, his latest handful," Prowl said, scrolling down. "He still has a fixation on you."

"Can't blame him," Jazz said, rumbling more as Prowl's free hand expertly worked out a kink in his doorwing joint. "I been told I'm real shiny."

"And just as much of a handful," Prowl said. "In your own way."

As Jazz chuckled unrepentedly, Prowl clicked the comment ticky box and scrolled down. And down. And down. His brow furrowed as he realized the story had garnered well over a thousand comments, many of them insults and jibes hurled at both Soundwave and the story. Some of them were death threats and demands that Soundwave self-destruct. Others were praise, wishes for him to "hang in there against the haters" and...

Prowl stood straight, reading the comment in full. And the next.

Pacifist-Punch: I really enjoyed how you showed us ambulances in a positive light. It's so rare we receive any recognition. Usually mechs are so afraid of us. Well, they're afraid of Ratchet and the rest of us by proxy, I guess, and the last ride some of them take with us. I don't know that an ambulance would beat Sunny, but I guess a former Decepticon would know how awful it is for a medic out on the battlefield.

Hippie-Mech: Them other mechs may not appreciate what you're trying to do, but I for one am grooving to your rhythm. It can't be easy for a beatbox to get the down-low on the streetside, but maybe we can take a spin some day when this crazy war is over. Got some sweet nature preserves and hidden grottoes that just soothe the spark. Decepticon and Autobot riding together, wouldn't that just sing the universe back together?

Nothing-But-A-Houndmech: I don't know who's talking to you down there, but your understanding of racing is getting better. I just don't know if I can wrap my cortex around wargames. Racing ain't the same as shooting, after all. Though I'd be lying if I didn't get some kinda satisfaction from bullseye'ing Ironhide's target range ten outta ten.

"Soundwave listened to me," Prowl murmured, tapping the datapad thoughtfully. "He is trying to understand car culture."

Grumbling that the massage had stopped, Jazz began kissing Prowl's neck cables instead, trying to regain his full attention.

"He's trying to show me war games ain't all bad," Jazz said. "Last time we talked, he swore up and down that my way of killing was...admirable."

Prowl heard the catch in Jazz's voice, the hesitation that belied how much the other mech hated his work. None of them were sparked for armaments or to shoot other bots, and yet they had become so adept that they might as well have been created as warbuilds. Civilian mechs and warbuilds were, as Prowl had put it, five point nine percent out of tune. That Soundwave would try to bridge that gap through his fiction had not even registered in Prowl's calculations.

"I did not anticipate Soundwave's attempt ," Prowl said. "I will require a full report of your dialogue with Soundwave. And I will require a full cross-reference of commenters on his stories—his admirers and his worst detractors. We cannot allow death threats to a prisoner in custody."

Jazz whimpered and held him tight.

"Jazz-"

"Prowler," Jazz murmured against his throat. "If it was just reading and figuring out the where's and why-fore's, I could do it upside-down and backwards. But all'a what you're saying—you're gonna need more than writing styles. You need shift times and time stamps and...and I ain't no data cruncher."

Prowl glanced down at him, absorbing that comment and the way Jazz's voice wavered. Jazz was many things—saboteur, spy, commanding officer—and now expert on a multitude of earth cultures, but Jazz also refused to sit still long enough for a briefing. If Prowl honestly imagined what would happen if he forced Jazz to sit down and create a database, let alone begin to "crunch the data" into something meaningful...

Jazz would probably slice his own cables to keep from going mad.

Prowl put the datapad down and held him with both hands.

"If you give me two or three of your mechs," Prowl said slowly, "and if I can have some of our other known readers—First Aid, perhaps—then I can sort this all out on my own. I could not force you to do this."

Jazz looked up with such a startled, open mouth that Prowl couldn't resist, forcing a kiss that smoldered no less for the sudden knife scraping at his hood.

"Sorry," Prowl winced, shying away inch by inch as the knife slid uncomfortably close to his neck joints. "Sorry, sorry—should have asked you."

The knife flicked shut and retracted back into Jazz's arm as the smaller mech frowned, somehow glaring despite the visor.

"Yeah," Jazz grumbled, flinching out of Prowl's arms and taking a step back. "You should have."

Jazz vented, then vented again, staring down at the floor. In the awkward silence, his fake smile came back. He grinned as he half-shrugged.

"Ain't no thing. I'll give ya Mirage and Bumblebee, and I'll go run down a couple more mechs for ya, get a head start on talking to Soundwave 'bout all this."

Prowl had to move sideways to allow Jazz to walk by, feeling like Jazz was slipping through his fingers, and he didn't know what to say. Jazz's trust was a fragile thing, and Prowl had gone and run roughshod over it.

Jazz—

Later, bossmech. Much later.

Prowl winced. The curt tone was unmistakable, even over the toneless comm signal. Odds of apologizing and repairing this rift peaked at 77% and fell further every klik.

He isolated his feelings—regret, embarrassment, his desire to see Jazz happy—and wrapped them up into a data packet. Adding a promise of anything, anything at all, Prowl sent the data packet to Jazz and heard a responding ping to acknowledge receipt. And silence.

Prowl waited a moment, then vented when he realized Jazz wasn't going to open that data packet until later.

Much later, apparently.

Chapter Text

After delivering the news to First Aid, Hound, and—upon reflection of how much he'd irritate Prowl—Beachcomber, Jazz felt a load of weight off of his shoulders.

The relief did not improve his mood. Like a bit of sand caught in a ball joint, Prowl's kiss irritated him the more Jazz thought about it, and he couldn't stop thinking about it. Startling, lifting Jazz upwards like a dust devil in the desert, the kiss had pressed into him until Jazz had felt surrounded by Prowl, momentarily overwhelmed.

His combat subroutines did not like being overwhelmed, and his blade suddenly scraping the paint off of Prowl's hood had been all too close to giving Jazz a sudden promotion to Second.

Stupid Prowl! Hadn't Ratchet warned him that Jazz was dangerous? Hadn't Jazz himself kept trying to drive that point again and again? And still Prowl pushed his luck. Did Prowl run any kind of calculations for his own survival? If he kept trying reckless stunts like that, his life expectancy had to be running toward nil. Stupid, idiotic, lovestruck...

Jazz turned his pedes toward the brig, slamming the stairwell door open and ignoring the looks he drew.

Stupid, idiotic, lovestruck Jazz.

What was he supposed to do if he killed Prowl? If he hurt him? Over a damn kiss. A simple kiss. Something other mechs could take for granted. Something that Jazz might have liked—

He'd forgotten his datapad. Biting off a curse, he brought up the list of Soundwave's latest works on his visor, scrolling through to the most recent uploads. As he isolated the handful of them, he finally came to the last flight of stairs. Waving aside the guards he'd stationed, Jazz went through the door and heard it lock again behind him.

Sitting in his cell, Soundwave snapped to attention as much as he could, putting down his own datapad as Jazz came closer. He put one hand over the patched steel of his front, as if Jazz might reach through and wrench out his spark chamber.

"Apologies," Soundwave said before Jazz could start. "Ravage, warned Soundwave that the Jazz scene was overly indulgent."

Soundwave frowned, his unguarded expression turning faintly sullen. "...did not think it warranted official sanction."

Jazz stared at him for a moment, then realized he meant the long description in the story he'd read earlier. His ill humor returned like sour acid in his fuel tanks.

"Well," Jazz said, "it ain't as bad as you shooting at me, but it sure as hell is more aggravating. 'least on the battlefield, you can't hit worth slag."

Soundwave flinched. Whether that was for the barb at his shooting or his writing was impossible to tell.

"Story..." Soundwave started, then paused. "Story was not meant to hit any targets."

"But it did," Jazz said, annoyed at himself as sass slipped into his voice. "What the hell are you trying to pull? You got most of the base riled up against you even worse than usual. I didn't think it was possible, but I ain't never seen that kinda language as you're getting on those stories."

Soundwave tilted his helm as if the comments meant nothing. "Current hate, negligible. Jazz, should look in surnet archives for the Great Shipping War last year. Thousands of flames over the power of healing spike to end the war."

Jazz opened his mouth to ask, then thought better of it and let that comment slide without question. Some things he did not want to know.

"Whatever," he said, waving it away. "I'm just here to get a quick update of what you've written, get the lowdown on what the hell it is you're trying to say."

Jazz swiped through the list of stories, including one that freshly uploaded as he was reading the list.

"Race to the Finish, Race to Victory. Spinning Out the Battlefield. Hill Climb Beyond the Clouds. Jazz in the Underground: Falling Through the Looking Screen."

A laugh escaped despite himself. "Stealing titles, now?"

Soundwave ignored the jab. "Lewis Carrol, worth stealing from."

Now that was unexpected.

Jazz lifted an optic ridge. "You? Read Alice in Wonderland?"

Soundwave nodded once. "Affirmative."

Letting the list on his visor fade, Jazz focused on Soundwave.

"I ain't buying that," Jazz said. "That Decepticon high command is reading poetry and nonsense?"

"Not nonsense!" Soundwave leaned forward, hands curling around the bars. "Highly structured critique of logic and mathematics."

"Really?" Still skeptical, Jazz narrowed his optics. "I should warn you I've read that and seen all the film versions."

"Likewise." Soundwave grimaced. "Disney animation, inferior."

"Whoa," Jazz said, taking a step. "Don't be hating on Disney. That's some damn fine adaptation—"

Soundwave pressed his mouth to a thin line. "Novel, superior."

Jazz vented. "Okay, yeah, true. And..."

He stopped himself. When did this turn into debating Disney with Soundwave? And no way was he buying that the overgrown boombox had ever read it. It was just a cheap ploy to get into Jazz's good graces, using an earth novel that was more famous than Shakespeare.

"Where in the hell did you hear about Alice in Wonderland?" Jazz demanded. "I don't think that'd come up during Megatron's daily speechifying."

Soundwave paused, taking a long vent as his gaze turned inward, remembering distant memories.

"Arrival on earth," Soundwave said slowly, "illogical at best. Unforeseen and impossible to calculate for. Indigenous population, likewise impossible to understand. Required quick understanding of earth culture."

"So you downloaded kid's books?" Jazz asked.

Soundwave shook his helm. "Downloaded over one thousand five hundred novels, films, songs and animations. Formed basis for understanding earth languages and politics. Analysis: earth culture primitive and illogical. Philosophy, hopelessly backwards. Religions, laughable. Music, intractable. Only intelligent discussion of logic and mathematics, Lewis Carrol's two Alice novels and assorted poetry."

Jazz's visor hid his wide optics. Soundwave rivaled Prowl for the most mechanical of mechs. To have a sudden culture bomb dropped like this... Worse, that Soundwave could see all that earth had to offer and still not feel anything for it...

Except for two short children's books.

Sitting down in front of Soundwave, with the prison bars between them, Jazz rested his arms on his pedes.

"Why?"

Soundwave blinked. "Why what?"

Jazz half-smiled. "Okay, that might be getting ahead of ourselves. Let me take a page outta Carrol, and who knows. Maybe we'll see just how far your rabbit hole goes."

"Mech," Jazz said, his grin spreading. "Who...are you?"

Soundwave was tempted to answer flippantly, fidgeting at having Jazz grinning directly at him. That smile usually meant his undivided attention, the same as a cybercat playing with a glitchmouse before sinking its fangs in. That same apprehension made him answer honestly.

"...Soundwave, uncertain." The golden optics flickered unsteadily. "Assertion—always considered Jazz more of the cheshire cat than the caterpillar."

"Either way, that's fine company." Jazz settled with his elbows on his pedes, helm in his hands as he grinned. "I mean, who are you? If you take away the name Soundwave and the whole Decepticon thing."

"Previous answer," Soundwave repeated. "Uncertain. Megatron, provided previous life goal."

"Okay," Jazz said, "but you had to have a reason you joined up with him. What were you doing that made the Decepticons look so good at the start?"

Soundwave paused for a moment, summoning older memories from millennia past.

"Difficult...difficult to say. Memories before war, fragmented and corrupted. Only time in Senate, recoverable."

"'Senate'?" Jazz echoed in disbelief. "You were in the Senate?"

Soundwave shook his helm. "Negative. Employed by Senate. Specifically, Senator Ratbat."

"Huh." Jazz tilted his helm, accessing his own files. "I don't have any information about any assistants for that guy."

"Not assistant," Soundwave said. "Spy."

"Huh." Jazz vented. "Yeah, that makes sense. A telepath would be great for a politician."

"Ratbat, never knew about telepathy. Only used Soundwave for communications array. Deep space signals from colonies or cities on other side of Cybertron."

"Oh," Jazz said. "So is that your original designation? Deep space radio?"

Soundwave nodded. "Affirmative. Soundwave, superior range of all frequencies, even beyond most satellite units."

"I think Blaster would argue that," Jazz said. "So'd Cosmos, for that."

"Blaster, Cosmos, inferior," Soundwave said. "Blaster, focus on local terrestrial frequencies. Cosmos, focus on galactic frequencies. Soundwave, master of both."

"And yet you don't boogie down with all the music that earth's got to offer," Jazz said. "Hell, I figure you got a lot of favorite Cybertron songs, too."

Soundwave rolled his optics, straightening how he sat. "Earth music, Cybertronian music, both sentimental or mindless. Few files retained."

"Ain't nothing ever stuck with you?" Jazz asked mournfully. "Not one song or note?"

Soundwave met Jazz's look, then glanced aside.

"Heh, I knew it." Jazz grinned. "Come on, what song was it?"

"...not a song," Soundwave said. He bit his lip. "Jazz would not consider it music."

"Hey, I'm pretty open minded," Jazz said. "Or was that not one of the reasons you whacked me over the helm and carted me home like a caveman?"

Soundwave scowled at the analogy, then realized Jazz was baiting him.

"Jazz...superior," he conceded. "Sound is...electromagnetic vibration from Sol."

Jazz processed that for a long moment. He'd heard Cosmos, their little UFO bot, swear that the planets and stars all had different sounds. And Blaster had said before that he often had to clear out the ambient noise from the stars.

"What's that sound like?" Jazz asked.

Soundwave moved to touch his front panel controls, then stopped as he remembered he was locked out of most of his own systems. He frowned, shuffling through his memory files.

"Vibrational," Soundwave said as they waited. "Like high power cables that have been tapped, with occasional breaks of higher pitched overlays."

Finally he found the right file and played it through his vocal box. A little strange to feel those deep space frequencies coming from his own chords, but at least he could share the sound with Jazz.

The strange sound played between them. Jazz closed his optics as he listened. There was no melody, no notes, not even a single stop in the sound, and yet the star resonated like strings of gold and silver, like a graceful humming over a deep, dark abyss.

"Spooky," Jazz murmured. "You recorded this?"

Soundwave shook his helm. "Negative. Merely a memory file, so audio is not flawless. Prefer to aim satellite array at the sky and merely...listen. So. It is not music, but..."

Soundwave vented and half-shrugged, wincing as the movement pulled on the healing cords in his chest. He let the memory file fade and click off.

"I like it," Jazz said.

Soundwave looked up with wide optics. "Jazz...really?"

"Yeah." Jazz leaned back on his elbows, stretching his pedes out. "I mean, I wouldn't put this in the lineup for a dance party or nothing, but it's a solid base for ambient sound."

"'Ambient'?" Soundwave echoed.

"Yeah, ambient." Jazz snapped his fingers. "You ain't never heard of that? It's kinda like this, only more planned out. Here, I got a few samples."

Jazz set a handful of song files to play, only thirty seconds to sample, and Soundwave listened intently to each one. They were reminiscent of the sound of the star, but they all played clear with tonal shifts and pitches or chimes that echoed like star dust in the darkness of space.

"Style, unknown," Soundwave said softly. "Did not hear this during previous sampling of Earth."

"Not bad?" Jazz asked.

"...Jazz, would be willing to trade?" Soundwave asked.

"I could be persuaded," Jazz said. "Truth to tell, you can have what I got, but I am dying to see what else you got hidden in those files of yours. Any Cybertronian stuff?"

"Very little," Soundwave said. "My tastes, obviously different from most. Only Steel Lunaire discography complete."

"Oh, I will definitely trade for that," Jazz said, sitting upright. "And Blaster's gonna straight freak out. He's been nursing the one song he still had of theirs for ages."

Soundwave opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and let it pass.

"Uh-uh," Jazz said. "What were you thinking?"

"Thoughts, very undiplomatic," Soundwave vented. "And not wise in current situation."

"Mech, what is your beef with Blaster anyway?" Jazz asked, already guessing what those thoughts were. "I mean, I know that he hates that you don't get down to all the sweet tunes in the world, but—"

"There is more to music than dancing," Soundwave muttered, looking away at the wall. "Rhythm, precision, stark contrast and harmony. Blaster neglects all of this."

Jazz narrowed one optic. "Rhythm and harmony and all that is part of music, bot."

"Not the superficial melody he prefers," Soundwave said. "Jazz, superior. Understands ambient—"

"Blaster's the one who tuned me on to that," Jazz said.

Soundwave stumbled, a monkey wrench thrown in his logic, then pushed on. "Blaster, inferior. Blaster, focus on popular music and sound. No consistency. Changes with latest fads."

Unconvinced, Jazz watched with a growing smile as Soundwave wound himself up.

"And what does superior Soundwave prefer?"

"Perfection." Soundwave lifted his helm. "Control."

"Like...?"

Soundwave closed his optics, searching for another memory file. When he played it, however, only one clear note rang through, then faded swiftly. A short stretch of silence followed.

"That's it?" Jazz gaped.

"Perfect note in silence," Soundwave said. "Masterful control and awareness of sound."

"Huh." Jazz looked at him for a moment, then allowed himself to ask. "So, what do you think of jazz?"

"Jazz...it..." Soundwave's gaze dropped again. "Tried to listen to it. After awareness of Jazz superiority, tried to sample wide range of jazz songs. But...very chaotic."

"Don't feel like you gotta like it," Jazz said, waving one hand. "Heck, my name ain't really Jazz. I just liked it so much here, and my old name was just the glyph for musical tone...ain't like I was losing much changing my designation, y'know?"

Soundwave nodded once. "Dark jazz, acceptable. Some pieces very similar to ambient music, also acceptable." He paused. "Jazz, allow query?"

"Sure," Jazz said. "Might not answer it, but shoot."

"Why original designation so broad?" Soundwave asked. "Most mech names, very specific."

"Well..." Jazz leaned closer. "Tell you what. Tell me why you were named Soundwave and I'll tell you why I was just a sound."

Unsure if Jazz actually wanted the reason or was simply trying to avoid answering, Soundwave did his best to dredge up all of his earliest memory files. He recognized all of them, having played them over and over in order to piece together something of a past.

"Memory files, fragmented," Soundwave said slowly. "Sparked in a Polyhex science facility. Did not settle well in frame. Reasoning unknown at time—now obviously due to reading all electrical signals in cortexes of scientists-but was considered defective. In chaos of early thoughts, designation Soundwave occurs first in another mech's thoughts. Thought was...not kind. Mere generalized function, no special meaning."

"You don't remember getting your designation, even?" Jazz said.

"Reading of thoughts, impossible to control at first," Soundwave said. "Only after introduction to cassettes, focus found. Later, could be sublimated. Discovered reading thoughts very draining. When energon scarce, telepathy best not attempted."

"And you can't attempt it now?" Jazz said. "Sounds like it's more automatic than anything else."

"Control easier, now that systems are known," Soundwave said. "Ability was a ghost in the machine before. Can now be isolated and deactivated."

"Huh." Jazz sighed and leaned on his hands. "Well, wasn't quite what I was asking, but you gave me what you could. So, my designation."

The pause lengthened, and as Jazz slumped, Soundwave began to think that this was not a happy memory, either.

"Jazz, need not answer," he started.

"Nah, s'cool," Jazz said. "Just ain't no fun in the past. Some things don't change across the universe. Stars burn, space is cold, and musicians ain't worth the steel they're made outta. Even if you're created by a musical tower, you ain't worth nothing unless you can separate yourself out from the crowd. So all my spark mates, we all had the same name, tonal sound, and a number. Technically I'm Tone-5."

Soundwave's optics narrowed. "Functionist philosophy."

"Yup," Jazz said. "May the best mech win, and the rest would serve the tower as servants and whatever. If they didn't get smelted."

"Jazz, acknowledged as superior?" Soundwave asked, already knowing from Jazz's hollow laugh.

"Mech, I prefer improv and atonal stuff, and they were a pure classical crowd." Jazz shrugged. "I would'a been smelted if bombs hadn't started dropping while they was walking me down."

Soundwave leaned forward, holding the bars between them. "Jazz, saved by Decepticon bombing?"

"Go fig', huh?" Jazz shrugged. "If I had been with the rest of my sparkmates, I would'a died in the first strafing run. Instead the tower fell, and I skedaddled while the city started burning."

"Then..." Soundwave frowned, turning over the thoughts in his cortex. "You joined the Autobots?"

"Met Ratchet and Patch Up, they got me out of the city with a few other survivors. Stayed with 'em 'till we met Optimus."

"Not...Megatron?"

Jazz's smile didn't fade, but it did freeze. "Optimus and Megatron both hated functionism, but I heard less about that and more about how great ol' Megs is from the 'Cons. But Optimus, now he was all about what we were fighting for."

Soundwave old sentiments warred with his new reality. Joining Megatron had seemed so right, but here he sat with the enemy—

He corrected himself. With the Autobots.

"Patch Up, unknown designation."

"Yeah, well, he was a Praxian. When we got word about the attack on his city, he disobeyed orders and snuck out to go try to help any survivors."

Jazz's shrug said just how well that had gone. Whether the jets had killed him or he'd committed suicide, the outcome was the same.

Soundwave let his hands fall, settling back against the wall again. A long silence stretched between them. Soundwave knew better than to apologize for an atrocity like a city-wide massacre, especially when so many cities had been destroyed between them as the government went insane, flailing its military might until the three factions were fighting more for survival than politics. Praxus was a symbol, but it overshadowed so many other destroyed cities.

"More mechs on colonies now," Soundwave said softly, "than on Cybertron."

"I'd feel more sorry for 'em," Jazz said, "if they weren't a bunch of functionist sympathizers."

Soundwave looked up at him. How easy it was to forget that neither of them were neutrals. Jazz was as partisan as Soundwave, a true believer as much as any Decepticon or Autobot. They had more in common with each other than with any neutral.

"Functionism, dead." Soundwave vented. "At least the war destroyed that philosophy."

"Both sides agree on that," Jazz said, "if nothing else. Hey, Soundwave, you think the Cons would be willing to stop fighting if Megs wasn't there egging 'em on?"

Soundwave reset his optics. "Question, often considered. Led to glitching before, but even now... Many mechs dead. Decepticon army, weary of war, but willing to continue to keep some semblance of freedom. Individuality."

"Sounds like us," Jazz said, venting and staring at the ceiling. "Damn, this got depressing. Note to self, never talk about war with a warbuild."

Soundwave frowned, tilting his helm as if offended. "Warbuilds, not so different from civilian mechs."

Jazz grinned again, as broadly as he had before at the start of the conversation, but Soundwave found it impossible to tell if it was sincere or not.

"Mech...wouldn't that be crazy if it was true?"

Chapter Text

Inside one of the small Ark meeting rooms, Prowl sat at the head of the table where a large screen had been mounted directly into the surface. Around him, with their own smaller screens, sat Hound, Bumblebee, Beachcomber and First Aid. All of them sat slumped, optics glazing over as they stared at boxes and boxes of text and numbers in front of them.

"I think I got all of Over-the-Edge's comments," Hound said, his words slurring as his helm threatened to hit the table. "And Mech892354's, too."

"Send them to my screen," Prowl said, his gaze never leaving the rapidly flashing data. "Begin searches for BrightLight and NumberOneFighter."

"...yessir." Hound put his helm in his hands and started a new search, resetting his optics as the letters blurred in front of him.

"I've finished Zapwing!'s and HotTwin," Bumblebee said around a yawn. "Send them to you, sir?"

"Yes," Prowl said. "And look up the user name Oasis."

Bumblebee looked at him, venting as his shoulders drooped, then nodded once.

"Um, sir." Hound's faceplate warmed and he kept his gaze focused intently on his screen. "Oasis ain't in any trouble, is he?"

"He is a potential sympathizer to Soundwave," Prowl said. "Minimal risk, but I need to know who he is before any overly aggressive Autobots find out."

"Um." Hound clenched his fists, then released them, laying them flat on the table. "Oasis is Mirage, sir."

Prowl blinked and looked up. "How do you know that?"

"I've..." Hound put his face in his hand. "He's asked me to write some things for him."

At that, First Aid looked up from his table monitor. "Really? You've written stories on the surnet?"

"Kinda." Hound didn't have to open his optics to feel Prowl's burning a hole in his helm. "Mostly poems."

"How can you be certain Mirage is the one who asked for them?" Prowl demanded. "Unless he used his real name on the surnet."

"Naw," Hound said, forcing himself to push out every word. "We started writing things together, and...well..."

"I am compiling this database for security purposes," Prowl said. "To Red Alert's specifications. I cannot skip any entry unless I have absolute evidence—"

"It's berth poetry," Hound blurted out. "He reads 'em while we're...I mean, when we're..."

All of them froze, and Prowl's jaw snapped shut as he realized just how solid Hound's proof was. Prowl's doorwings snapped tight as he couldn't help the image that sprang into his cortex, and how his cortex suddenly altered the picture to include himself and Jazz. No one spoke as similar thoughts filled the room, and Hound tried his best to melt into the table.

"That. is. beautiful." Beachcomber smiled dreamily, waving his hand idly in the air. "In the midst of war, romance and love blossoming around us and posted as inspiration for all to see. Kinda gives you hope for the future, huh?"

First Aid glanced sideways at Beachcomber, adding that comment to the long file he and Ratchet were still compiling on the blue mech's sanity, then at Hound, who looked like he'd given up all hope completely.

"...understood." Prowl glanced back at his monitor, then heaved a long vent and set the data to compile. "We will return after this database has completed populating. Return after shift and we will finish. And...Hound. You may belay the order about Oasis."

Hound nodded silently and wouldn't look up until Prowl had left the office. As soon as the door had shut, all of them looked at Hound.

"Are you okay?" First Aid asked, leaning up on the table. "That had to feel so awful."

"Admitting to love and joy?" Beachcomber gaped. "If only more 'Bots and 'Cons could do the same, then this whole crazy war—"

"Shut up, 'Comber," Bumblebee said. "Not everyone likes having their private information broadcast for all to see."

"Not under their own names, at least," First Aid said. "Hound, I swear, you know we won't say anything."

"I know..." Hound vented and stood slowly. "Thanks, guys. Don't suppose none of us will have any secrets by the end of this, though."

All of them fell silent, glancing at each other, imagining their own berth habits that might be dragged out into the light. Bumblebee lowered his helm, tapping on the table, and even Beachcomber sighed and leaned back in his chair, loathe to see his friends so anxious.

The moment stretched uncomfortably.

"Sometimes," First Aid mumbled, then coughed and spoke a little clearer, "sometimes me and Groove and Streetwise...sometimes we pile up in the hangar and recharge with each other."

As the others looked at him with widened optics, he rushed to explain.

"I mean, it's not like we're exchanging cables," he stammered. "We just kind of collapse on top of each other, and...well, those are the best stories, I think. No cable crossing or anything. Just...being close."

"Those are good reading," Beachcomber said. "For sunny days outside by the beach. I kinda like the cross-faction stuff myself...set after the war and everyone's friends again."

First Aid flinched slightly. Beachcomber's voice held none of the dreamy quality it normally did. Slower, under his usual volume, his voice matched his distant stare into the screen. First Aid added a note to Beachcomber's file, inquiring with Ratchet if they should up the dose on Beachcomber's cortex numbing agent.

"I'd settle for not being written about," Bumblebee said. "I'm not in all those spy thrillers like Jazz is, but I'm in enough. Missions don't go nearly as well as those stories make them out to be."

Hound nodded once. "True. If our missions ended up like all of them stories, we'd of won this war by now just by overloading the 'Cons into submission."

All of them paused, the same idea running through their minds. And then they all laughed and shook their helms.

"On that sobering note," Bumblebee said, "I'm out. Gonna grab some energon and hit the washracks. Anyone else?"

"Nah," Hound said. "Think I'll take a spin around the Ark and then meet up with...well, anyway. I'll see ya later."

He left before he saw Beachcomber's congratulatory fist pump.

"I gotta get back to medbay," First Aid sighed. "I'm still technically on shift. If I'm lucky, it'll be empty and Ratchet'll let me recharge on a bay."

"And I'm off to punishment monitor duty," Beachcomber said. "Never let it be said that Prowl doesn't know where the stash is. He just picks and chooses when to bust you for it."

"'Stash'?" FirstAid echoed. "Beachcomber, just how much are you—?"

"No no," Beachcomber said, waggling one finger in solemn dignity. "Haven't been busted again, so it don't exist."

"But..." First Aid blinked, resetting his optics as Beachcomber ambled out the door. "What? I..."

"Don't try to understand him," Bumblebee said, patting him on the shoulder. "Mech's loopier than a rear coil spring."

Leaving First Aid to updating Beachcomber's file, Bumblebee left and headed for the mess hall, dragging his pedes more and more. When he accidentally bumped another mech in the corridor, he blurted out an apology and leaned hard against the wall. More tired than he'd realized, he decided to skip the washracks and bolt down a cube at the bar.

The mess hall was emptier than he expected. Only a handful of mechs sat around the room, mostly by themselves, all of them entranced by their datapads. Bumblebee vented and went to the bar, sitting up on one of the stools. It didn't matter if they were all reading up on news or mission debriefs. After so many cycles locked up with Prowl, he couldn't help but see all of them as surnet readers devouring more fiction that he would have to analyze.

Biting off a muttered curse, Bumblebee waved at the bartender, a gray mech with chips and white flecks in his armor.

"You look like you're about to fall over," ShotGlass said. "Want something with a kick?"

Bumblebee shook his helm. "I skipped between shifts, so just a double ration and then I'm headed to the berth."

"Just let me check off on that," ShotGlass said, turning to the screen built into his bar.

Bumblebee heaved a vent and lay his helm on his arms, resting with optics half-shut. Waits like this were common for mechs who frequently went out at odd hours, needing to verify their energon use so no one over-energized or took more than their ration. Energon was too precious to waste.

"I thought we stole a ton of energon cubes from the 'Cons," Bumblebee said, not so much arguing as simply making conversation.

"Yup," ShotGlass said, tapping a few buttons. "But Red Alert hasn't given it the okay, yet. Says we hafta clear that it isn't poisoned or rigged to make our fuel tanks explode."

Bumblebee nodded absently. "Eh...there's worse problems to have—"

"Well, well, what have we here?"

Bumblebee shut his optics tight, grimacing at the sound of Slingshot's voice. The smallest Aerialbot, not much taller than Bumblebee, plopped down on a stool beside him and knocked the bar with his hand, rattling Bumblebee's denta.

"Hey," ShotGlass snapped. "Lay off."

"Hey, hey," Slingshot said, holding up his hands in mock innocence. "I'm just saying hi to my buddy over here, the super popular secret spy. Ain't that right, 'Bee?"

"Not in the mood," Bumblebee said, refusing to look at him.

"Aw," Slingshot said, drawing out the word. "Secret agent mission tired you all out? Need someone to help work out the kinks in your cords?"

"Y'know," Bumblebee said, sitting straight but with his shoulders still slumped. "I like you a lot better when you're part of Superion...when you don't have a mouth."

"And I like you better," Slingshot said without a smile, "when you're getting it from some 'Con. Did you get it from Soundwave? That why he has you in all'a those stories?"

Weariness made Bumblebee's cortex slower than usual. As the insult registered, Bumblebee couldn't move, too stunned that anyone, even Slingshot, would attack him like this.

"...take off," Bumblebee said, sitting very still and staring at the far wall. "Before I forget regs."

"Oh, like—what was it?" Slingshot smirked. "Spec Ops #84—Regulations to Lust?"

"Shut up," Shotglass said, "before I call Ironhide on your aft."

"I'm just wondering," Slingshot said over him, his smile turning into a snarl, "why's Soundwave writing stories with the little pipsqueak here—"

"'Cause he can tell a half decent paint job from slag," Shotglass muttered, scoffing at Slingshot's orange helm and faceplate.

"I just wanna know," Slingshot said, leaning forward as if he could intimidate them with his slightly shorter height, "if Spec Ops #84 is legit—"

"No," Bumblebee ground out between clenched denta.

"—'cause Soundwave wrote you pretty damn accurate—"

"Shut it—"

"—so did you turn traitor and screw your way out—?"

Slingshot couldn't tell how he landed faceplate first on the bar, a hand clamped on the back of his helm and his arm twisting behind his back. Pain flared under the dented steel of his faceplate.

"Mission 84," Bumblebee said, his voice soft and dead flat, "the real mission 84, was where I had my arm blown off, Mirage nearly had a round put through his spark, and I thought for sure we'd lost Smokescreen. I spent so many orns in medbay 'cause I couldn't keep energon down to save my life—I had to have it inserted straight to my cables. My voice box was nearly scrapped and my audios were all but slagged. That sound sexy to you?"

Slingshot's pedes scraped against the floor. Bumblebee leaned all of his weight against the other mech's pelvic joint, keeping enough leverage to hold him against the bar. It was a trick Jazz had taught him, one among many, so that Bumblebee could use his lower center of gravity to manhandle mechs larger than himself. And the same trick seemed to work on other short mechs, too.

"Hey!"

Bumblebee looked up. Two other Aerialbots, Powerglide and Air Raid, stood in the mess hall doorway, fists clenched and surprised to see their teammate locked in place by the smaller mech. From their looks, they'd obviously come to a decision about who was at fault.

"Let go of him!" Powerglide demanded. "No one's beating up an Aerialbot on my watch!"

"...great." Bumblebee stood straight and shoved Slingshot backward to land on his aft. "Is it too much to hope you're here to clean up your mess?"

"Oh," Air Raid scoffed, coming closer step by step. "We'll clean up, all right."

Bumblebee sent a quick ping to Mirage, Smokescreen, anyone about what was about to happen. A moment later he felt a quick touch from Jazz and the usual official order to avoid a fight, along with an encrypted carrier message that 'Bee had better make Spec Ops proud.

As Slingshot got to his pedes, smacking away the offered help from his comrades as he turned toward Bumblebee, the little yellow bot squared off, keenly aware of how empty the mess hall had become.

"I just wanted to take a damn nap," Bumblebee sighed.

A heavy thunk made him turn. ShotGlass had slammed down Bumblebee's double ration on the bar, overly filled past the proper measuring line. The energon glowed pink with orange flecks, a sign of kerosene for an added kick. Bumblebee glanced at ShotGlass, who nodded once.

"Sure, okay." Bumblebee downed the cube in one go and set it back on the bar. A rush of power came into his fuel tanks, reinvigorating his systems. He knew enough that the crash would probably leave him in a collapsed heap, but for now, he was wide awake and ready to fight.

The sound of rushing mechs came from the hall. Ironhide was probably already on the way, but no one would reach Bumblebee before he'd faced three Aerialbots on his own.

When you're fighting more'n one mech, Jazz had taught him, say something. Get 'em mad. The madder, the better. The more they screw up, the longer you live.

Bumblebee made a show of counting the three of them, pointing at each of them in turn and then tilting his helm.

"Hm...this fight seems a little unfair. How about you go get the rest of your team and then come back later?"

The snarls from both Powerglide and Slingshot almost made Bumblebee flinch. The only thing that kept him from taking a step back was Jazz's implied threats if Bumblebee didn't win.

I am so getting my aft handed to me, Bumblebee thought to himself.

Tired, his joints beginning to grind from sitting still too long, Prowl thought about heading to the washracks. A good oil bath would soothe the gears in his pedes and shoulders.

But the sun had completely set and the outside patrols and daylight teams would be coming back to the Ark, eager to wash off the dust and grime. Meanwhile the night shift would be grabbing a quick steam cleaning before running off into the darkness. The washracks would be busy, hard to grab a single berth, and Prowl refused to rinse off among the lower ranks.

Not that he thought he was better than they were. But the presence of an officer tended to make the other mechs nervous and overly polite, and that just made everyone feel awkward.

Instead he turned his pedes toward Jazz's office. Prowl had something of a report compiled, and that would give him a good excuse to speak to Jazz, professionally if not romantically. And maybe Jazz wouldn't be so angry anymore. Or maybe Jazz had listened to Prowl's apology and would be willing to hear him out.

He knocked once at Jazz's door. "Jazz, I have a preliminary report-"

He stopped short. Empty and dark, the office yawned open with no warm laughter or welcoming. The chair stood behind the desk, canted to one side from how Jazz often leaned and put his pedes up. The radio was off, the screens were dark, and Prowl's voice died in the air.

Prowl stood silent for a moment. Then closed the door with a soft click.

Red Alert, he commed immediately. Can you tell me the location of our Third in Command?

Can I assume this is not a personal matter? Red Alert responded.

Prowl shut his optics and grimaced. All right. How badly have I screwed this up?

...not as badly as you think, Red Alert said, weariness slipping into his voice. He just asked me to make sure you didn't try to follow after him. Since I didn't want you incapacitated, I agreed.

'Incapacitated'?Why would he-?

Ask him, Red Alert said. I assume he naturally hasn't told you everything. Oh, but don't ask him right now. I've got enough to monitor with the shift change.

Prowl frowned. How much was there about Jazz that he didn't know? How much did Prowl actually know? Ratchet, of course, knew everything about everyone, but even their little bundle of paranoia seemed more informed than Prowl. Which meant something had happened in Jazz's past, something that was clearly before Prowl's time with the Autobots. Something from when Jazz was not an officer.

There was an incident? Prowl asked.

...just a moment, Red Alert said.

A long silence followed. Prowl's wing tips lifted in alarm. Red Alert only broke contact if there was an emergency. Prowl checked his own incoming messages, but nothing had been marked as urgent. About to contact Beachcomber to see if enemy were on the horizon, Prowl stopped short as Red Alert spoke again.

Jazz is in the brig, speaking with Soundwave. I suggest you do not go in trying to interrogate him like an...um. First Aid coughed. Just try to be polite.

Prowl frowned. That last part didn't sound like Red Alert. Is someone else in there with you?

Another pause. Red Alert hesitated, but his own protocols dictated that, when demanded by another officer, he had to confirm or deny the presence of anyone else simply for security's sake. Whether he wanted to or not.

Inferno is...bringing me up to date regarding...aiding my...stress levels, Red Alert said. He...it is a personal affair—matter, a personal matter only. He cannot hear my communications.

So steeped now in the surnet stories, Prowl didn't need or want to ask. Pressing his hand against his chevron to try to soothe the growing ache, Prowl vented and cut the communication. Rude, yes, but then acting "like an aft" was the usual insult hurled his way.

He decided to skip the washracks. That could wait until the start of his next shift. He almost put off a cube of energon, but the growing ache in his helm demanded a little extra to his repair functions. Putting off any thought of talking to Jazz, he turned his pedes to the mess hall.

A klik later, Ironhide passed him at a run. Prowl reset his optics, watching him turn the corner, but Ironhide didn't answer his questioning ping and Prowl assumed that it was just one of the little discipline issues that Ironhide occasionally had to sort out.

What Prowl found when he arrived at the mess hall, however, was Ironhide standing dumbfounded at Bumblebee caught between three Aerialbots. Even Prowl took a moment to untangle the sight before him. Bumblebee stood with one pede firmly on Slingshot's neck, another braced against Powerglide's back as he held onto the golden bot's tall shoulder struts, forcing the stockier bot to swing ineffectually in the air. And Air Raid...

Prowl had never seen that fighting technique.

Bumblebee had somehow gotten Air Raid face flat on the floor, one hand firmly clenched around the Aerialbot's aft thruster. That would have left Bumblebee with a face full of thrust if he hadn't had his denta clamped hard on Air Raid's sensitive rear aerials. If the bot tried to jet forward, nevermind the dents he'd put in his face. No plane wanted their delicate gear bitten off.

"Well..." Ironhide said, crossing his arms. "Ain't gonna lie. Points for creativity, pint-size."

Bumblebee's muffled thanks drew a chuckle from the older bot, especially when Air Raid growled and then yelped as Bumblebee bit down.

"He started it!" Powerglide snapped, still trying to swing backward at Bumblebee. "He jumped Slingshot."

"Knowing Slingshot," Ironhide said, "that ain't the whole story. Who threw the first punch?"

"Powerglide," Shotglass said immediately, still cleaning cubes behind the bar. "Slingshot started harassing 'Bee and got his faceplate put down on the bar with a friendly suggestion to leave. That's when these two aft-helms come blazing in."

"He jumped us, too," Air Raid said.

Ironhide scoffed. "I guess that does make sense, 'Bee taking on all three of ya and whippin' yer afts to boot. Sure you wanna go with that story? Silverbolt ain't gonna go easy on ya for fighting, but saying a little bot like 'Bee took ya out?"

Prowl watched the Aerialbots squirm a little longer, then let Ironhide deal with it and instead sat down at the bar. He waved for a cube of energon, and as ShotGlass filled it for him, Prowl sent a ping down to Jazz.

Courtesy call —your mech Bumblebee just fought three Aerialbots to a stand-still.

There was a pause, just long enough for Jazz to tell Soundwave to hang on, and then Jazz responded.

Just a stand-still? Hm. Gonna have to brush up on his combat skills. Can't have folks saying Spec Ops ain't as dazzling as them stories let on.

He might have been holding back, Prowl conceded, watching Ironhide extricate Bumblebee from the center. He could have bitten Air Raid's aerial right off.

He bit it? Jazz whooped. I take it back. I owe that bot money. I didn't think that'd work.

Did you tell him to do it? Prowl asked incredulously.

Nah, 'course not, Jazz said. Just told him not to make us look bad. The whole aerial thing was just something me and him and Mirage were thinking up one day. Hey,'Bee ain't in no trouble, right?

Ironhide seems content with ShotGlass' explanation, so probably not. Prowl paused. I have a preliminary report on the story commentaries. Did you want it now?

A slight pause, and then Jazz's voice came back with forced laughter that made Prowl wince.

I'll check that when it's complete, if ain't nothing that looks like an emergency in there. I'm still, uh, debriefing Soundwave. Talk to you later.

The communication clicked off, just as curt as Prowl had cut off his communication with Red Alert. Prowl felt like a door had slammed shut.

He slowly drank down his cube, ignoring the squabbling Aerialbots being pulled along by Ironhide down to the brig, to await their commanding officer's scolding. Beside him, Bumblebee climbed back up to the bar, nursing the extra ration that ShotGlass offered.

"If I had known what trouble those damn stories were gonna cause," Bumblebee muttered, "I would've wrapped 'em all up and stuffed 'em onto a Decepticon server."

Prowl nodded once.

And then sat straight, doorwings flared back so suddenly that they nearly struck Bumblebee's helm.

He pinged Jazz twice before the other mech finally opened the communication channel again.

Prowl, I'm warning ya, if this ain't work related—

New battle plan, Prowl said. I'll need your cultural expertise on this. Meet me in two breem at—

Prowl, it's shift change and I ain't recharged in almost three!

Four, Prowl countered. And it's preliminary—we need to sketch out the basic plan and put several mechs on it now.

...flaming aft, Jazz muttered. Fine, fine, slaggin' taskmaster. What's the shiny new plan you got?

Prowl merely repeated what Bumblebee had said. He was halfway out of the mess hall before Jazz replied.

Primus, Jazz said. You realize Prime'll never authorize this?

Why not? Prowl asked, genuinely confused.

Optimus don't go in for torture.

About to defend his idea, Prowl tipped his helm in acknowledgment.

You have a point.

We just won't tell him.

Chapter Text

Two guards stood outside the conference room door. Two more guards stood further down the hall, and a third guard at the elevator allowed in only those mechs who had been commanded to appear. In the Ark, rumors floated that Prowl was giving uncovered spies the chance to confess and avoid execution, that Soundwave was being made into an Autobot officer, that Wheeljack was trying out a new armament on foolish volunteers, and that Starscream was teaching the command cadre how to perform a few moves described in the stories on the surnet.

Inside the conference room, however, the handful of mechs looked at each other in confusion. Hound and Mirage sat side by side, their clasped hands hidden under the table. First Aid tapped his fingertips together nervously, and beside him, Beachcomber drew idle loop de loops in the air. Rewind sat crosslegged on the table itself, looking back and forth between everyone and wondering why Blaster hadn't been called in as well.

At the front of the room, Jazz sat in the corner, leaning against the wall as he glared. Or as he seemed to glare. If they could have looked under his visor, they would have seen that he was actually in a light recharge cycle, but only his bots knew he'd sleep through meetings and Mirage knew better than to say anything.

Finally, Prowl came through the door, closing and locking it behind himself. The locking mechanism fell shut with a heavy clunk, making everyone at the table jump.

"Feel like there's rocks in my sparkchamber," Rewind murmured.

Startled by Rewind's diminutive voice, Mirage's nerves forced out of him a bundle of questions. "It isn't true, sir, is it? That you think we're spies. Or that we're in trouble?"

Prowl raised his hand, used to Mirage's anxieties about having his allegiance questioned. And he knew that if he didn't immediately explain what the real reason for their presence, Rewind would start rattling off inane random facts and Hound would start clearing his intake so much that they'd have to resort to internal comms. So many vorns of war had reduced his faction to a single raw nerved shared among them. It had also taught Prowl how to manage them so they could function.

"You have been called here," Prowl said, starting the meeting, "because of your activities on the surnet."

All of them flinched.

"Specifically for your activities in the cross-faction sub-forum."

Mirage looked even more stricken than before. "Sir...you don't doubt our loyalty, do you?"

Prowl shook his helm. "Your loyalties do not need to be proven, Mirage. You can rest on that. I would trust any of you with my life."

Mirage vented, tightening his grip with Hound.

"All of you here," Prowl said, "have been active under various names on the cross-faction sub-forum, either writing stories or commenting positively on anything showing an end to hostilities. Your names include Oasis, Ain't-Nothing-But-a-Houndmech, Hippie-Mech, Pacifist-Punch and Trivial-Trivia."

Their winces changed to surprise as they recognized each other, and First Aid looked over at Beachcomber with wide optics.

"You're Hippie-Mech," First Mech gasped. "Oh my, I totally love your Trine Tribulations trilogy. I read it every few shifts."

"Wait," Hound said. "You're the one who wrote Dust Devils? I would've sworn someone on Spec Ops wrote that."

Beachcomber shrugged, but he couldn't help a small smile. "Don't forget, sometimes Jazz takes me out scouting with him. I know he can't tell me much, but the way we move and skedaddle, I pick up enough for a story or two."

"You also-" Prowl started.

"Are you going to finish Aerial Displays?" First Aid asked. "I've had that one bookmarked so long and I'm dying to find out what happens with Firefly and Acid Storm-"

"You are also," Prowl said louder, overriding the ambulance, "our best chance at scrambling Decepticon cohesion."

"And the love triangle between Skywarp, Skyfall and Skyfire," Mirage said, leaning forward as if it was imperative Beachcomber understand. "The last chapter just made it that much worse, with the cracked sparkchamber giving him amnesia-"

"So although this is unusual," Prowl said over them, trying to regain their attention, "I have a request-"

"I actually tried drawing the Sky trio," Rewind admitted with a sheepish flash of his optics. "But the positions were so hard to tell who was who-"

Prowl dropped his fist on the table.

"I need you to write Decepticon porn!"

Everyone looked at him with wide optics. Even Jazz sat straight, yawning as he came out of recharge.

"...sir?" Beachcomber leaned back as if Prowl might explode.

"I need as many stories as you can possibly gather," Prowl said, leaning on the table and pressing one hand to his chevron, "with the most contentious couples, causing the most conflict, and then post it all on the Decepticon's mainframe."

"Sir?" Rewind echoed. "I...now you want us to write those stories?"

Jazz snorted. "No kidding, right?"

"Those stories," Prowl said, sinking into his seat, still grimacing as if he'd eaten bad energon, "have netted us two of the highest ranking Decepticon officers, the destruction of five small bases and the capture of enough energon to fuel us for the next ten years. I would be a fool to not use them to their fullest potential."

"But..." Mirage hesitated, then went on when he saw Jazz nod. "I, of course, will follow orders. But Soundwave wrote them because he wanted to change sides, and Starscream wanted to belong to Skyfire again. How will posting these stories do anything to the other side?"

Prowl waved his hand for Jazz to answer. There was a faint rumble from Jazz's engines as the saboteur did not like being gestured at, but he stood and came to the table, leaning on Prowl's chair enough to make it lean unsteadily to one side.

"Our hope is this," Jazz said as Prowl's doorwing smacked the back of the chair. "Soundwave's smart, but he ain't the only bright bot in that army. Megatron ain't anything as inspiring as Optimus. A little nudge in the right direction can't hurt. Heck, I don't think we'll get a full on uprising, but if we can cause, oh say a riot in their mess hall, some infighting between troops, it could widen a few cracks in their camaraderie."

"I get your point," Hound said. "I heard about 'Bee and the Aerialbots. But boss, we had all'a that, and we're still chugging along fine."

Prowl jerked his chair back out from under Jazz, giving him a sour look before turning back to Hound.

"That is because Red Alert has shuffled troop assignments where he could so that none of your hostile sides are together. No cross-faction fans with Autobot purists, no rival pairings, no anti-war bots patrolling with front liners."

"Wow." Rewind rubbed the back of his helm self-consciously. "He's, uh, he's figured all of us?"

"He started with those bots in the mess hall fight," Prowl said, "and worked his way out. And it's worn him down. There is a reason why he sneaks Inferno into his office so often now that it isn't even a secret."

A soft "aww" escaped all of them except Prowl and Jazz. In the lull of the conversation, Beachcomber finally joined the conversation.

"So..." Beachcomber said, leaning forward and steepling his fingers together.

Jazz and Prowl both straightened. From the way the rest of the bots had acted, Beachcomber was secretly some big name bot on the surnet. From Mirage to Rewind, all of them gave the blue bot just as much attention as they had Prowl. His words carried the most weight with them, and yet Beachcomber wasn't always one to follow orders. From how he had turned so uncharacteristically serious, this could be their real battle.

"You want us," Beachcomber started, "to take something we started to get away from the fighting...and turn it into just one more weapon."

"I want to use it to stop the fighting," Prowl said. "As it did for Soundwave and Starscream."

"These stories are not about the war," Beachcomber said, and his hands tightened. Tiny tremors ran through his frame. "These stories are my hopes and dreams. They're about the war ending and everything being okay again."

Prowl opened his mouth, only to cut himself off as Jazz touched his shoulder.

"I've got hundreds of readers," Beachcomber said, and his voice started to scratch with soft static. "They all say the same thing. It'd be great if this was real. If only this was how the war really went. I fantasize about not killing 'Cons every day. Even the ones who leave me flames tell me I'm just making it harder to kill Decepticons, that this isn't real life."

"'Comber..." Jazz started.

"Ain't it funny?" Beachcomber said, putting a hand over his face as he leaned forward, turning over his hand as Rewind came over and held his fingertips. "Even the faction purists can only tell me I'm a fool for dreaming. Ain't no one want to keep fighting. And now you want to use these like bullets?"

"No," Jazz said.

"You just said you did!" Beachcomber snapped around, glaring at him. "You want to 'cause riots and fights and...and..."

"If you could take all your stories," Jazz said in the same voice he used for comforting wounded bots, "and put them up where the Decepticons could see them, what do you think would happen?"

"Some of them would agree!" Beachcomber pleaded. "Some of them would agree, and say we shouldn't fight anymore, that this fight has been horrible from the start!"

"If you could turn one Decepticon away from the fight," Jazz said, "so that you wouldn't have that one 'Con in your gun sights...would it be worth it?"

Beachcomber stared at him for a long moment, his vents surging his engine. No one spoke. Both bots held the other's look evenly, refusing to look away...and then Beachcomber broke off, covering his faceplate.

"...gimme a couple shifts," he murmured. "I'll do it, just...I need time."

"Thank you," Jazz said softly. "You'll get those shifts."

"Gotta get in the groove," Beachcomber said, smiling half-heartedly at Rewind, still holding his hand. "Can't be writing if I ain't in the groove."

First Aid reached over, touching his arm. "'Comber...if you need anything...?"

"I'll swing by medbay with you," Beachcomber said, nodding once. "I guess I do write better after one of your special neural packs."

Beachcomber fell in on himself a little, ignoring the meeting as it continued around him. He closed his optics, even closed down his internal communication, listening to Rewind's quiet murmurs in his audio.

"The rest of you," Prowl said, recapturing everyone's attention. "Any and all cross-faction works need to be gathered. We need the largest amount possible for an initial flood-"

"I beg your pardon, sir," Mirage said, raising his hand.

Prowl huffed and his mouth became a fine line. Only when Jazz tip his helm did Mirage continue.

"A flood doesn't attract the best readership," Mirage said. "Almost all of the stories would be ignored."

"True," First Aid sighed. "When I was just starting, I posted four chapters at once. I'll never do that again. I only got a few comments on the last chapter."

"Better to make them wait," Hound agreed. "Post a little at a time."

"We could start them off with some completed epics," Mirage mused. "Sprinkled with some one-shots to whet their appetite."

"Add in some poetry," Hound said. "So they'll end up using it in the berth. Even if it's for laughs at first, they'll start writing their own."

"And that's when the forum will really start turning," First Aid said. "If any of the Decepticons are writers, they'll start posting, and then anything we have will just keep it fresh in case they get bad writer's block."

Mirage snapped his fingers. "Hey, what was that one Spec Ops fic about Jazz's mission to trick Soundwave into believing that Jazz loves him?"

Beside Prowl, Jazz choked.

"There were a couple like that," First Aid said. "The humor one where Jazz leads him through the base?"

"No, the one where Jazz falls in love too, then has to kill Soundwave anyway for the sake of the mission."

"Deceptively Yours," Rewind said over his shoulder.

"Yes, that!" Mirage said. "That's the perfect name for the forum."

"Yeah, that could work," Hound said. "Put a nice banner over the top, maybe a little purple 'Con mark for the icon."

Prowl glanced at Jazz, who'd turned to sit against the table, hiding how he put one hand on his visor.

If you wish to save yourself, Prowl said over their internal comm, you may. I don't think any of them will give us anymore trouble.

You mean they're taking this ball and running with it, Jazz said. Dunno. I'd love a recharge, but I don't wanna take the chance 'Comber turns on ya again.

You handled that better than I could have, Prowl said. No, I think he's willing now. Go on. This subject is painful for you, and...I don't like upsetting you.

Jazz glanced sideways at him, knowing this was a veiled apology for the stolen kiss.

I still ain't forgiven ya, he said. He crossed his arms and tapped his fingers on his hood. But I ain't about to turn up my nose at a chance to scoot outta any meeting. See ya next shift, Prowler.

As Jazz walked around the room, ignoring such esoteric comments as "moderation or unmoderated" and "spike or plug n' play," he remembered something Red Alert had mentioned to him. In the doorway, he turned and looked over the mechs at Prowl. He seemed to toss something around in his helm, warring with something in himself.

Did Red Alert tell you anything? he finally asked. 'Bout me and any incidents?

He said that I should ask you, Prowl said. But not to be an aft about it.

Red said that? Jazz said, eyeridges shooting up.

Inferno was with him, Prowl said. It was heavily implied.

Huh. Jazz shrugged, hands up, smiling nonchalantly. Ah well. Guess it can't be helped. I guess letting you know about incident report #20872 ain't letting too much of the cat outta the bag.

...Jazz? Prowl asked, confused not at what a trust he'd been given but at how his friend was treating it so flippantly. Are you all right?

Sure am, Jazz said, communicating as he left the room and closed the door behind himself. I get to leave early and I gave you a shiny new glitchmouse to play with. Later, mech.

Prowl knew better than to ask how much later. Instead he put his helm down and waited for the mechs around him to finish hammering out the plan for him. From their enthusiastic handling of their personal datapads, eagerly listing the best "tragic fics" and "epics" and "PWPs," it was going to be a long shift.

Struck by sudden inspiration, Prowl commed Ironhide.

What's up, Prowl?

Are you free?

...I don't think I like the tone of your voice, kid.

Are you free? This is an official request.

Dammit, kid, ain't gotta be such an... Fine, what the hell you need? Optimus is in recharge and yeah, I'm flippin' free.

As Jazz would say, there is a meeting I need brass on, but I am four cycles late for recharge. Can you please step in? I doubt it will run too much longer.

Sure, and that's just the line to lure me in. Ironhide vented heavily. Be right there. Hate for you to fall over on your aft.

Prowl stood, gaining the attention of the mechs in front of him.

"I am leaving for recharge," he said, "but Ironhide will continue the meeting. If you have any questions, any questions at all, feel free to direct them at him. He has some passing understanding of these Polyhex Manuals."

When Ironhide walked in, all optics turned to him like hungry turbofoxes spotting prey. Prowl had the brief pleasure of seeing Ironhide's optics widen in panic, facing the second in command with a growing sense of betrayal just as the door closed.

Prowl wrapped up that memory file and sent it to Red Alert. It was a gift that the security officer would appreciate.

A blinking light caught Counterpunch's attention. In the Decepticon mess hall, he looked up from his energon, turning on his datapad and reading the notification. Beside him, Thundercracker watched him from the corner of his optic. It wasn't unheard of for the rank and file to take out grievances from each other's frame, even in the middle of a full mess hall. Especially in the middle of a full mess hall. And Counterpunch had always struck him as suspicious, even among Decepticons, disappearing and reappearing at random.

"What's up, short stuff?" Thundercracker asked. "New mission?"

"No..." Counterpunch picked up his datapad and showed it to the jet. "I just got an invitation to a new forum on our net."

"Oh yeah?" Thundercracker leaned close, squinting to see the much smaller print on Counterpunch's pad. "Deceptively Yours invites you to new adventures and forbidden passions. Register your account and find yourself on the new horizon of love, where even a dream can end a war."

"What the heck is that?" Counterpunch asked, looking back at his datapad. "It sounds a little...weird."

"Deceptively Yours?" Thundercracker ran a search through his memory files. "That sounds familiar..."

"Should I click it?" Counterpunch wondered. "I really like this datapad. I don't want it to get infected."

"Why not?" Thundercracker said. "It's our own net. Soundwave isn't here to infect and blackmail dumb mechs anymore."

"That makes me feel so better," Counterpunch drawled.

With a heavy vent, he touched the link and opened up the new site. A banner ran across the top of the page with the title in Decepticon purple and silver. A soft tune played in the background, and Counterpunch quickly muted the player.

"It's just more stories," Counterpunch said, reading off the titles. "Countdown to Betrayal-can Starscream ever forgive Skyfire for the way he stole the Decepticon officer away from the war, shackling him in an Autobot prison of lust and forgotten romance. Dented Wings-when Skywarp plays a prank on the wrong front liner, he discovers that humiliation beneath a grunt's boot can be more exhilarating than flight."

Countdown shook his helm and sat back, turning off the datapad. "Primus. It's just as bad as the drivel on the Autobot net."

Heavy typing came from beside him. Counterpunch glanced sideways, feigning disinterest as Thundercracker opened up the forum on his own datapad, eagerly clicking through the whole forum, even reading the rules and by-laws and making an introductory post.

"I wonder if they'd read a screenplay," the jet whispered to himself.

Counterpunch allowed himself a small smile. The work of a double agent was nerve-wracking and there wasn't a day that he didn't feel like his spark had dimmed a little through his work here. A mission where no one died and no one doubted his cover story made this a cakewalk, dangling the hook in front of Thundercracker and watching him snap up the bait.

It almost meant that Counterpunch would probably survive debriefing Jazz about Decepticon porn habits.

Chapter Text

Prowl sat on the edge of his berth, elbows resting on his pedes, trying not to keel over. It wouldn't be the first time he recharged on the floor, riding the razor edge of too many shifts, but there was no risk of slipping into recharge out of boredom. Not with this one last report to study.

Incident report #20872

Stuffed deep in the old files of the Autobot rebellion, the file dated back to the days of fighting on Cybertron. Prowl looked at the date and—he didn't flinch, but the time stamp still stung.

Less than a decacycle after the massacre at Praxus, and only a quartex before Altihex fell. Everyone had thought that the war would destroy the planet. Most mechs tried to find passage to the colonies. Some mechs simply sank into the rubble of their cities and let their energon run out. The survivors sometimes took up with either faction, but the shock and the sudden hard turn into war left many civilian mechs unable to cope.

Espion Jazz, one of Ironhide's spy units, clearly used his assignments as therapy.

Not that this was entirely new to Prowl. After Rotator's death, Prowl had spent long hours reading the personnel files of every mech, beginning with the officers, and as new mechs were promoted, he read the files that Red Alert compiled for him. As Jazz had only been promoted relatively recently, figuratively dragging his pedes until Ironhide literally dragged him to the promotion ceremony, his file had only been recently censored and redacted.

Prowl had been one of the few voices quietly raised to Optimus as to the suitability of Jazz's possible new rank. Jazz sometimes disappeared for days, even weeks at a time, and his reports were not always fully detailed. Whole hours were sometimes missing, vital hours where he combed through a Decepticon base, and on a few occasions Jazz had blanked out complete sections of his reports, redacting them with an unapologetic grin as he refused to give any information about his actions.

Optimus had listened to every concern and acknowledged them, then took Ironhide's recommendation and promoted Jazz to Third in Command, giving him rank over Ironhide's Special Operations unit. Prowl had watched in horror as Jazz requisitioned bots from all parts of the army, taking the infantry's sniper who could turn invisible, taking the smallest bot that wasn't a a mini, the mech who liked to scout the roughest terrain, one of the last Praxians who was a gambling security risk to boot...and then vanished with all of them.

When they'd come back from their first mission, they were dented, shot, sparking at the joints, their processors so overclocked that their coolant had run dry, and none of them would say what had happened. Jazz had turned in a report that had more blank lines than writing, and nothing of it justified the injuries they'd suffered. Neither Ironhide nor Optimus would back up Prowl's demands for the full report, which they had but refused to hand over, and they advised him to simply be content with Decepticon armaments and supplies that Spec Ops had stolen.

And then two cycles later, the Decepticon bunker deep in the Ori-belt field had exploded.

They'd received the news during third shift, when Prowl had been in the mess hall with other mechs, and the news—they'd still had civilian news reports—carried satellite footage of the bunker in roaring green flames. Amid the sudden cheers of surprise, Prowl had seen Jazz turn to his bots and raise a kerosene cube with a grim smile. His bots—a mini, a roughneck, an aristocrat, a gambler—all returned the toast with their own dark looks.

Prowl couldn't understand the thrill of killing. He was too much an Enforcer, a calculator, a civilian for that. But he could understand the satisfaction of a job well done. And he could understand that what happened on Spec Ops missions was not for his optics.

Because sometimes those bots slipped and did something that hinted at their real functions.

No one expected Mirage to be a complete aft of an aristocrat. He'd been an autobot for too long, lost his tower and wealth to the war and only put on airs when it suited a good joke. But sometimes Powerglide or Cliffjumper chose the wrong time to push and accuse and condemn, and then they ended up with Mirage's pede through their faceplate and the sneering condescension of an elite mech dealing with peasantry.

Bumblebee usually had to avoid being tripped over and sometimes forgot he could transform, so used to no one believing he could fight, including himself. And then Prowl had seen him clambering over a toppled jet, swinging up by the other mech's throat cables and severing them in a swift move that had Jazz's signature all over it.

Hound did all of his work outside where Prowl didn't see, in the dirt and hills miles away from the rules and regulations of the base. And Smokescreen—who knew what happened in the smoke when one of the last Praxians had a Decepticon in his hands?

And Jazz...

Jazz didn't change. He still withheld information, still danced backward down the hall when he was talking to Optimus and Prowl, still threw wild and unsanctioned parties for the soldiers that Red Alert's security details had to clean up. But now that Jazz was not just one of Ironhide's underlings but actually the Third in Command...

Jazz never stopped smiling. He never stopped moving. Even seated at a meeting, his hands tapped a rhythm and his helm bopped. He smiled at everyone in easy camaraderie and never stopped dancing.

Not even when he came back from missions he wouldn't talk about, damaged and sparking, running so hot that the night air steamed off his armor.

Prowl stopped asking what happened one night when he saw Jazz limp in, visor shattered, optics shut to protect the lenses from cracking. Prowl had taken Jazz's arm, helping him to medbay, and received a jaunty little salute as Jazz walked off injuries that would have made any other mech collapse.

He no longer doubted Jazz's loyalty or competence. He came to trust Jazz's choices and his autonomy on the battlefield. Prowl even came to trust Jazz's opinion on when Prowl could and could not leave the base.

"Just saying, bossmech." Jazz had waved at the main doors of the base, locked and reinforced to safeguard the Autobot's Second in Command. "There's loads of 'Cons out there who'd love to put a round through yer spark, and I intend not to let them knock out our best calculator."

Prowl had stiffened at the old insult, and his doorwings had nearly flared out enough to hit Bumblebee in the face. And then his helm had tilted and his optics narrowed.

"So the reluctant Third thinks he can tell the calculator what to do?"

Jazz, for one moment, had stopped smiling, his mouth falling slightly open at that. And then the grin came back twice as strong.

"Well, calculate me this," Jazz had said, smiling up at Prowl like a cybercat curling close. "Which of us has more experience at keeping high ranking brass alive?"

Prowl had run the calculation. And then given Jazz a polite nod and gone back down the hall to his office, feeling Jazz's look following him all the way back.

But one night Prowl had received an emergency communique that could not wait—he'd taken the message on the steps in front of the base, coming out of his seclusion for information so vital that nanoseconds mattered.

And then he was pushed to the ground, the air beside him exploding with light and sound nearly taking off his helm as Mirage appeared, firing several more shots into the distance. Prowl had looked up in time to see Jazz come out of the shadows and put a blade through the neck cables of the courier, splashing oil and energon on the ground. Then Hound was grabbing Prowl, dragging him back into the base while a magnetized Smokescreen covered their escape. Several shots followed them, ricocheting off of the floor and walls, and Bumblebee was manually forcing the door to shut as something hissed, rumbled, and then exploded just outside.

It had been Prowl's first real experience with an assassination attempt. His processor crashed and rebooted twice, not from fear but from trying to catalog and process what he had seen, to try to put sounds to individual shots, voices to mechs. He woke to Ratchet kneeling over him, Bumblebee at his side, weapon drawn.

"—would you put it away already?" Ratchet grumbled. "You're making me more nervous than the warzone out there."

"Jazz said to ignore everyone 'till he came back." Bumblebee turned so that he and his firearm were facing the door. "And trust no one."

"That little bucket of bolts knows better than to ignore me," Ratchet said. "And you better hope you can still trust me, or else you'll be the first one with his helm welded to his aft."

"...please do not threaten an Autobot soldier," Prowl muttered, pushing himself up to sitting. "Especially after he saved my life...I think."

"Um, yessir," Bumblebee said over his shoulder. "Sorry we didn't let you know we were there, but Jazz said he had a bad feeling and he had us set up before your courier got there."

Prowl sighed, closing his optics, and let Ratchet turn his helm to remove a cover plate. The familiar medical link connected his processor to the medibot as Ratchet examined his cortex, adding the usual code to return his running speed to the proper gigahertz.

"Is Postal dead?" Prowl asked.

"Postal?" Bumblebee echoed.

"The courier?"

"Oh...uh, yeah. I don't think he was alive for awhile, though. Jazz says he was probably hijacked, wiped and puppetted back here. He was riddled with explosives and shrapnel."

Prowl looked up, earning a grumble from Ratchet as the cords tugged. "Shrapnel? Are Jazz and Mirage—?"

The main door opened again, and both Mirage and Jazz backed in, slamming the door shut as the last wisps of smoke curled over their plating. Mirage heaved a long sigh and slung his rifle over his shoulder and, with a nod from Jazz, went to join Hound wherever he had gone.

"Con's are getting creative."

Jazz knelt down next to Prowl, turning and flopping back against the wall. This close, Jazz's scratched and scorched armor showed Prowl exactly where the shrapnel had drummed over his pedes and back, leaving long gashes on his doorwings. A little oil spilled from the wounds, but Jazz was smiling as he stared at the ceiling.

"Sorry 'bout your mech," Jazz said. "If it's any consolation, that wasn't him. His cortex was gone and his spark chamber was empty. They just patched the corpse up long enough to get it close."

It wasn't much consolation—Postal was one of the few mechs that Prowl regularly interacted with besides the officers.

"But his gun barrel was melted to slag and he had a lot of quick patch jobs on 'im. My guess? He took a lot of 'Cons with him to Primus. Made 'em bleed for it."

As Ratchet finished his processor check, Prowl took a moment to study Jazz. The smile was still there, but his voice had run dry and humorless, like he'd stayed too long at the party. Ratchet began applying kevlar patches and sealant gels, and Jazz turned slightly to make certain patches easier. The little movement spoke to how often Jazz had to visit medbay, how often he saw death and disaster. And Prowl wished he could make the job easier.

"That...does help. A little." Prowl vented. "He was not a friend, but...I knew him."

The roar of Autobot fliers soared overhead, rattling the walls as they scrambled toward the unseen Decepticons. Prowl winced, but neither Jazz nor Bumblebee flinched, so used to hearing engines overhead, used to mechs exploding an arm's length away.

So why did Jazz flinch at a stolen kiss?

Prowl shook off the memory and began to read.

Incident report #20872

Classification: Clearance Level Optimal

Reported by: Ironhide

Incident Type: Assault

Location: Qual Adhoc Base, Wing "A", West hall

Orbital Date: 234/92/29910

Names of Suspects: Musical Tone, Courier to Optimus Prime; Mercator, front line infantry

Description of Incident: Musical Tone was accosted in an empty hallway by Mercator, who refused to let Tone pass. Mercator attempted to intimidate Tone with his superior size (S-unit Polyhex tank) and demanded to be allowed access to Tone's seals. Tone refused, attempted to bypass Mercator again. Mercator then grabbed Tone's shoulder and slammed him against the wall, straining Tone's doorwings. Tone called for help until Mercator put his hand over Tone's throat, compressing his vocal cords. Mercator forced his mouth on Tone's.

Here the recorded footage becomes difficult to follow. Tone struck his hand into Mercator's pelvic joint, the only joint that he could reach readily. He then tore out three major cables—oil, energon and coolant—so that they were left dangling over Mercator's armor. Mercator drew back and struck Tone across the face so that he fell, but that put Tone in range to cut Mercator's left pede tension coils. Mercator crashed sideways to the floor, which put him in better range for Tone, who crawled up and tore Mercator's throat cords. Mercator then aimed and fired three times at Tone, leaving two bullet wounds in his arm and hood and one round in the wall. Tone grabbed Mercator's face plate and severed its fasteners, ripping it off of Mercator's face. Tone then proceeded to tear off Mercator's Autobot insignia, revealing a Decepticon marking, as well removing as his turret and the covering of his spark chamber.

Tone had to be sedated without his knowledge (note: 3 rd medic Ratchet showed great promise at this field function).

Tone suffered injuries including sprained door wings, bitten face plate, dented face plate, shot side and arm.

Witnesses: Ironhide, Red Alert

Enforcer Report Filed: Optimus Prime

Follow-Up Action: Since the highest levels of Autobot officers are witnesses with recorded evidence, no further investigation is necessary. Mercator has been listed as KIA. (Update: Autobot Musical Tone's discipline record has been expunged as he has been absorbed into Ironhide's Special Operations unit. New field handle to follow.)

Addendum, Orbital Date: 275/136/30339

Incident report #20872-2

Classification: Clearance Level Optimal

Reported by: Rotator

Incident Type: Assault and Homicide

Location: Qien Station, South Port

Names of Suspects: [name redacted], Espion; Drillbit, front line infantry

Description of Incident: [name redacted] tore out the throat cables from Drillbit. With his bare hands. Natural flexibility and combat training make [name redacted] a liability if he cannot control his impulses. One Autobot dead because [name redacted] was taken by surprise is unacceptable. He refuses to state what happened, and I refuse to let him out of the brig until I have an explanation. (Second in Command Rotator)

Ironhide's note: Drillbit made the mistake of jumping [name redacted] and expecting him to fold up and take it. Far as I'm concerned, [name redacted] saved us the trouble of a court martial and stowing that pile of scrap in a brig. [Name redacted] has a perfect record of killing enemy mechs. This one just happened to be wearing an Autobot insignia at the time.

Prowl reset his optics.

Tone...he'd known that Jazz had not always been Jazz, but his friend's history had always been somewhat shadowed. Jazz only told a select handful of mechs about his life, and only bits and pieces at that. And he'd known that Jazz was their best spy and assassin, but Prowl had never seen him take a mech apart with his bare hands.

"What did Drillbit do?" he murmured to himself.

"Cornered me."

Prowl froze, almost literally as his coolant ran a sudden cycle. Barely moving, he glanced toward the corner of his quarters where the dim glow of his berth light didn't reach.

At first he didn't see him. As his optics adjusted and readjusted, spinning the strongest lenses into place, he made out the thin edge of Jazz's doorwings, the sheen of his visor. And realized that Jazz was letting him see even this much.

This was how Jazz killed unsuspecting Decepticons. Prowl wondered if Red Alert knew Jazz was here. Should he say something about it? Likelihood of Jazz simply leaving—82%. Prowl did not comment on the intrusion.

"I...didn't think anyone could surprise you," Prowl said.

"Appreciate the vote of confidence," Jazz said, all fake cheer, "but I wasn't a master back then. Just a little espion, lowest of the low ranks. And he was a lot bigger'n me."

"He tried to hurt you?" Prowl asked, realizing already that was a stupid question. Jazz was a killer, but he wasn't insane. He wouldn't attack someone unless—

"He just wanted to put the moves on me," Jazz said with a smile. "Pin me down, wind me up, see which way my doorwings fold. Hear the little noises I make when I can't get away."

Prowl frowned. "The report says that he was a decepticon."

Jazz's shadow shrugged.

"S'what Ironhide says. Honestly? I never saw no purple decal, no red optics." Jazz chuckled once. "Ironhide...he takes good care of his Spec Ops."

Prowl waited, but nothing else came. Jazz stood quietly, waiting for Prowl's judgment, and Prowl looked down at the report again as if it would conjure up more information. There were no photo attachments, no descriptions of Drillbit's wounds. Just the briefest of accounts and an angry second in command demanding Jazz's spark.

"Did you actually tear him apart?" he murmured. "A full mech?"

"You really asking that?" Jazz said. "When I almost ripped your pelvic casing out the first time? Or had the blade on your hood?"

Prowl's frown deepened. Jazz had acted instinctively then. Perhaps more than instinct. Fear.

Jazz had told him once that "anyone going into espionage knows they're gonna be force-downloaded eventually." Probably more than once. Lucky to escape alive, and Jazz had been caught more than enough times, usually on purpose, to feed the enemy bad information. A deadly killer with a hair trigger and a paranoid streak a mile wide...

Perhaps it was pure luck that Jazz hadn't carved up more bots—37%. Perhaps Jazz wanted Prowl's anger and accusation—23%. Perhaps Jazz was afraid of his own reactions.

78%.

"I am glad he did not hurt you." Prowl put the datapad aside. "And that Ironhide protected you. Rotator...I never met him, but he seems too highly strung, even by my standards."

Jazz's smile glinted in the darkness, a cat's grin after it swallowed the pet canary.

"Well, he sure had his moments."

Silence stretched between them. Neither moved, and Prowl grew aware of the hum of his engine, the electric whine of the berth, the vents regulating the Ark's temperature. Of Jazz...nothing. Not even the scuff of metal on steel. Jazz hadn't moved an inch.

Prowl wasn't sure what Jazz was waiting for. And he couldn't guess. Of all the bots on earth, only one was completely unpredictable to his processor. So all Prowl could do was be Prowl.

"I require recharge," he said almost in apology. "I cannot put it off any longer. You are welcome to...rest with me, if you wish."

As Prowl brought his pedes up and lay straight, he heard a faint vent from his friend.

"Just an innocent invitation to the berth, huh?" Jazz said. "Convenient."

"I will be locked in stasis," Prowl said, keeping any irritation from his voice. "Even so, company...trusted company is..."

He couldn't finish the thought, unable to put the feeling in words.

"Yeah," Jazz said. "It is."

Prowl felt himself lock down on the berth, slipping into recharge. As his processor slowed and his programs slowly began to come offline, his base functions became aware of a rumble an engine, the warmth of another frame laying beside his. Fingers curling into his hand and of steady vents beside himself.

Normally Prowl could not afford to allow his processor to completely shut down and reboot. An attack could come at any time, a sudden mission at any moment. Tonight, however, he allowed himself a total recharge and felt his programs begin to completely defragment.

Tonight he was guarded personally by the most dangerous bot on the base. And he was repairing the first bit of their trust, like a bit of data nudging back into its proper place.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Soundwave put his data pad down, folding his hands on top of it. He would have no shield between him and Jazz, would have his hands in clear view. The autobot was already irate, tapping his fingers on the table, the sharp black points small but visible against the gray surface. One stray move triggering Jazz's algorithms could have the smaller mech up and across the table in an instant, and then Soundwave might be living out the bad endings of some of his stories.

"...Jazz, dedicated," he started slowly.

Jazz scoffed, tilting his helm. "All'a the Autobots are dedicated."

"Dedicated to goal," Soundwave clarified. "Focused on mission, on war. Other bots, distractable."

"So are decepticons," Jazz said. "Hell, I caught Slicer doing circuit-speeders while he was on duty."

Soundwave dipped his helm in acknowledgment. "True. Warbuild culture ideal of discipline not always followed. Tedium allows for many vulnerabilities in defense. Many dead Decepticons."

Jazz grinned. "Very true. Always glad when you all got—ahem, when they got a little lazy on patrols, slacked off a bit on guard duty. Made my job a lot easier."

Soundwave closed his optics. He had reviewed all of the security files after every breach. The splatter of fuel and oil were impossible to forget. Jazz's grin brought back the memories of mechs splayed in their chairs or felled on either side of long corridors, their limbs askew and limp.

Was Jazz baiting him? Taunting him? For what purpose? Soundwave estimated Jazz's reaction to be teasing at less than 25%. He reset his optics. Jazz's grin was overly wide, obviously artificial—his light voice nothing like any other time he had discussed killing mechs. 75% chance that Jazz did not want to show his real feelings about all the mechs he had killed. And yet his voice was steady without any hesitation. 99% chance that Jazz had come to terms with being responsible for so many grayed out Decepticons.

"Many mechs," Soundwave said with a nod. "Over two thousand assassinations, not including battlefield casualties."

The grin faded to nothing, and Jazz turned away.

"That many, huh?" Jazz vented. "I never kept count."

"Soundwave, kept accurate records for file," he said. The rueful, cynical smile that appeared on his faceplate was entirely unconscious. "All defenses consistently failed against Jazz. Little more to do than act as Decepticon's best calculator. Gave some small feeling of control."

Jazz's look was unreadable.

"Two thousand," he echoed. "Ain't sound right; feels like I offlined a lot more."

"Kill count is minimal compared to other mechs," Soundwave admitted. "Frontliners, seekers, higher kill counts. But Jazz kill count disproportionate in effect—most were high ranking officers and command cadre. Each base incursion left faction scrambling to secure chain of command."

"Well, that was the point," Jazz said softly. "If I was risking my aft, I wanted the most bang for my buck."

Nodding, Soundwave followed the human idiom easily. Jazz felt his shoulder struts relax a little, comfortable in how he didn't have to explain earth culture as he sometimes had to even for bots who had been here for ages.

"Jazz, always successful," Soundwave said. "Even during rare instances when caught."

"If I got caught," Jazz said, his voice tightening, "I usually meant to. And killed any of y'all's torturers on the way out."

"I am aware as I had to account for the loss in assets to the war," Soundwave said. "Most notable of deactivated decepticon interrogators, Cord-cutter, Shrapnel and Fray."

"Tch." Jazz tapped the table a little faster. "Buddies of yours?"

Pausing, Soundwave frowned at the implication. Interrogator mechs were not well liked in their own faction, although there were few Decepticons who would be so vulnerable as to admitting any kind of friendship with one another.

"These mechs, known only as other Decepticons. Personnel files include their failures and weaknesses." He shrugged. "And approximate times and methods of death."

"Yeah, Prowler mentioned you had dirt on almost every Decepticon." Jazz shook his head once, whistling lowly. "Don't know how you two keep all'a that in your processors. Planning and calculating all that..."

Soundwave sat straight with a puff of pride, helm raised.

"Mech files held in deep storage. Accessed only when needed. Not used for day to day plans or strategy. Strategy files only require mech percentages: munitions, armor rating, top speeds. Megatron, not Soundwave, in charge of daily assignments. Mech files are for..."

He coughed, clearing his vents.

"Unimportant. Jazz's previous assertion correct. Decepticons, distractable. Previous discussion will continue."

His hope that Jazz would allow that, however, dwindled as the bot turned to face him.

"Mech files are for...?" Jazz prompted.

"Mech files, completely turned over to Prowl," Soundwave said. "This inquiry, unnecessary."

"Bugging you is some small recompense for putting up with your slag," Jazz said. "Come on, dish."

The changes flitting across Soundwave's face enthralled Jazz. Without the mask and visor to hide behind, Soundwave's lowered his optics, his eye ridges furrowing in taut concern. His mouth drew into a pout, and Jazz choked on the laugh that almost slipped out of him. Soundwave, terror of the Decepticons, looked like a sullen sparkling.

Soundwave swallowed his argument. Jazz held all the power here—Soundwave was merely a prisoner. Under the Autobot's authority, he had no idea what his proper role or function should be, so he could only follow commands and hope for the best.

"Mech files contain all discovered weaknesses, doubts and failures of every noted Decepticon. Many secrets found by catching stray thoughts from their processors. Secrets..." Soundwave paused. "Secrets valuable currency among Decepticons."

"You were blackmailing 'em," Jazz said slowly. "Your own faction."

Frustration began to color Soundwave's voice, giving his synthetic voice a bitter tinge.

"Decepticon faction difficult enough to run efficiently. Soldiers consumed by their own interests and ambitions. Mech files provided only leverage beyond threats of offlining. All the faith in Meg-Meg-Megatron's initial desires—the eradication of Autobot mastery, the rejection of the functionalists...gone."

Jazz, however, was only giving one audio to Soundwave's complaint. The rest of his attention was caught by the light gleaming off the curve of Soundwave's faceplate

He blinked and shook his helm once, disgusted with himself. He was no newly sparked protoform to get overheated by a smooth, polished...shiny...

Bots could be painstakingly particular about their paint. Some mechs had absolutely no taste, coloring themselves in garish neons that hurt the optics. Others were perfectionists—Sunstreaker mixed his own paint and once caved in a mech's faceplate for swiping a handful of wax. Whereas everyone came with somewhat interchangeable parts, replacing wires and plating and gears, a bot's paint job was individual.

Soundwave's deep shade of blue naturally drew Jazz's look. His face, so long hidden behind a mask and visor, likewise demanded to be stared at, to be studied. His optics, a rare gold among Decepticon red, didn't glow so much as they burned.

Soundwave fidgeted, acutely aware of being studied, and his fingers came to rest on the table, quietly tapping at the edge. Jazz glanced at them briefly. Not as delicate as his own, Soundwave likely couldn't manage the finesse and fine balance of a blade. Jazz knew from experience that Soundwave preferred his own brute strength, in the rare instances when he had to resort to fighting.

"Jazz..."

He blinked, looking back up at Soundwave.

"Yeah?"

"Jazz...infiltrated Decepticon bases many times."

Jazz shrugged. "Yeah, sure."

"Infiltrated bases...where I did not realize." Soundwave paused. "Opportunity to kill Soundwave, presented itself many times?"

"...a few times," Jazz said. "Closest I ever came was just ten or twelve feet away, moving behind your workstation. Can't pretend I wasn't tempted."

Soundwave frowned. "Soundwave, left alive. Query—why?"

"Heh. Most mechs wouldn't question that."

"Soundwave, not most mechs."

Jazz sighed, stretching out as he settled more comfortably in his seat. "Guess not. After a few early tries, Prowler never authorized killing ya, and I didn't second guess him. When it comes to espionage, better the devil you know."

Not that another mech would have been as capable as Soundwave. Jazz and Prowl both agreed that the former officer had been frighteningly capable. But Soundwave had patterns, eccentricities, habits that he fell into—these made survival easier, made winning battles possible, even. A new mech might have been less competent, but their new ideas and thoughts would have meant massive casualties until they acclimated, possibly over a millennia.

Soundwave considered what Jazz had said, tilting his head in thought. The light flashed across his cheek, fading along the cables at his throat.

"Soundwave, still devil?"

Jazz almost laughed, but the look on Soundwave's face stopped him. That wasn't the expression of a scheming mech. The wide optics were those of a lost mech not knowing his place anymore.

"...nah." Jazz met his look evenly. "You ain't a devil. Pain in my aft...but no devil."

Soundwave didn't smile. But his helm lifted slightly and his optics widened, no longer watching Jazz to calculate his chances for death. Instead he simply looked at Jazz, returning his gaze, visibly pleased. He relaxed more obviously, sitting straight, and his posture became a little more natural as he felt the tension drain.

Jazz couldn't help comparing him to Prowl, stiff at first, then softening as he was acknowledged. Jazz's look went back to Soundwave's hands and noticed how similar they were to Prowl's, unsuited to knife-work but sufficient, as Prowl had put it, for pleasing a partner—

Jazz stood, pushing back his chair, walking swiftly from the room before he had finished the thought.

"Jazz—"

"You stay put," Jazz snapped, shutting the door so that the last look he had of Soundwave was of his confused vulnerability.

In front of the door, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker both released the safety on their rifles, coming to attention as he came out too quickly.

"Sir?" Sideswipe asked. "Everything all right?"

Sunstreaker snorted. "Do we need to help bury the 'con's frame?"

Jazz's laugh died in his throat. That cut a little too close—Jazz could probably kill Soundwave and no one would question it. No junior officer would contradict him, and the upper echelons...

Of course Soundwave would try to assault him. Hadn't the 'Con written hundreds of stories about that exact scenario? And with Jazz's history of killing anyone who tried that, even in his own faction, that he would kill a Decepticon was not surprising. At least he'd waited until they had every last drop of information out of Soundwave first.

"Ratchet..." Jazz said. "Where...?"

He growled at himself. Stupid question. He was more rattled than he'd realized.

Ratchet, you out there? He looked at the door to reassure himself that it was closed. Ratchet—

I'm here, I'm here, came the grumbling response. Just about to lay down to recharge for the first time in four cycles. What's so important—?

Ratchet... Jazz hesitated. He wasn't even sure what was wrong, let alone how to phrase it so that he didn't sound like he needed a good defrag. I...I was talking to Soundwave, and...

Yeah, and...? Unseen, Ratchet was still obviously circling his hand to tell Jazz to hurry it up.

Is there any way he coulda put something into my cortex? Made me...start thinking things?

Ratchet's optics narrowed. My office, now. I'm notifying Red Alert of your susp—

Suspicions noted, Red Alert said, overriding their conversation. All of your protocols are being put on standby, so you'll have to wait for me to open the doors for you.

Jazz vented a long exhale, running his hand over his helm. Dammit. Yeah, okay. Bossmechs, I thought he was clean? I thought—

We all did, Ratchet said. And I'd still bet on it. But this is Soundwave, and I'd rather trust your paranoia. We'll look, make sure your cortex is doing just fine, and then you owe me a round in the mess and absolutely no emergencies for one shift.

Jazz chuckled, watching as Sideswipe and Sunstreaker stood at attention, listening to someone's orders, and then then came to flank him on either side.

"Sir," Sideswipe said curiously. "We're headed to the medical bay?"

"If that's what Red says," Jazz said, feeling very tired. "Remind him someone's gotta take Soundwave back to his cell, huh?"

"Someone's already on that," Sideswipe said.

And Jazz wouldn't know who, or how many. Until he was given a clean bill of health, he was effectively as much a prisoner as their Decepticon. Without a word, he led the way to the elevator, picking up two more mechs for an armed escort, and he rode down in silence.

When they came out at the medical bay, Jazz stumbled over his own pedes in surprise. Ratchet had one of the berths readied, his tools laid out in front of him, but over his shoulder was Optimus Prime and Ironhide, who likewise had his rifle unslung but pointed at the floor.

"Prime, you shouldn't—" Jazz started, shaking his helm.

"Please don't bother arguing," Optimus said. "Ironhide already made all the arguments. If you really are compromised, I am not leaving you to face that alone, my friend."

"Besides," Ironhide said, signalling Sideswipe and Sunstreaker to stand guard outside, "we were already here telling Ratchet to get to his berth. We really gotta get First Aid some more clearance so this poor mech can get some rest."

"Don't matter," Ratchet said, motioning Jazz to the berth. "I'd insist on being awake for command cadre decisions anyway. At least this way he can get some rest instead."

Feeling all eyes and targeting solutions on himself, Jazz sat on the berth and lay back, grimacing as strong magnetic locks came on and held him in place. A sharp poke later and the injection of whatever of Ratchet's chemicals rushed through his system, decelerating his processors until the mechs around him moved in slow motion.

His data flashed on the screen overhead. They had all done this so often that they knew some of the markers to look for, the snatches of virus that leeched onto a bot's code, but only Ratchet could move so swiftly through the the lines of Jazz's soul, sifting through his base routines, his personality core, his transformation matrix...

And Jazz was talking. He knew that he was being asked questions, interrogated if gently, but he couldn't remember what he was saying. He answered as if dreaming—yes, he had read Soundwave's stories, no, he didn't like them, no, he didn't remember feeling Soundwave in his cortex, no, Soundwave hadn't tried to hack him during his kidnapping, no, no, no...

Toward the end of the interrogation, as the fluids were wearing off and Jazz hovered at the edge of understanding what he was saying, Ratchet finally asked what had he been doing when he first had his suspicions. In a blur of voices, Jazz heard himself answer.

"Jus' talking to Soundwave," he murmured. "Said he weren't no devil. And then he smiled at me."

"'Smiled'?" Ratchet asked. "That mech doesn't know how to smile."

"Wasn't huge or nothing," Jazz said, blinking slowly. "More how his optics went all soft, like molten gold...and his faceplate smoothed all over."

Optimus and Ratchet both reset their optics, not sure what to make of that. Ironhide stared at him with widening optics.

"And when you saw that?" Ratchet asked. "The thought that ran through your cortex?"

"Soundwave's real shiny."

No one spoke. Ratchet shared a look with Optimus, neither of them sure how to respond. But the bodyguard did, smacking his hand against his forehelm.

"Never shoud'a let a virgin in alone with that schemer," Ironhide grumbled.

"Jazz isn't—" Ratchet started, then snapped his denta shut even as he glared at Ironhide. Confidentiality and Jazz's privacy meant he couldn't start defending his friend's honor even though everyone already knew.

"Not anymore," Ironhide stomped on through his unsaid argument. "But he's practically a younglin' where the spark's concerned. This is what happens when you get a mech's valve's popped in the middle of a warzone."

"Like you haven't had your own indiscretions," Ratchet snapped. "You and Chromia put dents in half the bases—"

"With each other," Ironhide said. "Not an officer of the enemy faction, I don't care if he's defecting or not. That's it—no more inexperienced mechs interrogating anything shiny. Prowl can take over if it's so damn important."

Optimus vented. "I agree, at least with Prowl taking the task of dealing with Soundwave. Ratchet, do you have any reason to even suspect Soundwave of doing this deliberately?"

Running his hand over his faceplate, Ratchet began uncoupling Jazz's cortex from the berth's screens.

"Unless Soundwave snuck a hidden algorithm in his stories, and Red Alert and Percy have been combing through every line without anything coming up..." Ratchet huffed. "Jazz has been at the center of Soundwave's intense Jazz worship. In hindsight, of course Jazz started to see him in a different light."

"At least he got spooked enough to run off," Ironhide said. "Locked inside with a cuffed Soundwave..."

Ratchet nodded once. "Red Alert would have turned on the monitor to a scene right out of one of those Spec Ops stories."

An unbidden smile cracked Ironhide's faceplate for a moment, and he grinned despite himself. "And then hopefully he would'a turned it off again."

Leave me out of your sordid scenarios, Red Alert growled through their comms. I am reengaging Jazz's security clearances and protocols, aside from the note that he is not to have alone-time with Soundwave—stop snickering, you perverted pile of rust. Do not call me again this shift unless it is an emergency.

Ironhide fought down the snickering, sighing once as he reslung his rifle. "Poor Jazz. He's gonna be a molten slag of embarrassment for this. Spooking 'cause he got a crush..."

From the berth came a very tired and weary groan.

"Actually..." Jazz closed his optics, refusing to face the world as he came out of the chemical haze. "Ironhide, if you could put a round through my helm, I'd be much obliged."

"Sorry, my friend," Optimus chuckled. "Into every life, a little mortification must fall."

"I'd settle for being out in acid rain," Jazz said, and he put his hands over his face. "Or if you could assign the twins some digging duty outside the Ark, I'd like to just hop in the hole they make. Shove all the dirt in afterward."

Ironhide patted his shoulder. "It ain't your fault you gotta go through these emotions in the middle of a warzone. Ain't no one gonna hold it against ya. And I will be teasing you for the rest of the millennia with only the best of intentions."

Jazz groaned. "Optimus...curb your dog. Please."

"Of course," Optimus agreed. "I think he's due. Ironhide, I'll be returning to my berth to recharge. Since you slept through Percy's meeting, you can receive his extended report and summarize it into notes for the next cadre meeting."

Ironhide froze. "...Perceptor's analysis of the refinement of energon to cortex control?"

Optimus nodded with suspicious amounts of cheer. "With all the mathematics and geographical information. I believe Beachcomber was helping him with that."

"...oh primus..." Ironhide sighed and turned his pedes toward the door. "I knew I'd get it eventually, but I didn't think it'd be a full execution."

Ironhide's pain was only a mild balm to Jazz's stressed processors. He turned his helm slightly to see Optimus, glad he could hide behind his visor's endless heads-up display.

"I'm sorry, boss bot. I didn't even think it was possible."

"Close quarters and raw emotion have done much, much worse," Optimus said. "You immediately responded with your loyalty first. You should take some solace in that."

"Gonna be hard after giving Ironhide enough ammo for years," Jazz said.

"I'll put the brakes on his humor," Optimus promised. "He'll stop when he realizes I can make him my science liaison instead of Percy."

Jazz nodded once, watching him go. He wasn't satisfied with Optimus' generosity, not when Jazz had to think about how his first thoughts were not of his own wants or feelings. Jazz had immediately thought of the mission, the war. Soundwave couldn't have asked for better evidence of Jazz's warbuild nature, and the realization was galling. Jazz was venting in, steeling himself to rise and return to duty, when he felt the maglocks reengage, trapping him on the berth.

"Uh, what's up, doc?" Jazz asked. "Ain't end of shift, yet."

"It is for you," Ratchet said. "And me. If you're stuck here, then you aren't running around base causing havoc that I have to look into. First Aid can come in and hold down the fort, so you are going to recharge, I am going to recharge, Prowl is going to deal with Soundwave, the twins can keep standing guard, and we will deal with the mess tomorrow when you're not so exhausted that you're seeing sparks in Soundwave's eyes."

Jazz found himself grateful for the second, stronger injection, swiftly following his frame's shut-down routines. The chemicals numbed his sudden chill on thinking of Prowl—of how the second in command would have to be told, of what Prowl might think of him, and of Jazz's conflicted feelings on all things Prowl. Jazz didn't think that a good night's rest would make any of that better. But it did put off the problem for a few hours, so that the worst thing he had to think of was Ratchet's quiet mutter as they both began drifting into recharge.

"Spec Ops number whatever, the sparks in Soundwave's eyes...aft, more like..."

Chapter Text

Prowl and Soundwave stared at each other across the long table.

Neither moved. Neither spoke. Occasionally there was an audible cough of an engine, a fan that whirred to life and faded again. Even the click of their optics resetting was audible in the empty room.

Of course their cortexes were not still. Prowl had over twenty missions to monitor, including teams in the field and espionage reports to match against the known forces of the Decepticons, let alone the activities of the relevant Earth governments, along with all the troop movements on the Ark. These could not wait. Fully thirty percent of his processing power remained absorbed with those tasks at all times.

He calculated another ten percent of his cortex contemplated Jazz—his missions, his status, his well-being, his moods, his maddening refusal to talk—and kept a receptor open to his communication frequency, similarly at all times.

That left over half of his processors to be increasingly annoyed with Soundwave.

A question struck him. Cortex partitioning was not something any other bot might ask about, but for Prowl, this was a daily fact of life, and he imagined that Soundwave would be no different. This presented a rare chance for comparison. After all, if Prowl were cut off from the Ark, what else would he use that processor power for?

"You are disconnected from the Decepticon mainframe," Prowl said. "What percentage of your cortex does that free from the war?"

Soundwave reset his optics, surprised that Prowl even cared.

"Precise percentage, difficult to calculate. Soundwave, all resources devoted to the war for millennia. Recent desire to defect, only current draw on processing power. Thus...rough estimate, eighty percent of processing power freed."

Would Soundwave think that Prowl didn't dedicate enough resources to his own faction? Prowl hid his frown, but he couldn't keep the disapproval out of his voice.

"The war demanded that much front end memory?" Prowl asked. "Does that include maneuvering through Starscream's machinations, Megatron's scheming or blackmailing your entire faction?"

"...yes." Soundwave heaved a long exhaust cycle, bowing his helm slightly. "Decepticons, live up to unironic reading of faction name. As energon grew scarce, mechs prone to betrayal. 'Stabbing each other in the back.'"

Prowl stiffened. He didn't have to guess where Soundwave had heard that turn of phrase. Long hours of talking with Jazz had altered Soundwave's vocal patterns, and the bot hadn't seemed to notice yet.

The same way that Jazz had not noticed a growing crush until that infatuation became impossible to ignore.

Prowl frowned harder.

Soundwave wondered if this was the day that the Autobots would finally kill him.

"And the other twenty percent?" Prowl asked.

"Safeguarding cassette resources. Telepathic readings for own protection."

"From mechs trying to rise up and take your place?" Prowl said.

Soundwave nodded. "High position, coveted. Megatron, sure of this mech's l-l-loyal...ty. Other mechs, could not understand it was lllllllllloyalllllllll service that assured my rank. "

Prowl didn't mention the verbal ticks in Soundwave's speech. They were far more preferable than the crashing he'd gone through before, and he seemed more and more capable of admitting that his loyalty had shifted.

"Your own faction plotted against you," Prowl said, "and you had to calculate for the deceit of your leaders. Why did you stay with the Decepticons for so long? You could have gone neutral."

Soundwave shook his helm very, very slowly. "Considered neutrality. For twenty nanoclicks. No cohesive structure or community. Only refugees. Percentage of survival, minimal."

Prowl didn't ask about why Soundwave hadn't joined the Autobots. Back then, even Prowl hadn't really served the Autobot Primes. He had rallied to Optimus, practically a holy messiah. They'd needed time to spread his message of all becoming as one, and Optimus' guerilla force had always been comparably smaller than the other sides. Not just soldiers but true believers.

"In any case," Prowl said, returning to the subject. "Your processors have been nearly completely freed up, then. What are your current allocations?"

Soundwave shifted uncomfortably, looking askance. Nevermind that it was a rude question—he could feel his processors heating up with the other mech's judgment.

"Fifteen percent, base functions. Ten percent, cassettes—function, status. Twenty percent, calculating scenarios of Decepticon strike and odds of reprisal from Mmmegatron. Thirty percent, writing and posting new texts to the surnet. All remaining functions, devoted to Jazz's philosophy."

Prowl's fingertips tapped impatiently on the table.

"His 'philosophy'?"

Soundwave nodded, eager to move the—debriefing? interrogation?—to a different subject, one that he could speak more fluently on.

"Jazz, spoke at length. Discussion of earth human cultures, music, with comparison to ancient Cybertronian music. Soundwave, shared Steel Lunaire, Insilico Syndicate, F4te and other discographies. In return, received ambient soundtracks and background radiation tracks from Autobots, Cosmos and Blaster."

Prowl straightened slightly. "You hate Blaster."

For a moment, Soundwave pressed his denta tight, his mouth set in a firm line. He visibly warred with his own feelings, more visibly than he'd ever done so with his shifted loyalties to Megatron. Prowl found himself recording the change if only for reference later. Soundwave looked...offended.

"Blaster..." Soundwave paused. "Blaster...."

A long, deep vent. Then—

"Blaster, adequate." Soundwave's engines suddenly ran a cooling cycle as he grew overheated, and he continued too quickly. "Adequate judge of single musical genre. And in expression of genre to Jazz. In all other functions, Blaster remains inferior."

Prowl almost snorted. That single compliment sounded like it had been dragged out of Soundwave as reluctantly as a complete oil change.

"Ambient?" he echoed. "That is the low frequency, simple composition sounds, yes?"

Soundwave's optics narrowed. "Deceptively simple. Precision sounds."

Prowl let the comment slide. "I wouldn't have thought that a warbuild would prefer something so low key."

"Jazz, made excellent case," Soundwave said. "Prowl, never recommended?"

Shifting in his seat, Prowl took that as the challenge it was obviously intended as. "Jazz is not a topic for this conversation."

"Prowl asked first."

"Then I shall refocus this interrogation." Prowl placed his datapad down on the desk, giving Soundwave more of his precious processing power. "Who else on this base do you consider of a warbuild nature?"

The question should have thrown Soundwave for a loop, but he had already anticipated it, or something similar, and he shook his helm once.

"Negative. No other Autobots of warbuild nature. Surrender only possible to J—"

"Why?" Prowl cut him off testily. "What about our frontliners—Sideswipe, Sunstreaker—"

"Probability of surviving surrender to frontline Autobots, two percent."

"Because of their unquestioning loyalty?" Prowl asked. "Straightforward tactics? What are your variables?"

"Prowl, questioning Jazz loyalty?" Soundwave reset his optics, sitting straight. "Jazz, superior. Most loyal Autobot."

"I thought I said—"

"Prowl, returned subject to Jazz if only tangentially."

Prowl took a long, long vent. A full cycle of coolant. Even shunted some of his processing on Red Alert, who grumbled but took the added base functions without hesitating.

"Describe," Prowl said through grit denta, "your variables for deciding warbuild functionality."

"Unswerving dedication to the mission," Soundwave said readily. "Treated Soundwave as worth more while functioning than destroyed."

"Marginally," Prowl muttered. "What else?"

"Practiced combat skill set," Soundwave said, but his optics turned and focused on the table as his faceplate warmed. "To counter...in retrospect, badly calculated surrender tactic."

"Didn't realize that kidnapping and sexual coercion doesn't do it for an Autobot?" Prowl jabbed.

Soundwave's faceplate heated further, although he refused to bow his helm.

"Superior skill, key variable. Autobot interface habits..." Soundwave's vocal unit choked a little. "Admittedly, still learning."

Learning well, if Prowl was honest with himself. Learned well enough that Jazz had fallen however slightly for an officer—ex-officer, he thought—of the enemy faction. While Prowl—Jazz's first, Jazz's trusted, Jazz's 'trying to make up for one bad decision' mech—was left in the cold, hoping for Jazz's continued attention. While Soundwave was privileged enough to hold conversations, share music, be ridiculously shiny for a Decepticon, to write porn that he was clearly forgiven for—

"And do the rest of your 'readers' find your learning superior?" Prowl demanded, already knowing the answer, having read the comments on Soundwave's latest civilian/warbuild fiction. "Or are you still five point nine out of tune?"

"Two point seven," Soundwave countered. "Mechs creating Deceptively Yours, understanding of all but most extreme warbuild fantasies."

"Pornography is no adequate teacher," Prowl snapped.

"Prowl, offering?" Soundwave snapped just as tersely.

And with that comment landing between them like a wet mess they couldn't ignore, they both went rigid as their processors calculated—

"Enough," Prowl said, standing quickly. "Your input is no longer required on counter-Decepticon activities. Why Jazz felt you were necessary, I will not understand—"

Soundwave's mutter was out before he could stop himself, not that he would have tried too hard.

"Prowl, five point nine percent out of tune with Jazz."

Prowl's engine growled even as he drew himself up straight, choking off his fuel intake, quieting his systems, refusing to give Soundwave the satisfaction. He refused to run the numbers. Soundwave had been wrong about Jazz's interests in his wretched stories. Soundwave was wrong about this as well. That was all there was to it.

He wished he was taller than Soundwave as he moved to walk past him. For turning into a glorified boom box, the Decepticon was ridiculously large. Not as bad as a jet, but still larger than a mech who turned into a police prowler.

The door slid open. A green mech appeared, looking up at Prowl.

Prowl gazed back in surprise. He'd been told this would be a closed interrogation, with only two guards at the door. The twins, barely visible in the hall, didn't move, their guns slung at a relaxed ready. Whoever this was, he must have had clearance.

Which was his first indication that this was wrong. Red Alert would have notified him.

His second clue was that he didn't recognize the mech. Prowl knew every single Autobot on the base.

His third clue was that the door shut behind the mech and locked so hard that the mechanism visibly burned out.

And then the mech's optics turned upward in his helm as he drew a heavy gatling gun from subspace.

Prowl had enough time—whole nanoclicks—to notify Red Alert and yell "assassin" before the gun fired.

The expected pain did not come. The room suddenly seemed to turn blue and grey, and another nanoclick passed before he realized that Soundwave was in front of him, pushing the gun's barrels up at the ceiling. Then Soundwave reached both hands back, clenched in fists, and slammed the green mech with so much force that the mech's torso ruptured.

Prowl backed away, drawing his acid gun and aiming. He found that he was gulping in air. "Glorified calculator" was the usual slur on his subordinates' glossa, and he usually took solace in having been in his share of fights and killing his share of 'cons. But Prowl was no frontliner, no warbuild, and for years—decades—the Autobots had kept him as far from the actual fighting as possible. His cortex for strategy was simply too valuable to risk on a battlefield.

In the back of his processors, startled out of their calculations, he understood that Soundwave had applied five metric tons of pressure at twenty-five miles an hour, that the tensile strength of the mech's torso had sheared in the middle. That the second punch left the mech's legs dangling uselessly, their wiring snapped and pulled by the impact, and that only Soundwave's fist bracing the mech against the wall kept him upright.

But there was so much oil on the floor. So much energon splashed on the walls. Coolant dripping from the mech's face as its optics fell out of their sockets and its jaw hung loose from one hinge.

This was what warbuilds were for.

5.9% out of tune, he thought, just enough to forget that Soundwave was more than his armaments, his sonic weapons, his cassettes.

The Autobots had taken for granted that Soundwave was cuffed at all times when out of his cell. It almost went without saying. A cuffed mech was a subdued mech, wasn't he? And now Soundwave used the cuffs to his advantage to tear a mech in half.

Prowl stood straight, lowering his gun, taking a step back.

No—that didn't compute. Soundwave should not have been able to generate that kind of force. The other mech should not have been so easily torn.

"It's a corpse," Prowl said, stepping back. He tried to send a signal to Red Alert and found instead a dozen messages and more pouring in, blaring as loud as the security officer's name now that Prowl was paying attention.

Total base lockdown.

High alert.

Intruder alert.

Does not register.

NO SPARK

NO SPARK

"It's a bomb—" Prowl got out just before the blast sent him backwards against the wall. Everything seemed to float, the room erupted in sparkling green shrapnel, and as Prowl's cortex demanded to try to calculate the position of every sharp fragment, his processors froze, hovered on the delicate edge of consciousness, and then finally crashed.

Chapter Text

Embarrassment.

Regret.

Desire for Jazz's happiness.

Jazz ran through the file once more.

Embarrassment.

Regret.

Desire for Jazz's happiness.

Jazz turned the data packet over and over in his cortex, examining it from all angles, studying the time stamp and the unspoken emotion between the binary code.

And cursed himself again.

Prowl had sent this data packet the moment he knew he had screwed up, wrapping up all his embarrassment and regret at forcing the kiss from Jazz. Prowl had seen Jazz's relief at having work taking off his shoulders, had seen Jazz's vulnerability that he couldn't do the calculating that Prowl could... He'd seen Jazz's mouth part so invitingly that he had closed the gap and pressed what had been a very gentle kiss.

Prowl couldn't have known what Jazz had been through. It didn't make what he'd done right, but it wasn't the end of the world, either.

Embarrassment.

Regret.

The desire for Jazz's happiness.

Prowl was still in the interrogation room, trapped behind slagged, molten rubble, probably bleeding out from hundreds of shrapnel wounds.

And all Jazz would have left was this data packet.

He sat on the bent remains of a secondary blast shield door, flipping a gear component between his fingers as he idled. His face betrayed nothing but calm as he waited for the Autobot engineers to slowly clear the closest slabs of sheared steel and dangling electrical cords. Tackle set the heaviest pieces up and Block moved them aside, while Baud and Anion traced the live cables so that Red Alert could turn them off. Defensive laser grids had to be reset and disengaged; mounted turrets had to be locked down.

Meanwhile Prowl was dying.

Maybe.

Maybe he was already dead and greyed out.

There had been no transmissions after the panicked cry of an assassin in the interrogation chamber.

Jazz closed his optics and leaned on his kneejoints, wishing a spec ops bot was of any use during a search and recovery like this. Instead he was wrapped up in his own emotions.

Embarrassment.

Regret.

And a hope for the mechs inside to still be alive.

error

nvphaz . adm=89

stop processes: x0000x00000984 . sys

reset

reboot

mainsys..2223.0 online

Prowl awoke to a piercing agony in his wrist.

address 6x9889 . linksys not available

error

=0

begin

And pain in his neck cabling—specifically his main fuel line. If his emotional centers had come on by now, he would have felt a stab of panic. Instead he waited, knowing the helm-ache of a surge of nitroglycerin was coming, and issued the command to his coolant systems to begin as soon as possible.

nitroglycerin systems offline

He frowned. He knew they were offline. That's what a scheduled task was for—

Oh.

He ran the check again.

nitroglycerin systems empty

His tanks had shattered.

As more and more systems became operational and began reporting in, he ran a diagnostic—

self-diagnosis unavailable

—cursed and took stock of himself manually.

Shattered nitro tanks.

Shattered coolant.

Cracked seals on his fuel lines.

Cuts on his fuel lines, two severe.

Concussive cracks on his outermost armor. Negligible damage to his protoform.

The bomb had been mostly shrapnel, then. Poorly constructed, hardly normal Decepticon quality. Packing it with debris to explode ranked it little higher than a glorified pipe bomb. Its chief danger had been in how it moved around undetected—he would wonder about that when he could devote memory to the problem.

Where had it come from? Who had built it?

"Queries, unknown. No data as yet."

Prowl heaved a long vent.

"...thank you," he said between grit denta. "For reducing the bomb's output."

Soundwave chuckled once. "Prowl, courtesy unnecessary. Soundwave, defending self. Prowl simply along for the ride."

Prowl's emotion center came online just in time for him to frown at Soundwave's Jazzism.

"Prowl, finds Soundwave's speech patterns aggravating?"

"I..."

How had Soundwave realized that? Had Prowl revealed it through some facial tick? Perhaps his social protocols were not online.

"Social protocols, online," Soundwave said. "Apologies. Should have made situation known immediately. Defense: did not want to risk Prowl's emotional state."

"'Situation'?" Prowl echoed. "What situation? What has happened?"

"Result of assassination attempt. Bomb unsuccessful, but massive wounds sustained. Prowl would not survive until estimated rescue. Soundwave, similar state, if less injured."

"My diagnostics are not functional," Prowl said too quickly. "What are the overall percentages?"

"Estimated arrival time of Autobot rescuers, three standard hours. Prowl's previous estimated time of death, one hour. Soundwave, two."

"'Previous'?" Prowl demanded. "What have you done?"

"...Jazz, gave Soundwave the idea." A weary, long-suffering vent. "During initial kidnapping mistake."

"What have you done?" Prowl wished he could get up and shoot the mech. Or get up at all. Wait...was he on his back? What about his doorwings? Why couldn't he see?

"Multiple systems down to conserve fuel for both mechs."

A schematic unfolded in Prowl's mind. He saw himself, prone on his back, wings strained beneath himself. His base functions had been shut down to the most minimal levels—spark, cortex. A glowing line went from his neck cabling to another mech, their own functions isolated to a similar degree.

"Measures taken, drastic," Soundwave said. "Only option to achieve ninety percent chance of rescue and survival."

A nanoclick passed before Prowl understood what all of that meant.

They had survived the blast, marginally. Soundwave, waking first, had discovered how badly they were injured and realized they would not survive alone. He'd then patched his fuel lines into Prowl's, and then spliced his cortex to Prowl's to regulate the energon flow. And then shut down everything else between them. That was the pain in his wrist and neck—the jury-rigged splices.

They weren't actually speaking. Soundwave was directly in Prowl's thoughts.

"Is this your power?" Prowl gasped, realizing he wasn't actually gasping. "Is this your telepathy?"

"Negative. Telepathy, would strain systems and use fuel far too quickly. This..."

Soundwave winced.

"Soundwave, had not meant to take Prowl up on offer of crossing cables."

Prowl's deep embarrassment met Soundwave's wave of intense regret as both mechs crashed into one overwhelming, inescapable truth, painfully apparent now that they were linked.

Both of them wanted Jazz's happiness.

Red Alert did not leave his office to attend the emergency meeting. In fact, his office locked down to such a degree that he had to alter the duty rosters to note that Inferno would remain inside the office with him until further notice. Even if Inferno wanted to leave, no one could get in or out until the emergency was over.

Besides, it was an optional security measure that he took advantage of now—using Inferno as his mediator so that Red Alert's paranoia was satisfied that nothing could affect him. He had to stay as safe as possible. He was now shouldering the entire function of the Autobot base.

The main screen in the officer's meeting room showed Red Alert's office and Inferno awkwardly reading from the other mech's datapad. Only a skeleton crew of officers was present—Optimus and Ironhide, and Jazz after they pried him away from the blast zone. The rest were all scattered to their functions through the ark, trying to make do in Prowl's absence.

"We got a traitor on board." Inferno looked down at the report he'd been given, scratching his helm. "Something about...first level protocols being deployed? I don't know what those are—"

"You're not meant to," Red Alert whispered, his optics shut. "Read it—"

"But—" Inferno vented. "I got no idea what it means by 'secondary and tertiary adiabatic grid defenses being up', or what 'whole base lockdown and shelter in place' is—oh, I think I do get that part. But—"

"Rest assured, Inferno," Optimus said, tapping his fingers on the table. "The officers in attendance do know what that means. Please continue."

"Um, yessir, Prime. 'Frequencies regarding the third and fourth auxiliary lenses of the data consoles in the fourth wing'...oh, for—Red, you do realize simple mechs gotta be able to understand this, right?"

"Inferno...please." Red Alert didn't move except to speak, venting evenly, sounding as if he were lifting a heavy weight. "I am handling all base functions."

Inferno stared at him for a second, realizing just how much that meant. Pressing his mouth into a firm line, he looked down at the datapad again and focused. If Red Alert had sent him something like this as a fire alarm, Inferno would have been able to understand. He began to sum everything up.

"We're continuing to receive Soundwave's signal," Inferno said. "But it's weak and hard to keep track of. Soundwave had to reroute it through the surnet via the consoles in the interrogation chamber. If Inferno...uh, if I hadn't been checking the upload feeds, we would have missed it entirely."

"Primus praise the porn," Ironhide muttered.

"Is Prowl still alive?" Optimus asked.

Red Alert opened one of his optics slightly.

"Yes, if we're taking Soundwave's word on that," he said, and closed his optic again.

Optimus glanced aside at Jazz, who sat at the far end of the table. His friend was unusually silent, but Optimus had no doubt that Jazz was not only listening to everything but also filtering every active frequency for news. And probably refreshing the surnet for every update.

Autobot Forum :: Slice of Life :: Soundwave :: Prowl :: "S.O.S."

Authored by :: MaskedMech

Warnings :: n/a

Part 1

Request for aid. Prowl, alive. Soundwave, alive. Three hours remaining.

Part 2

Request for aid. Prowl, alive. Soundwave, alive. Two hours, 59 minutes remaining.

Part 3

Request for aid...

"He wouldn't lie about that," Jazz said softly. "He knows he'd be dead the moment I saw otherwise."

"Can we get a message back to them?" Ironhide asked, although he knew they must have already tried.

"He isn't responding," Red Alert said, speaking slowly as his cortex struggled to handle this additional task. "I think...I don't dare risk overloading myself in connecting, but I think he's conserving energon. He would have set these updates on an automatic schedule as long as his spark is still alive."

"We already have mechs on rescue and Ratchet's standing by with First Aid." Optimus rubbed his helm. He'd been in deep recharge when the alert came. "You said this was the work of a traitor."

"Yes..." Inferno scrolled down the rest of the datapad. "The bomb was a maintenance drone painted up to look like one of us. It was enough to get it through the halls since it was pinging as a drone, but the paint job and credentials got it by the twins and one step into the room."

"'Credentials'?" Ironhide asked. "Whose?"

"I do not—" Inferno cleared his intake. "Uh, Red Alert ain't got the processing power to devote to that. He can give you the codes and the data, but—"

Jazz's hand fell flat on the table.

"Send 'em to me," Jazz said. "I'll do it."

"...we need whoever it is alive for questioning," Optimus warned him.

"No prob, bossmech. They'll be alive." Jazz tipped his helm back, but there was no grin, no humor, no warmth. "Not in one piece, though."

"Take your 'bots when you bring 'em down," Ironhide said. "Don't get cocky."

"You wound my soul." Jazz tapped his visor once. "Already calling 'em. If nothing else, they'll keep the damage down to a minimum."

Optimus watched Jazz silently rise from his seat, heading to the door with murder clearly on his mind. Maybe the traitor would survive. Maybe the spec ops bots would watch Jazz splash the walls with energon. But Optimus couldn't find it in himself to call Jazz back.

Prowl was Optimus' friend, and Soundwave had revealed his true vulnerabilities to him.

He might not like the violent solutions that war brought, but today he would not regret what Jazz was about to visit on that decepticon.

"You had no right to do this."

"Prowl, wanted to die in two hours?"

"I would have survived! Autobot engineers aren't as slow as you estimate—you don't even know them and have no concept of what to take into consideration—"

"Prowl estimations conflict?"

"That is immaterial."

Soundwave scoffed.

"Prowl, wishes to disengage?"

"Yes, Prowl wishes to disengage," he snapped mockingly, "but as you have rendered that option completely impossible due to your incompetence—"

Soundwave's indignation welled up like a tidal wave, strong enough to hold its own against the self-righteous calculator who had cowed whole armies before.

"Any other possible choices completely inferior. Soundwave, clearly superior."

Even though Prowl could not feel his coolant tanks and knew that there was no coolant in those tanks, he nevertheless felt a rush of cold through his cortex. And being this close to Soundwave's clearly undeserved arrogance had stretched his remaining sense of protocol out of shape.

"Your cortex was clearly damaged in blast," Prowl said, and if he'd been connected to his optics, he would have narrowed them to slits. "Your calculations are still out of tune."

"Prowl, would have died—"

"Soundwave, grammar inferior."

They both felt the flinch from that one. As Prowl continued the litany of Soundwave's seemingly endless faults, Soundwave cognitively stumbled back. He had heard the grammar jokes ever since they arrived on earth, but he hadn't expected something so small from Prowl, who could have drawn instead on their history of campaigns against each other.

In fact, the insults now were random, unconnected—"cheap copy cassettes and perverted hack"—as Prowl spun out anything he could think of to rattle Soundwave.

"Prowl, trying to distract me."

"I'm trying to make you aware of your complete and absolute inefficiencies—"

Soundwave, who had been concentrating on uploads to the surnet and listening for their rescuers, put those functions on standby. And now he turned the majority of his focus on Prowl, regarding the other mech's memory and front-end functions.

Prowl was similarly high-end. Normally they would outclass any opponent if the battle was on the field of their own cortex, but against each other, they were at a stalemate. Soundwave held a few more combat functions, Prowl more high-speed calculations, but they had maneuvered around each other for so many millennia that any advantage they had gave them an edge less than the margin of error.

So Soundwave wanted any edge he could get in this brawl. Which included cheap psychological shots.

"This is not a fight," Prowl snarled, hearing Soundwave's thought through their crossed wires. "This is a list of your errors, alphabetized in chronological order."

Soundwave updated his call for help.

Autobot Forum :: Slice of Life :: Soundwave :: Prowl :: "S.O.S."

Authored by :: MaskedMech

Part 33

Request for aid. Prowl, alive. Soundwave, alive. Two hours, twenty-six minutes.

Author's Note: Prowl delirious.

"I am not delirious!" Prowl said.

Soundwave mentally smirked. "Prowl, not the one updating."

"Only because I never started writing glitchy pornography in the first place!"

"Jazz, calls it id fic."

Silence.

"You. Leave. Jazz. Out of this."

Soundwave began to understand.

"Jazz...at center of this."

Beneath Prowl's anger, beneath his indignation at being spliced into another mech against his will, came the frustration of his surface thoughts being laid bare to Soundwave. He strained to lay a firewall that would push Soundwave out, but the simple fact of being hardwired to him made that almost impossible.

That Soundwave mentally scooted back to allow Prowl room for a firewall was just that much more galling.

"Jazz...elephant in our cortex."

"Stop that." Prowl longed for coolant. "Stop using the way he speaks."

Soundwave didn't answer. He felt the depth of Prowl's irritation and found that it wasn't entirely one-sided. Their emotions, like their components, were flowing in and out of each other and causing echoes in the other's cortex. Grudgingly, he set up his firewall to draw a line in their cognitive sand as to where his emotions started and the other's ended.

To his surprise, he found that the anxiety wasn't just coming from Prowl. Crossing cables was, for Soundwave, something done rarely. Too many mechs would have used it as a weapon against him. Not many mechs would have wanted to share cords with the best Decepticon blackmailer. And he would never have done this with someone of the enemy...opposing...other...Autobot...faction.

Soundwave winced. That glitch had made the thought slower than sludge to push through.

With their cortexes so intimately linked, their firewalls could only distinguish themselves from each other, not shield themselves from the other's thoughts. Prowl felt Soundwave's stumble.

"So that's what your glitching feels like."

The simple comment bit into Soundwave worse than the insults.

"Natural effect of changing factions," Soundwave snapped. "If Prowl changed faction, Prowl would sound as bad."

Soundwave wished he still had his faceplate and that he could somehow shield himself here in his cortex. And Prowl was staring at him as if he might study a bug—even without optics, Prowl's disdain was obvious.

"'Changed faction'?" Prowl echoed.

Soundwave paused, but there was no explanation. "Prowl, unclear. Clarify."

"You said you were changing factions," Prowl said. "That's the first time you haven't said you were simply defecting from the Decepticons."

Silence. Or at least as much silence as Soundwave could muster with his embarrassment swamping him.

"Jazz, made convincing arguments."

"Oh?" Prowl asked. "What was his reasoning that won you over?"

Soundwave grimaced. "Soundwave's choice clearly made, if not verbalized. Reasoning unnecessary."

"We are still in the interrogation chamber," Prowl said. "Continue."

"Our vital signs, at negative output. No vibrations or tremors from rescue effort apparent. Survival for necessary timeframe unlikely. Thus, questioning of no use."

"I have never known the Autobots to fail in a rescue mission," Prowl said. "Continue."

"Soundwave, chances of survival of attack at negative output. Questioning should discontinue as it will not matter."

"If you're going to die, then why did you patch me into your systems?" Prowl scoffed.

Soundwave did not reply.

"You must have known this would happen."

"...chance of questioning, over ninety percent, yes."

Prowl narrowed his optics. "Then why did you even try to save us both? You could have let me bleed out. No one would have blamed you."

Soundwave didn't reply.

"The few who would have known about this chance would have thought you wouldn't know. You could have risked your reduced chances of survival against my certain death."

Soundwave didn't reply.

"No one would have ever known."

"...Jazz would have known."

Prowl frowned. "How?"

Soundwave didn't have to reply this time. His desire for Jazz welled up, washing over both of them, mirrored in Prowl's own jealous reaction. If Soundwave crossed cables with Jazz, the spec ops bot with dozens of download tools and malicious programs could have searched Soundwave's memory files just to satisfy his own curiosity.

But what actually surprised Prowl was the image of Jazz looking at Prowl's greyed out shell and empty spark chamber. Prowl had not imagined that. It was presented to him, unwillingly, from a reluctant Soundwave.

"Jazz, would have been sad."

Prowl looked at himself a little longer—it was a strange thing to see his corpse—and then studied how Soundwave thought Jazz would grieve. Quiet. Cold. Locking down every emotion for the sake of continuing the mission. The only hint at the depth of his feeling was in the slight trembling of his hands touching Prowl's frame.

"Your scenario is woefully miscalculated," Prowl said. "Jazz cannot stand to even talk to me. 57% chance Jazz mourns briefly and moves on."

His bitter resignation and even worse jealousy, stuck confessing this to the very mech that Jazz would likely move on with, were suddenly drowned out. Prowl startled back, rocked by the intense wave of incredulity that issued forth from Soundwave, who stared at him in shock.

When there was nothing but continuing shock for several nanoclicks, Prowl fidgeted and glared.

"What?"

Soundwave stared back.

"Prowl, idiot."

Chapter Text

"I am not an idiot—"

"Prowl...colossal idiot."

Soundwave sounded so lost and bewildered by his sudden declaration that Prowl thought the other mech might glitch.

"Soundwave, sometimes lost to Prowl. Therefore...is Soundwave truly...inferior?"

"Do not indulge in an existential meltdown," Prowl ordered. "You are not allowed to have a crisis of self-worth while I am attached to you."

"But Prowl is an—"

"Yes, idiot, we've established that," Prowl said quickly. "Why? Why are you saying this?"

"Prowl...thinks Jazz indifferent to Prowl."

Pause.

Prowl thought to speak.

Hesitated.

Thought again.

"I have no evidence to the contrary," Prowl said slowly, as if testing that line of thought.

"Prowl, no right to call Soundwave 'out of tune' ever again."

Prowl pressed his mouth to a flat line. "Any romantic feelings Jazz has for me are at 57% and falling."

Soundwave glared back. "Your proofs?"

"Are not for your voyeuristic perversions!" Prowl said, emotionally recoiling from divulging that information. "It's private."

Soundwave froze.

"Proofs...tactile enough to elicit this response? Jazz Mourning Scenario requires recalculation."

"No, I—"

Prowl felt a rush of heat from letting that much slip. Now Soundwave knew that he and Jazz had been somewhat romantic. If they survived, Jazz would find out and refuse to talk to Prowl ever again.

Soundwave took his silence for confirmation.

"Prowl...very fortunate."

Prowl had no idea how to respond to that.

Jazz sat in his office, surrounded by a dozen datapads all stuck to his wall. His optics burned behind his visor—the tiny gears spun and spun to tightly focus on the swiftly passing rows of numbers and stations.

He didn't have Prowl's cortex for database mining, for sorting through categories and cells and columns and rows. Prowl would have dug up the traitor within an hour of rooting around the databases full of the minutiae of duty rosters and camera feeds.

Jazz, however, could have read spreadsheets for days and come up with nothing. Instead, he had simply set up the datapads for a quick visual feed, and he already had a helm-ache in his cranial servos that he knew wouldn't stop firing until he could recharge.

And he probably would have solved the mystery a little faster if he hadn't been distracted by a ping every minute. Or every few seconds, now.

Autobot Forum :: Slice of Life :: Soundwave :: Prowl :: "S.O.S."
Authored by :: Mech-Superior
Part 69
Request for aid. Prowl, alive. Soundwave, alive. One hour, ten minutes.
Author's Note: Internal chronos no longer reliable. Update speed only best approximate.

Jazz checked his internal clock. Soundwave was off by five minutes. If Prowl wasn't correcting him, then they were both counting too fast, even if they would never admit it. Even calculators could be scared.

Jazz wasn't a calculator. It would have been impossible to use Prowl's methods to find the Decepticon in their midst—so he didn't try.

In all the datapads he'd set up, he wasn't looking for the bot with enough time to engineer a drone. And he didn't try to use the camera feeds that Red Alert had provided access to.

Someone had tried to assassinate Soundwave and Prowl. At the same time. This wasn't a simple traitor. This was someone who hated one of them enough to kill the other. A Decepticon might think Soundwave's defection was a ruse, or that Soundwave could recognize another Decepticon spy. That conjecture would lead Jazz down a terrible rabbit hole of paranoia and suspicion and what if's, and he didn't have time for that.

So he cheated.

The drone had walked through the base without being detected, right? He knew how to do that. A clearance activator that could fool the twins and lower level security checkpoints meant peeling it from someone's armor. He'd done that dozens of times while hiding in Decepticon bases, slicing the activator from a dead mech's arm or chestplate and carrying it with him. A good device meant he could practically walk around like one of the 'cons—as the humans put it, he simply borrowed someone's work identification card and no one knew the difference. If the Decepticon high command ordered everyone to ping their position, he clicked the activator and he answered back as whatever mech he'd stolen it from. It took a very keen optic and audio to catch the difference. A drone with a clearance activator seemed just like a bot to anyone who wasn't looking right.

So now he simply called for everyone on base to ping their position and then compared that to their roster.

All Autobots pinged back...but one pinged a full moment later, and manually, too. The difference was subtle, pressing a button instead of ticking a cortex servo, and Jazz recognized it. He'd bet good credits that someone hadn't expected the roster check so soon, so they'd had to dig out a spare activator.

He was on his pedes and moving before he even confirmed the signal—down in the supply depot, amidst the shelves and mess of thousands of years of engines and armor pieces and old rifles. It was where he'd caught Bumblebee and Mirage what felt like eons ago, and he felt his spark clench knowing that he'd been the one to create a blind spot in that depot in the first place. It was a great place to hide illicit Deception gear and spiked energon. And now someone else had found it, too.

The corridor down to the depot was a long, straight shot. By the time he reached it, Mirage and Smokescreen came around the corners and flanked him, matching his pace just a step behind. Half a moment later, Bumblebee and Hound caught up and fell into step.

Should we really be bunching up like this? Bumblebee asked.

S'awright, Jazz said.

We make quite the convenient target, Mirage suggested. Especially if our spy finds the good stuff we hid in the shelves.

Trust me, Jazz said, bringing them up to the door. It's amateur hour in there. Time to show 'em what it's like when you play pro-league.

Most mechs, when about to burst in on their enemy, would kick down the door and yell something intimidating. If they needed to take prisoners, they would make threats over the barrels of their rifles. If it was a fight for their lives, it was battle cries and shots fired.

Both ways, Jazz considered stupid. Why go in through the door that the enemy knew about? That just meant concentrating their firepower on one place—he might as well paint targets on his hood. Dropping in from the ceiling meant he could land on his target...but that would take longer than he cared to right now.

So he kicked in the door.

Hard.

Jazz rarely liked to show off the power he could generate. He was much more proud of his flexibility and stealth. Any mech could crush cans, but it took real genius to walk over those cans without crushing a single one. And harder still to stealth through metal hallways when he was made of steel that weighed several tons. But sometimes, during a real emergency, he could make a whole lot of noise.

The door came off its hinges, sheared clean from three inch thick steel, and flew through the room. There was a startled squawk, a single shot, and then the door was lying on whoever it had knocked flat. Her helm and her arm were visible and clear of the door, and with a snarl, she aimed at his visor.

His first shot blasted the gun from her grasp. His second shot melted her hand. The third shot destroyed the elbow mechanism in her arm, and the fourth took her shoulder. The fifth shot struck the floor in front of her face, sending up sparks and shrapnel that disrupted her optics and sent them into shutdown, blinding her. And the sixth shot across her helm, grazing her positronic core, sent her consciousness fleeing from the pain and fear down into her spark, hiding in her chamber. The entire action had taken less than four seconds.

While his mechs flooded the room and flanked either side, Jazz stood still and watched. Bumblebee and Smokescreen checked the entire perimeter, ensuring that the doors were locked, that they were alone, and that there were no traps set. Mirage planted one heavy pede on the door and leaned his weight on it, keeping their spy trapped, with the end of his rifle planted right at the base of her neck cables.

Jazz didn't recognize her, but he snapped a quick image file and sent it to Optimus and Ironhide, who both identified her immediately. Flipside.

"Well, don't I feel useless," Jazz muttered to himself. "Wasn't even on my damn radar for a turncoat."

They already had her in a stasis lock and restraints. He left her to his mechs and turned his attention to the multiple datapads she'd spread out on the shelves around her. Each one was in the midst of uploading and sending files to an unknown destination. He manually them shut down, thanking Primus that she'd made the mistake of wrapping up all of her information in huge bundles instead of small packets. Not surprising—even his own Bumblebee had made a similar error when trying to upload a deletion tool to his own datapad. The lag and transfer time meant the Decepticons probably hadn't received much if anything. The datapads would have to be scanned, but Prowl would have that done in—

He winced.

Anyway. He came to the last datapad, which did not have a file uploading. Instead there was a single communique, in all caps and multiple fancy font characters.

RE: AUTOBOT FICTION

DECEPTICON PURITY WILL BE MAINTAINED.

DESTROY SOUNDWAVE, TOP PRIORITY. AUTOBOT INFORMATION, SECONDARY. ALL OTHER MISSIONS SECONDARY. KILL SOUNDWAVE AND ANY AUTOBOTS WITH HIM.

(¯`·.⋆★⋆.·[ ÜMÜ ]·.⋆★⋆.·´¯)

Jazz stared at the screen for several seconds. And felt his spark fall as Bumblebee peeked up over his hands at the datapad.

"UMU?" Bumblebee read. "But that's not a designation. That's like a surnet handle."

Jazz shut his optics.

"Surnet. As in...another pervy writer?"

Bumblebee nodded once. "You don't see that sparkly stuff much anymore—the fancy characters around the name. Must be an old writer."

Jazz's hand tightened on the datapad until he heard it start to crack. He pushed it against Bumblebee before he accidentally crushed it. Leaning on his mech, he ignored Bumblebee's startled squawk as the smaller bot took some of his weight. Instead, Jazz turned his attention to his mech standing on Flipside.

"Mirage?"

"Yes, boss?"

"Is she doing anything to warrant shooting her?"

"Um..." Mirage reset his optics and looked down at their prisoner, completely restrained and completely off-line. "No. Not at the moment."

"...dammit."

Jazz cursed a string of obscenities in his cortex. Damn the porn. Damn the pervs. Damn the war. Damn everyone around him getting off on war porn. Damn Prowl for being so damn stupid as to steal a kiss and so damn loyal that he waited for forgiveness. Damn Soundwave for being dumb enough to join the Decepticons and being so damn shiny.

"Sir—?"

"Bag her, tag her, drag her to Ironhide." Jazz sighed, infinitely weary, and turned on his pede. "Standard operating procedure. 'Least some of us should follow protocols sometimes."

"I...yessir." Mirage glanced at Hound, who shrugged, and then to Bumblebee, who likewise shook his head in bewilderment. "Where will you be?"

Jazz paused at the door, considering the question.

"Red's handling the base. Optimus is on security and Ironhide's managing the troops. Guess I got the time to follow Flipside's trail, see what I can find. See if there's any other spies I ain't noticed yet."

The self-recrimination in his voice made them all wince. They were Spec Ops and liked to style themselves as the best of the Autobot elite forces—other units did the same, but for mechs who frequently worked behind the lines and came back fractured, the morale boost was vital. And they held complete faith in their team leader. To hear him doubt himself...

Smokescreen cleared his intake. "Jazz, sir? We stopped her. And...yeah, Prowl and Soundwave are hurt, but they're still transmitting."

Jazz glanced over his shoulder at him, one optic ridge raised. The question in his look was obvious. So?

"So," Smokescreen continued. "This ain't...this ain't as bad as it could be."

Praxus. The dead city. His slaughtered city. It hung in the air between them, unspoken, and Jazz let the gallows reassurance steady him. If that was what they had to measure themselves against, the eradication of an entire populace of mechs—

Jazz heaved a long vent.

"I guess." He shrugged. "I'ma be at the blast site. One more pair of hands."

Another update came up on the surnet.

Autobot Forum :: Slice of Life :: Soundwave :: Prowl :: "S.O.S."
Authored by :: MaskedMech
Part 109
Request for aid. Prowl, alive. Soundwave, alive. Thirty-three minutes remain.
Author's Note: Internal chronos no longer reliable. Update speed only best approximate.

Jazz turned before they could see his flinch. There were already dozens of mechs working on clearing the debris from the blast. What good would he really be? He didn't think he could focus on finding Flipside's cybernetic trail through the Ark's surnet, though he could at least try. But his pedes refused to take him to his office, and while he tried to devote at least a few megabites of processing power to the problem, he instead found his mind turning in on itself in brutal waking nightmares.

Prowl and Soundwave, crushed beyond saving.

Prowl and Soundwave, slowly bleeding out in the dark.

Prowl and Soundwave, unable to block out the pain as their frames sparked and short-circuited and crashed over and over again.

Prowl and Soundwave, completely cut off from the Ark, dying with only each other for company—

Jazz ducked into a small storage closet, closed the door, and keened.

His engines hiccoughed, stuttered and revved unevenly. Coolant flushed through his system as steam wafted from his overheated processors, and condensation gathered on his faceplate and hands, dripping on the floor. His optics sparked, and he reset them several times, leaning on the wall as his internal gyros tilted without the visual data.

Two more of Soundwave's forum updates passed.

Jazz found a pile of cleaning rags in a bucket, and he dried off his faceplate. The visor would hide the red rings around his optics from the sensors burning—his self-repair functions would see to that soon enough anyway. And his gyros and coolant and engines were beginning to stabilize.

Jazz had seen plenty of friends killed. This was no time to fall to pieces. He came out into the hallways again as if nothing had happened, the only sign of his distress the faint hiss of a last drop of coolant sliding down his throat cabling.

Prowl and Soundwave would survive. Or they would not. This was war, after all. War meant casualties.

And Jazz meant to make his own casualties.

Twenty-seven minutes.

Maybe.

The passage of time was impossible to tell. Soundwave's internal chronos had failed, and he could not count the seconds by the consumption of fuel. The neon pink energon swirled in slow circles that flowed at an impossible speed through their spliced cords. He assumed that he had begun to hallucinate.

Prowl was no help. The other mech had gone quiet, refusing to speak. Soundwave might have thought that Prowl had died except for the faint hum of the other mech's processors working in the background, conserving energon at their lowest output.

Another update passed. Soundwave began to think that they really were not going to survive. He couldn't hear any rescue efforts around them. The debris was simply too deep to dig down. Not in time to save them.

He heaved a vent. What would it have been like to have Jazz here instead? Jazz would have known how to survive. Jazz would have escaped the worst of the explosion, dug his own way out, and been in the mess hall before shift change. Or he would have killed the assassin with one shot before the fight even started, and there would never have been an explosion at all.

And he would have had a witty little quip after pulling the trigger.

Twenty minutes.

Maybe.

Soundwave opened a new file.

Autobot Forum :: Slice of Life :: Jazz
Authored by :: MaskedMech
Part 1
Jazz felled the assassin with a single shot. Thereeee was no sound no sound no sound, only a long silennnnnnce as the body fell###ll.

"Stop it," Prowl said. "You're glitching."

Soundwave huffed. "Prowl, silent all this time. Should continue excellent work."

"I might die," Prowl snarled, "but at least I will do so without having to listen to you write perverse stories while I am connected to you."

"Not perverse," Soundwave said. "Accurate. Account of Jazz in battle."

"You've never seen him fight," Prowl said.

"Have seen records," Soundwave said. "Witness accounts. Faced him, albeit in brief skirmishes."

"At the tail end," Prowl said. "While he was blowing up your bases."

"More than Prowl has seen," Soundwave muttered.

Prowl wondered if their anger would spend their energon more quickly and found that he didn't care.

"I've seen more than you've seen."

His implicit meaning stung Soundwave to the core. That it was a betrayal of Jazz's trust rebounded and stung Prowl in return. And that hurt was obvious to Soundwave as well.

Eighteen minutes.

"Jazz...loves Prowl?"

The emotions flowing back and forth could only be sorted vaguely as Prowl's, vaguely as Soundwave's. There was hurt—did Jazz still love Prowl? Could Jazz love his former enemy? There was hope—Jazz had loved Prowl, had fallen for Soundwave. Envy—Jazz had called Soundwave 'shiny,' had happily crossed cables with Prowl. Connected as they were, it was increasingly difficult to tell where emotions began and stopped. Understanding meant studying the emotion, determining its source. And that meant understanding both of their hurts together.

Ten minutes.

"This conjecture is meaningless," Prowl said. "We will be dead soon."

"Conjecture, meaningless," Soundwave agreed. "Jazz, would not want both of us simultaneously."

Prowl rolled his optics, even if just mentally. "You're insane to think he'd want you."

"Clarify: Jazz finds all mechs he interrogates 'shiny'?"

"You are not shiny!"

Soundwave paused with the feeling that he had missed something. The feelings swirled around too quickly to grasp, but he would be damned if he didn't exploit the single greatest advantage he'd ever been given. Prowl was literally wired to Soundwave's own cortex.

"Prowl...does not find Soundwave shiny?"

Prowl, for his part, would not give in so easily. He shot back before thinking.

"No more than you would find me 'shiny'." And he dragged out the word as if it was disgusting.

"Prowl..."

Soundwave let the name hang between them, the thought at the edge of being spoken. They were about to die, after all. What did it matter? What did embarrassment matter?

"Prowl, not shiny," Soundwave confessed. "Earth police vehicle, not becoming to Praxian type. Blue clashes with red accents."

Prowl scoffed.

"But..." Soundwave continued. "Prowl eminently logical. Capable. Fought Soundwave to standstill and to victory, multiple times. Prowl...superior to most mechs."

Prowl paused for several seconds.

Seven minutes left.

"I don't need your compliments," Prowl muttered.

Six minutes.

Soundwave added several sentences to his last Jazz fic. They were badly mangled and glitched, so much so that Prowl was certain that Soundwave could no longer understand written language.

Five.

"And you don't need mine," Prowl said, more to himself than to Soundwave. "Jazz...thinks you're shiny."

Four.

"And he thinks you can discuss culture with him more than I can."

Three.

Prowl was certain he was going to die, for all intents and purposes, alone. Nevermind that he was stuck with Soundwave—the other mech was clearly lost in cortex-corruption and his own glitching. Prowl tried to access his chronos and found every single system shut down. It was impossible to tell how much time they really had left. Probably only a few seconds.

"Prowl, Soundwave, both superior. Jazz...our last battlefield."

Prowl winced at what would apparently be Soundwave's last words, and that their last fight would end in a draw.

Two.

One.

…

…

…

…

Prowl began to be very confused.

Had Soundwave's estimation been wrong by a few minutes? Prowl waited. And waited longer.

"—owl—"

He would have sat up if he could. He'd heard that! Not in his cortex but actually heard it!

"Pro—hea—?"

There was a strange itch at the top of his cortex. He tried to look up and felt a terrific rush in one direction, as if his frame were rising. Then the strange ether of consciousness he'd been in turned into the blur of digital numbers and flashing code, the scratch of dead pixels slowly repairing themselves until the world came into resolution.

He was on his back. He stared up at the words hovering in front of his screen.

A healthy frame is a healthy cortex.

Remember: in the washracks, it's half a breem with the sealant cream.

This was not what he expected the Well of All-Sparks to be like.

His wandering optics reset at seeing Ratchet's snarling face, warning his patients that medicine could be taken orally or through their sluice shoot.

The medbay. He was in Ratchet's medbay. These were the posters in the medbay.

"—okay, that should do it. 'Aide, how're the audios coming?"

"Should be online now, sir."

"Awright, good. Start on the energon cable I tagged green—s'best place to start untangling this mess."

Ratchet's face appeared over Prowl, in front of the posters taped on the ceiling of each medical berth, and Ratchet vented in happy surprise to see Prowl already looking around.

"Damn, if that ain't a sight for sore optics." Ratchet reached over Prowl for a rag and wiped energon and oil off his completely drenched hands. "Really thought you were a goner for a minute or two there.

"Fixing you up's gonna take awhile, what with the mess Soundwave made." Ratchet waved his hand to one side where Prowl assumed the other mech lay. "As hatchet a job I've ever seen, but gotta give that oversized boombox his credit. He kept you two alive long enough for us to get there."

Ratchet said other things—they'd actually been saved ten minutes ago but hadn't been in any state to realize it, that they were being pumped full of energon, that they'd have to rebuild his hood and half his face plate, that it'd be days of dedicated reconstruction—but the only thing that Prowl could take in was the screen above his head, the one that had several lines of code for all to see, plus a blinking cursor at the end.

Prowl, Soundwave, both superior. Jazz...our last battlefield.

Memory files. Ratchet had wired Prowl into the berth to access his cortex, and the memory files were along for the ride.

"And Jazz'll be here any minute," Ratchet said finally.

Prowl, unable to speak until his vocal chords were repaired and reinstalled, unable to move until his frame was brought back online, found that he'd exchanged the Well of All-Sparks for the most humiliating level of hell.

Chapter Text

Jazz's spark clenched in ways he hadn't thought possible until that moment. Ratchet had warned him that his patients were both badly injured—"stabilized doesn't mean they ain't broken"—and Jazz had seen exploded frames and twisted steel before. But to see it on the two mechs he'd come to care about brought him to a halt at the medbay door.

Anything of Prowl's that could have shattered was now in a thousand pieces. His various tanks had broken, his gaskets were blown, his seals torn—if Prowl had been able to move, his joints would have screeched without lubrication or cushioning. His faceplate had caught some of the blast, cracking and crumbling away, leaving the gleaming dark protoform beneath. Ratchet had already removed the crumpled hood, revealing the delicate sensors, soft cords and all too fragile wiring below.

That Prowl was still alive was some comfort, but seeing the lines of code on the screen above him, the bits and pieces of Prowl's soul gently taken through the boot-up process step by step, emphasized how the attack had struck at his cortex as well.

"He started to crash just as we got him online," Ratchet explained, his hands covered in Prowl's energon as he clamped another fuel cable. "So I've locked him into a basic reboot system that'll bring him up by the book.

Jazz winced, turning from Prowl, but that only took his attention to Soundwave, who was in just as pitiful a state. His cassette casing had been utterly savaged, its steel frame compressed inwards until it had cracked his spark chamber. Numerous clamps and sealants now lined the chamber, holding his spark safely in place, but that the blast had cut through so much armor made even a warbuild seem that much more fragile.

Jazz. Ironhide's voice came through his intercom. Command meeting. We're waiting on you.

Ironhide, thanks for the update. Keep me in the loop of whatev' ya'll decide, hear?

Sorry, scrapheap. This involves intelligence, too.

Can't suss out why you'd want me there, then. My brain's in three cube's of stress, feels like. Ain't no good for thinking no how.

Jazz. Ironhide's tone gained an edge. Don't argue with me. Get yer aft down here 'fore I drag you again.

Jazz sat down heavily on the third unused berth, never looking away from Prowl or Soundwave.

They're gonna be fine, Ironhide said, knowing exactly where Jazz was without asking. But ain't neither of 'em getting up for awhile and you know Ratchet'll take care of 'em.

Jazz vented heavily.

You say it absolutely needs intelligence?

You know that I wouldn't lie about something like that.

Fine, Jazz sighed, and he opened up another channel while Ironhide was listening. Mirage, you there?

-and I don't- Mirage shut down whatever conversation he's been having. Ah, yessir?

Command cadre meeting in 5. Congrats, you been promoted to acting second of spec ops.

Ironhide snorted. Jazz, you little pile of slag-

Uh, sir-

Jazz heard the hesitation in his bot's voice and decided he didn't have the energy to spend reassuring him yet one more time. Just like he didn't have the energy to convince Ironhide this wasn't just him ditching a meeting. So he'd make Mirage prove himself to Ironhide.

Mirage, pop quiz—what's the amount of C4 explosive we got in reserve?

25 tons, but I don't see how-

Actual reserve, Jazz prompted.

Mirage hesitated. Their commander was still on the line.

It's alright, Ironhide reassured him. Yer boss is proving a point. I'll forget whatever you say for the next 30 seconds.

125 tons of decepticon grade c4, Mirage said, with 10 more of last ditch suicide mission stuff.

And single use force download kits? Jazz asked.

Twelve, Mirage said. Two that need Prime's signature to unlock, the rest unofficial.

And backup energon?

At that, Ironhide choked but didn't complain.

Siphoned energon at five tons, but that last ton is of such low quality I wouldn't use it except for anyone who used the last c4 long enough for Ratchet to yell at them.

Jazz half chuckled despite himself.

That good enough, you pile of rust? he asked.

Yeah, yeah, Ironhide grumbled. I'll let Prime know, get the orders sorted. Welcome to brass, Mirage. Don't let it go to your helm.

I...thank you, sir. I...

Ironhide vented. You hear that, Jazz? S'what it should sound like when you get promoted. Gratitude.

Poor bot's just naive, Jazz said. Mirage, yer late. Get to the command office and use my usual seat.

Yessir!

As Jazz closed Mirage's channel, Ironhide cleared his intakes with a discreet cough.

I don't blame you for staying there, scraplet, but your calculators are gonna be fine. Ratchet's patched you up with worse.

I know. Jazz leaned hard on his knees, watching Ratchet begin soldering the permanent patch for Soundwave's spark chamber. And Prowl's limbs twitched now and then as his systems came online, beginning to accept the empty replacement tanks into his circuits.

Just...

Make sure you get some rest, Ironhide said, copying the comment to Ratchet. You been put through a whole different kinda rollercoaster, and your naive little aristocrat'll be so happy we all trust him that he'll promise the stars and moon to make us happy.

Jazz smiled. Nah, he's knows what we can and can't do. Just try to keep him from bowing and embarrassing himself.

No worries, Ironhide said. We'll go easy on him. But hey, while you're out, put someone on this UMU character, huh?

Already got 'Bee and Hound on it. I'll have em call ya. Jazz out.

There was a last ping, a kind of digital comfort from a sergeant to cadet, and then Ironhide signed off.

"As much as you need the rest," Ratchet said, "I need another pair of hands. Come hold this clamp and suction."

For the rest of the evening, Jazz played assistant to Ratchet, performing the alien work of putting mechs back together.

The second attack came at sunset. As the last sliver of gold hovered at the horizon, jet engines screamed over the mountains and left trails in the sky. Alarms rang through the Ark, and the few Autobot fliers scrambled to meet the Decepticons as far out in the sands as possible.

After them, the frontliners poured from the Ark, the twins already charging with guns blazing tracer rounds in the creeping darkness. The actual fighting had to go to night vision, but even that was used sparingly. Too often would bots put on a surge of power to flash their highbeams and blind anyone not expecting it.

The desert became a hotbed of bright flares in the dark, shouting and cries of pain and anger. Jets fell out of formation as the battleplan went to hell, and Fireflight had to drop down as two Decepticons separated him from then rest of the aerialbots, forcing him toward the ground.

The little silver and red jet surprised them both by transforming in midair, turning to face them and firing as he fell. Thundercracker banked hard, narrowly dodging the shots that took Acidstorm in the wing. Sparking, Acidstorm dropped nearly on top of Fireflight, both of them hitting the dune and rolling down the sand out of sight.

Fireflight answered his commander's worried ping that he was all right, rising to his pedes. One heel sparked and his wing strut was bent from the rough landing, but he was in good enough condition to keep aim at Acidstorm. The Decepticon groaned as he sat up, shaking sand out of his helm. One of his wings hung at a painful angle with his wiring torn and exposed, and he leaned back on the sand with a rueful smile.

"Damn if you little sparklings aren't getting dangerous," Acidstorm said, venting out.

"I'm not a sparkling," Fireflight said.

"Course not," Acidstorm said with a laugh. "You're just growling like a cyberkitten trying to be a tiger."

Fireflight tightened his grip on his gun, snarling until he realized that was exactly what Acidstorm meant. His jaw snapping shut only made Acidstorm chuckle.

"Primus, thats cute," Acidstorm said, "even on the wrong end of a rifle."

"So shut up," Fireflight snapped. "Don't you ever stop talking?"

"What can I say? Being executed makes me chatty."

"You're not getting executed," Fireflight said, wincing at the thought. "I'm not one of you murderous Decepticons. I'm taking you prisoner."

"'Murderous'?" Acidstorm raised an eyeridge. "I'm downed. You're the one holding the gun."

"If you think I'm taking my sights off of you-"

"Or is this the new bot kink? Power imbalance?"

Fireflight squawked as if stung.

"I-what-not like that!" Fireflight said. "I wouldn't be caught dead reading that Decepticon-fic-noncon-trash!"

Acidstorm's other eyeridge shot up.

"You've read 'con fics?"

Fireflight's faceplate reddened with the sudden coolant flush to his intakes.

"I-no-I-by accident."

Acidstorm stared at him in disbelief.

"What, your cursor slipped? On...noncon, was it?"

A bomb landed uncomfortably close, rattling their denta as dirt showered over them. Fireflight shook his helm free and steadied his aim, not answering.

"If you're just on the surnet," Acidstorm mused out loud, "don't you have to manually adjust the filter to see the rough stuff-"

"I was just curious!" Fireflight snapped. "It's not like I like that kind of thing—"

Sand sprayed up as a mech landed between them. Fireflight yelped and stumbled back, landing on his aft, and looked up at Silverbolt.

"Learn to answer your comm, will you?" Silverbolt glared at Fireflight. "Get your helm out of the clouds long enough to realize I've been calling you for the past five minutes."

"But I did!" Fireflight tapped his helm audios. "As soon as I landed!"

"I didn't hear a damn thing," Silverbolt said. "Check your transponder and make sure you're on the right frequency. And start marching your prisoner to base. Thundercracker's rallying the armada for another run and I don't want you on the ground for that."

"Sir!" Fireflight snapped a quick salute even as Silverbolt returned to the skies. "I—"

Too late. Silverbolt had already vanished in the clouds. Fireflight tried his transponder again and found it tuned to the right frequency, then glared at Acidstorm.

"Whoa, don't look at me," Acidstorm said, waving one hand and flinching as his wrist sparked. "I don't have jamming capability."

"Then who—"

"Probably White Noise." Acidstorm shrugged. "Bet he holed up somewhere so he can just do a single area of affect, the lazy slag."

"Then..." Fireflight looked up at the sky. "That means I can't get a signal out."

His hands tightened on his rifle as he looked back at Acidstorm, aware of how much larger the warbuild was, how alone he was with a much more armored mech.

"Neither of us can," Acidstorm said. "We're pretty much cut off from the whole battle at this point."

"But the armada—"

"I'll let you in on a secret," Acidstorm said. "Megatron's in a rage over Starscream and Soundwave, and half of this fight is just to get out of the base before Megatron shoots us for not fragging them loyal."

Fireflight reset his optics. "It's...what?"

"Thundercracker's gonna pull some fancy stunts, keep everyone swooping around, and then we'll go home when Megatron's good and satisfied."

The roar of engines came from behind the dunes and launched upward, sending vibrations rumbling through Fireflight's frame. He startled back, tightening his grip on his rifle, but the armada passed them over, heading for the far plateau beyond the ark. Return fire followed the jets as the battlefield began to drift, with tracer rounds every fifth bullet. Someone managed a hit on a jet, who began to spiral downward, while an explosion lit up the desert near the ground. The thought that the Decepticon forces could fire on other mechs merely as a facade struck right at Fireflight's spark.

"That's horrible," Fireflight said. "Those are live rounds—mechs are getting hurt! Your own mechs are taking fire—"

Acidstorm's look soured.

"S'better than taking Megatron's fire. You ever been on the wrong end of that gun? Trust me—everyone out here would rather risk of getting shot through the aft and looking down the sights of a cute little 'bot."

"I'm not cute." Fireflight's reply was sullen, not sure of how to process what he was hearing.

"If you polished your chrome, you couldn't be shinier." Acidstorm started to smile again. "Why'd you think you're in so many stories on the surnet? Hells, half the 'Con forum—"

"'Cons are writing about me?" Fireflight flinched.

"It's hard to cross cables when there's a damn telepath in the ranks," Acidstorm said. "Everyone's so damn desperate for a download, I'm surprised there isn't a story about a plug force-downloading the kitchen sink. You're seriously shocked we'd write about a shiny bot who still hasn't got a notch on his gun?"

Fireflight didn't argue that he'd killed mechs. He hadn't—pulling a trigger on a mech was one thing, but actually firing the round that grayed them out? He just hadn't realized other bots were keeping track of his lack of scoring.

"They didn't—" Fireflight's engines coughed. "The other aerialbots, they didn't let me go on the surnet. They said it was worthless and gross and..."

"And you got curious," Acidstorm said. "Found out how popular you are."

"I never looked myself up," Fireflight snapped. "I just started scrolling, and at first it was just some fun adventure stories, like Turbofoxes Ripped My Finish."

Acidstorm nodded once. "Yeah, that one's a classic."

"But then the next story by them was Ironhide, Defender of Optimus Prime's Innocence, and that sounded fun, and..."

Acidstorm chuckled, recognizing the title.

"Count yourself lucky. At least you didn't read Fireflight in the Morphobot's Tentacles," Acidstorm said. "Same author."

Fireflight grimaced. "Why tenta—no, no, do not answer that."

"It's not his best," Acidstorm said. "Not like Fireflight, Hooked to a Killer Sharkticon, or Fireflight's Soft Cables..."

Fireflight scoffed, rolling his optics.

"Acidstorm, Captive of the Autobot Fireflight."

A moment passed, along with a spray of tracer rounds in the far distance, the strange echoing of a thundercrack miles away.

"Wait..."

Slow realization dawned on Fireflight's faceplate.

"Are you...hitting on me?"

"Yeah, for the past ten minutes," Acidstorm vented, rubbing his optics. "You didn't seem like you were getting it—I swear, if you didn't catch on after that, I was gonna risk getting crude."

Fireflight stared at him silently for so long that Acidstorm looked away.

"I mean, come on," Acidstorm said, "the battle left us ages ago and you were just shooting the breeze...instead of me. Not that I mind, really—"

'I...I can't make love with a Decepticon," Fireflight squawked static, finally regaining his voice. "I don't even know you!"

Acidstorm couldn't reply for several seconds. He almost blurted out that love had nothing to do with it. Then he laughed once, despite himself. Fireflight's optics were round, impossibly wide, and glowed in the growing edge of evening, reflecting off his blushing faceplate in molten tones of gold. Acidstorm faintly remembered what it was like, being that idealistic.

"Yet," Acidstorm said. He adjusted himself on the sand, shrugging at the torn plating of his wing strut. "Never gonna know each other unless we talk."

"We're in the middle of a fight," Fireflight said.

"Fight's over there now." Acidstorm nodded at the far side of the ark, now a series of flashes in the dark. "We're all alone and I ain't going anywhere until these self-repair functions fix this rip enough to fly back to base."

"And why would I let you do that?" Fireflight asked.

"'Cause you Autobots keep saying you're the good guys, and only the meanest mech would shoot me after Hippie-Mech's updated Aerial Displays."

Fireflight stood a little straighter.

"It updated?" He winced. "I mean, um."

"Two parts," Acidstorm said. "Although I haven't been able to catch up with it since part twelve."

"That's like half the whole story!" Fireflight exclaimed. "Right before me and Acidstorm...um...I mean..."

In the brief silence that followed, Acidstorm brought up the last bits he'd saved, unable to hack into the surnet ever since. It was stored in his internal RAM, not merely kept on a datapad, and he recited it out loud.

"Fireflight veered off from his team, following the dark spot of green against the cerulean, sun-soaked sky. He had questions that only the other jet could answer now, and he would take the risk to discover his own truth, matching the other's flight through the clouds. The icy vapor coalescing on his wings did nothing to cool his intent. No matter what the others might think, his wanderlust carried him after the distant Acidstorm, and the other clearly shared the same thought, slowing until they flew side by side, banking this way, rising now, then swooping low. Here, Fireflight began to suspect, was the great unknown question answered—without words, without communication beyond the early morning breeze they shared."

Acidstorm stopped. Fireflight had lowered his rifle just enough that he was no longer aiming at him, now simply holding it slung toward the ground. If the other bot thought he was crazy or delusional, Acidstorm couldn't guess. Only their own personal lights let them see each other in the night, and it was impossible to see Fireflight's faceplate.

"I haven't been able to hack into the Ark's surnet since," Acidstorm said. "And DY only gets slow reposts..."

The quiet stir of a breeze between them brushed the sand from their pedes.

"...I have the rest," Fireflight admitted.

"You do?" Acidstorm said, sitting straight despite the jolt to his wing. "Would you—?"

"I'm not crossing cables with a 'Con," Fireflight said in a low voice. "It's just a story. It's not real."

Acidstorm vented once, letting his helm fall a little. He didn't argue. Nothing was said for several seconds, save for Fireflight pinging the Ark and receiving nothing but white noise. Still alone with a downed prisoner, Fireflight heaved a long vent.

"Why'd you even save it?" Fireflight demanded.

"...wishful thinking," Acidstorm confessed.

Fireflight waited for more, but nothing came. He shifted awkwardly, listening to the wind slowly leveling the dunes.

"Of...?" he prompted.

Acidstorm looked out over the desert, the galaxy that had grown into a bright backdrop for the fading battle. The stars had come out sometime during the sunset battle and they hadn't noticed until now.

"You're the first 'bots born in ages," Acidstorm said. "You didn't grow up with the fall of Kaon, the massacre at Praxus. You didn't see the Functionists' smelters."

"I know about them," Fireflight said. "I've seen vids."

"But you didn't live them," Acidstorm said. "You're...I don't know. You feel different. All you young ones are different, but you...you never shot one of us through the spark. I guess...well. Maybe I don't know why I read it."

"It's just a story," Fireflight said again.

"It's one of your side's stories," Acidstorm said. "Figured whoever Hippie-Mec is, he'd probably know you better."

"He doesn't know you. You're not that Acidstorm. I'm not that Fireflight."

Fireflight's voice was an accusation. Acidstorm tilted his helm in acknowledgment.

"True. Still. I do want to see where it ends."

Fireflight didn't answer, but the response in his optics was clear.

So did he.

In another hour, after the last mechs drove back from the battle to patch up their wounds, Fireflight returned to the ark. He walked in without his prisoner and swallowed Silverbolt's lecture about letting prisoners escape out of sheer clumsiness and that he was lucky he hadn't been taken instead. After a quick inspection from Red Alert's mandatory protocols, ensuring that his cables were uncrossed, his cortex was clean of any viruses and his seals were all intact, Fireflight went down the dozen flights of stairs to the supply depot and requisitioned a new data pad.

He'd lost the old one, he said, during the battle.

Prowl swam in a haze of consciousness and code. He'd suffered crashes before, but never one so drawn out that he'd woken up while crashed. Soundwave's tinkering to keep them alive had also done something to Prowl, rousing his spark when his frame was all but shut down. Now Prowl felt as if he was standing inside of himself, watching parts of his protoform reactivate and mend.

It was a slow process—Ratchet soldered a circuit here, Jazz gathered his wiring here. Prowl shuddered in his soul to have Jazz holding him so intimately, wrist-deep beneath his armor, gently turning his components at Ratchet's instructions. Jazz was careful, hesitant even, revealing delicate servos and supple cords that had never before lain exposed to the air, and yet Prowl felt no fear that he'd be harmed any further.

He was healing, and he studied his repair functions being helped along by Jazz's dark fingers. Easy to replace his tanks, his vents. Harder to mold those bits that were more personal—his ruptured optic, his shattered faceplate. That took welding, careful shaping, and he watched curiously as his face began to form in Ratchet's hand.

No blue this time, he thought.

No blue, got it.

Prowl startled.

What? Who said that?

Ah, sorry 'bout that—it's us, Jazz and me. I set up your audios and optics, but you faded back into a light recharge and I didn't want to drag you out of much needed rest and defragging.

I am not speaking, Prowl said. How are you—?

You're talking, all right. We're watching your code up on the screen. You talking to us is just part of that.

So, tired of blue?

Prowl didn't know how he could tell that this was Jazz speaking now—he didn't think he was processing audio clearly—but he knew it was Jazz. And he hesitated. But only for a moment. He was nothing if not decisive.

I have been told that blue clashes with my red and black detailing. I was not aware of this before.

And Prowl, for all that he didn't care about difficult bot standards of shininess, at least wanted to look as appealing as he could. Soundwave was glitched, but he was also unfairly shiny. It wouldn't do to yield any ground in their last battlefield.

Last battlefield? Jazz asked. What's that?

Soundwave said many things while his cortex grew more and more delusional, Prowl said. He thought we were fighting.

Were you? Jazz asked.

Prowl didn't answer for several seconds. Something inside of him shifted, and his frame cooled considerably as he began to draw in deep, satisfying vents again.

There we go, Ratchet said. Just a little bit more, and I can get the faceplate drilled into place, let it start to take hold. Any changes you want, Prowl?

My previous faceplate style will suffice, Prowl said.

How long before it takes hold? Jazz asked.

'Bout half a day to make sure his protoform accepts it, and another day for me to make sure it's solid. Don't want it popping off when he tries to smile. It'd be years before we realized it didn't take.

Prowl would have grumbled, but Jazz's response cleared away his ill humor.

Just make sure his mouth is malleable, Jazz said. I owe him 'bout a dozen ways from Friday, and I intend to welcome him back to the land of the living the right way.

With new parts grafted into his wounded systems, numerous medical fluids running through his cords to keep the pain at bay, Prowl felt something in his release.

And on the other berth, in his own haze and hearing only half the conversation, Soundwave felt something grow a little colder in his cassette deck, just above a wounded spark.

The Ark was quiet again. The fight had long since passed, but Optimus found himself more restless than he had been all during the long skirmish. Ironhide complained loudly every time the Prime stepped out into danger, exposing himself to Decepticon armaments, but Optimus couldn't find it in his spark to abandon his bots to the fight while he remained safely inside his fortress.

A prime's place was with his bots, no matter what the circumstances. He was not some senate Autobot, content to lord over his followers. He had to fight beside them—even on the strangest battlefield yet.

Ironhide, as his bodyguard, kept a berth in the front room of Prime's quarters. Now in deep recharge, Ironhide lay still, as relaxed as he ever let himself be. Two guards stood at attention outside the main room, with two more in the hall and still two more at the elevator beyond that. Aside from their occasional shuffling, all was quiet. This was as private as Optimus would ever find himself.

Optimus withdrew into his own berth and opened the surnet. Long columns of stories with summaries followed, along with esoteric jargon like master/slave peripheral bonding, tactile cross-cabling, healing spike and spec ops identity porn.

He scrolled. He examined the filters. He checked ships and cross-faction. With a deep vent, double-checking his own morality programming, he expanded every filter and threw himself headlong into the abyss.

Guard My Frame, Ironhide – by Honey-Bot - Bots...bots never change. And in this millennia of fighting, one thing remains intact—Prime's seals. No matter how fierce the fight, how deceptive the Decepticon, Ironhide will keep those secure...no matter his own desires. (written after Ironhide, Defender of Optimus Prime's Innocence—quit saying I plagiarized I got permissoin to do my own version!1!)

Petro-Bunny Orgy – by Perceptive Perspicacity - Beachcomber and Firstaid take a break from the fighting, retreating to a nature sanctum full of Wheeljack's latest mechanical creations. But while the petro-bunnies may appear cute and harmless at first, this sanctum is suddenly filled with the musk of their quivering synth-cotton tails—an alien scent that drives mechs to lust!

Femme Fatale: No Bot Could Tame Her - by Merbot - The war continues among the mermaid aliens as Alana of Tlalakan fights a one-femme guerilla war, destroying Megatron's forces. Many try to capture her, but her spark is already captured by another.

Optimus was not the most technically savvy bot on the base, nor was he built with the biggest cortex or strongest processors. But the matrix of leadership had chosen him for many reasons, one of which was the quality he had in spades above any mech in both armies.

Thousands of fics flew by.

And B-Ball Bot began to work.

High Performance Engines Revving for Love — by Pacifist Punch. He was the toughest Enforcer in the service. *He* was the the brashest member of the underground cultural resistance. Together, they'll blow the lid off the Praxian corruption going all the way up to the senate itself, and if they're not careful...they'll end blowing the lid off their own passions. They are—High Performance Engines Revving for Love. (first fic, please be gentle)

Reviews:

B-Ball-Bot – I'm impressed that this is your first story. The summary drew me in as effectively as an earth movie trailer, and the adventure was quite thrilling, especially the chase scene through the ruins of Bombay. I could feel the wind flying by on those tight turns, and the missiles exploding just behind them rattled in my very spark. As Skywarp flew hot on their heels for a bombing run, I never expected the sudden twist that would lead Smokescreen and Tracks into the long-hidden Cybertronian base. A real surprise, and even foreshadowed now that I think about it. I just about came out of my seat when I reached the last chapter—I hope they escape the ancient traps of the crashed ship safely.

One down.

Thousands to go.

Chapter Text

The autobot Ark, their space ship long crashed into earth, lay aft over helm, sunk deep in the desert where it had first come to rest. The front doors no longer closed properly and everything lay upside down, but that seemed to fit the new world. After a little retrofitting, the display panels and desks and consoles all faced the right way, but the bottom thrusters and landing gear would always face up at the sky.

It provided a clumsy if convenient cover for the snipers on the early shift.

One pede braced on the edge of the Ark, Bluestreak trained his stare to the distant horizon. His optics were no better than any other autobot, but something about his programming took what he had and sharpened it to a fine edge. Contrasts between shadow and burning desert sun, the yellow sand and the pale ochre mesa, didn't blur or waver in mirage. Holding his rifle at rest, he scanned the area assigned to him, alert to the slightest movement.

"—although I don't think that it's all that bad in theory," Bluestreak was saying, "I really feel sick about the cross-faction slag—it's like no one remembers what happened until I walk into the mess hall, and I'm like a walking memorial."

On the other side of the Ark, Smokescreen sat on the edge of ship, quietly listening with his datapad in hand.

"I hear ya."

Smokescreen surveyed his own grid of land, but part of his cortex instead busied itself with running the odds on Soundwave's defection. He would have asked the third and only other Praxian on the ship for his input, but Prowl was more likely to scold and assign him a dozen shifts of mopping medbay for the gambling and another dozen for shirking on duty. Instead he listened to his friend talk a bluestreak, living up to his namesake.

"It's not like I'm complaining," the youngest Praxian said, his voice edging into a whine. "I haven't filed any complaints, have I? And I don't go dropping flames on the ones writing that—don't even get me going on that Deceptively Yours pile of sluicings—but there are mechs leaving death threats and trying to find out who's who and that is a mess I don't have the sanity to spare to deal with."

"Yup."

Smokescreen pulled a pack of cards from his subspace and flipped them through his fingers, idly practicing his dealing from beneath the desk.

"Not like I don't get it," Bluestreak continued. "Some of the 'cons are shiny, I get it. But they're 'cons. I can't count the mechs grayed out anymore, and—and—and the things that they're doing in those stories! Some of it's downright depraved!"

Smokescreen didn't comment on the glitched subject change.

"'Thought you didn't read any of those," Smokescreen chuckled.

"I mean, I've read some things," Bluestreak said. "I like the ones from way before the war, and some of the romance ones with original characters. But some of the bad ones slip through the filters, and First Aid tells me about some of the others. Poor Fireflight and Jazz are in so many, and so's Powerglide although I have no idea why, and I don't know what kind of morphobots everyone else is fighting, but I've never seen one use its tentacles like that."

Smokescreen chuckled a little louder, enough to draw a huff from Bluestreak.

"Don't laugh," Bluestreak grumbled. "It's creepy."

"Ain't laughing at you," Smokescreen said, sending along a mollifying ping of apology. "Just thinking that if morphobots fought like that, everyone would keep one in the berth—"

Bluestreak shuddered. "Not funny. Even MaskedMech used morphobots in some of his stories."

The wind blew across the top of the Ark, bringing bits of sand that stung against their joints. Smokescreen scratched at the sand that caught in the stray flecks of oil at his knees. He would have to spend extra time in the wash racks to get it all out.

"MaskedMech...that was Soundwave's handle, wasn't it?"

Bluestreak didn't answer. He glared out over the desert, his optics compensating for the heat waves distorting the field.

Long minutes passed. The shift changed, and they watched Hound and Beachcomber drive in from the northwest, then verified Air Raid flying out toward the east. Their own shift overlapped so that no sector was left unguarded.

"I don't know why he's still writing with it," Bluestreak finally said.

"Huh?" Smokescreen looked up from his cards for a moment.

Bluestreak hadn't moved, one pede up on the raised edge.

"Soundwave," Bluestreak muttered. "He's still writing under that name. He..."

Bluestreak's voice faded, and Smokescreen didn't push for more. When Bluestreak stopped talking, those were the bad moments. It was also the reason that Spec Ops had never drawn Bluestreak into their unit. He was easily the best marksman on the base and often rode with them when they needed to guarantee a single shot, but...something had broken in the bot when the Decepticons had burned Praxus around him.

There was no doubt that Bluestreak could have handled any mission they took him on, and that he would have excelled as a combat sniper. But the bot talked and moved like a sack of loose circuits, and no one wanted the war to grind him up further. What came back might not have been Bluestreak anymore.

There were more injuries than gunshots and acid burns, and no one liked putting the wounded on the front lines.

"Did you read it?" Bluestreak asked.

"Read what?"

"S.O.S." Bluestreak grimaced. "Counting down to him and Prowl dying."

Smokescreen shrugged. "I think everyone was checking it. Damn 'Cons almost got Prowl. Even command was watching it."

Smokescreen didn't tell Bluestreak about the flinch Jazz gave with every update. Or how Ratchet had prepared his triage by Soundwave's author notes. Or how Inferno had vanished into Red Alert's office, coming out long hours later with tired optics and confessing in a whisper that he'd calmed their security officer from a panic attack more than once.

If Soundwave hadn't maintained that fic, Smokescreen didn't think that command would have pulled through as well as they had.

Bluestreak nodded once.

"Is it true?" he asked. "What they said?"

"Gonna have to narrow that one down," Smokescreen said.

Bluestreak turned away from the sand, glancing at him over his shoulder. "That Soundwave kept Prowl alive. That Soundwave protected him."

Yes, Smokescreen thought. Because he has a stupid crush on Jazz that's gone both ways now. And everyone knows it. Jazz is too stupid about love to hide it, and Soundwave never tried to hide it, and Prowl's doing his best to pretend it's just another variable to calculate.

"Took a bomb for him," Smokescreen said simply.

Bluestreak considered that. It made no sense. A 'Con sacrificing himself for an Autobot. For a Praxian. For Prowl.

"I didn't realize you were reading his updates," Smokescreen said.

"Like you said, everyone was." Bluestreak turned back to the desert and his duty again. "But...I guess that explains some of the comments."

Smokescreen waited, but Bluestreak didn't elaborate. Curious, Smokescreen brought up the fic that Soundwave had written while he kept Prowl alive with his own energon. It wasn't much of a fic, just a repeated cry for help, and Smokescreen hadn't even thought to check the comments.

His optics reset.

There were hundreds. For every update.

Pacifist-Punch: If you can see this, Ratchet says try to slow your chronos to frequency o.1≡ congruence. Old medbot's trick to buy you time.

Hippie-Mech: A con saving a bot. I didn't really think I'd live to see this miracle. Please survive this. We need you both more than ever.

Nothing-But-A-Houndmech: Damn, mechs. Damn.

Oasis: I hope no one questions your defection now.

Lube'nSlide: fuckin defecticon only time i'll stp questioning is to write good job on his tombstone

Honey-Bot: o.o

Perceptive Perspicacity: I will not depress anyone by reciting the odds of survival. I willmerely remind bots that we've pulled through worse than this.

Merbot: :(

Goldbug: You both gotta live, you jus gotta

Cusswords: can we get any verification on what's going on like do we know that the con really tried to save prowl i mean i know i've seen everyone saying that now and that the rumors are that the con did the fighting but i haven't seen the security feeds and the twins haven't said anything except they saw him get up and swing first but that was right before the explosion and there hasn't been anything since

notIronHide: fuck you two making everyone worry this bad, your strongr than this

incognito: please continue to update please continue to update

HotStuff: oh Primus i can't i can't

They all echoed each other's worries and anxieties, often missing updates, responding to each other, updating each other in a way that completely broke with security protocols. And yet there were few details, and the command officers hadn't isolated the story or censored it. It had published, and updated, in a place where even the Decepticons could see it.

He scrolled down to the end and saw why. The fic ended without mention of their rescue, with none of the comments referencing that Soundwave and Prowl had been saved in time. And even if the rest of the Autobots knew that Prowl had survived, only a handful of bots and Spec-Ops knew about Soundwave. The 'cons would think that the pair had died.

He was about to close out the fic when he spotted one last comment left near the end.

Tone: please Primus let them live

Only because he was one of the first bots Jazz had collected for Spec-Ops. Only because he had known Jazz before his promotion as a bot willing to gamble. Only because he had seen Jazz so shattered as they waited for Ratchet to work a miracle.

And only because Jazz had taught him to be utterly, ruthlessly thorough.

He sent a ping to Ironhide with a message to check the last comment on the fic. He didn't have long to wait. Only a few klicks later, the comment vanished, and his comm line crackled on.

Thanks, kid, Ironhide said. Missed it. And let yer boss know he owes us both a drink. I should'a turned that over to Red Alert and watched the fireworks.

You tell him, Smokescreen said. And leave me out of it. I'd rather take on the armada alone than rile up my boss.

The next skirmish flew in on the heels of the last one—a day later, without more than a moment's warning, the Decepticon armada came out of the sun, diving down across the desert so fast that the sonic shockwave took long seconds to blast the sand behind them. Missiles streaked toward the Ark, plumes of smoke readjusting in the eddies of scorching updrafts, aimed unerringly at the snipers perched along the steel edge of the downed ship.

Each missile was shot out of the sky, either by the Ark's defenses or the two snipers. The concussive shock pulsed through the air and sent sand and dust billowing by in thick, obscuring clouds. A moment later, a dozen jets flew in close, banking hard to either side as they began to take fire.

Autobot frontliners poured out of the Ark, marking targets and joining the dogfighting that had become second nature. Within moments, the sky lit up with laser fire.

The Autobot Skydive found the fight running...strangely. He'd managed to isolate Nightflight, a smaller Decepticon jet of white and dark blue, forcing him out of formation and away from the battle. The young Autobot felt a surge of satisfaction that he could maneuver his enemy, but as they put more and more miles behind them, Skydive began to worry that this was an elaborate ambush.

In front of him, Nightflight whipped around in the air, transforming and flying backward with the momentum of his flight. Skydive transformed to match, and they hovered, facing each other.

Long seconds passed. Skydive lifted his arm, ready to launch missiles, but Nightflight didn't move to attack. Skydive hesitated, frustrated with his own sense of fairplay.

"Well?" Skydive demanded, yelling over the wind. "Are we fighting or are you surrendering?"

Nightflight looked over his shoulder—Skydive tightened on his trigger but didn't pull. Then Nightflight tapped at his external access, visibly turning off any communication with Decepticon command.

"You..." Nightflight nervously tapped his fingertips against his palms. "You're Seal-Dive, right?"

Skydive froze. His optics widened impossibly.

"...I...ah...I..."

He couldn't vent. He couldn't move. His whole frame flooded with coolant that stung his armor.

"How—I...how...?

Nightflight grimaced, somehow fidgeting in the air.

"I got it from—I mean, there was a datapad and—Acid Storm had a datapad, I mean—there were some stories from the surnet and we kind of guessed a couple names and..."

"Oh Primus..." Skydive felt his whole frame overheat despite the second round of coolant. Why didn't Nightflight just shoot him down? Skydive wouldn't move—just put a round through his spark and bury him where he landed. "Don't...please don't..."

"No, no, it's not—" Nightflight cut himself off, hands up as if trying to wrangle his idea in the air and put it into words. "Look, I'm CheapRide, okay?"

Skydive couldn't process that at first. A whole third round of coolant emptied his tanks and evaporated in the desert heat before he understood what Nightflight was saying. Too blindsided to think about the fight anymore, he searched the surnet and found a handful of short stories under CheapRide's name.

Jet SubForum :: Pure Overload :: Starscream : Nightflight :: "Bite the Sky" ::
by: CheapRide
Summary: Starscream enforces discipline in midair.

Jet SubForum :: Pure Overload :: Thundercracker : Nightflight :: "Crash" ::
by: CheapRide
Summary: Thundercracker puts his heel down.

Cross-Faction SubForum :: Pure Overload :: Aerialbots : Nightflight :: "Love Dents" ::
by: CheapRide
Summary: The Aerialbots bring down an enemy.

Skydive's jaw clicked shut.

"Oh."

Nightflight's inability to look him in the optic now made sense. As did his interest in anything Seal-Dive had written.

Jet SubForum :: Pure Overload :: Aerialbots : Aerialbots :: "Hanger Danger" ::
by: Seal-Dive
Summary: After the fight, the real aerial acrobatics begin in the hanger.

Cross-Faction SubForum :: Pure Overload :: Aerialbots:Spasma :: "Rehabilitation" ::
by: Seal-Dive
Summary: Trapped on a desert island with no fuel for flight, a lone 'con stands no chance against five elite warriors.

Cross-Faction SubForum :: Pure Overload :: Morphobots:Aerialbots:Nightstick:Whisper:Lambo Twins:Powerglide :: "Front Lines" ::
by: Seal-Dive
Summary: Have glossa, will travel.

And those were the handful Skydive had been confident enough to post, hiding behind one of the more pornographic pseudonyms on the whole surnet.

"So..." Nightflight coughed to clear his intake and glanced sideways at him. "Do you...um...do you really like biting tail fins?"

Skydive swallowed nervously. "Are you serious?"

Nightflight shrugged his shoulder, laughing humorlessly once. "It's hard to find anyone else into it."

Skydive stared at him for a long, long moment.

His missile launcher slowly lowered.

"Yes," he said simply. "It is."

Jazz no longer knew what to do with himself.

Duty, at least, gave him some focus. Jazz, Third in Command of the Autobot faction and head of their Special Operations unit, worked at a blistering pace. He rooted Flipside's datapads and narrowed in on his first Decepticon spy—Sideways, taking energon in the mess hall. Then Triton, buried in bureaucratic work in Prowl's lower offices. And Doubledealer, just leaving the Ark to hand carry a message to forward scouts.

He sent his mechs in pairs to bring them back, listening in as Bumblebee and Mirage, then Bluestreak and Smokescreen brought in the first two. Several minutes later, Hound came in with Sunstreaker dragging an unconscious Doubledealer along the floor, leaving oil with tiny flames at the edges as the spy's frame sparked.

"He gave you trouble?" Jazz asked.

Hound shook his helm. "Not really. He drove into the battle and right into Sunny. I didn't even have to touch him."

Sunstreaker dropped the mech's pedes and took a step back, rotating a stiff shoulder.

"Can I head back out, sir?" Sunstreaker asked. "Fight's going on without me."

"As you were," Jazz said, dismissing him back to the fight. To his own mech, he gave orders to begin interrogations and force downloads via Ratchet.

And then, again, Jazz no longer knew what to do with himself.

He checked in on the battle. It was already winding down, the armada scattering to the four winds with Autobots shooing them off. A handful of jets kept on the 'con's tails, keeping up the chase simply to harry them out of the desert. No casualties again, just a few scorchmarks and prisoners that had slipped away. Barely a skirmish.

Leaning against his desk, he tapped the datapad in front of him, then shoved the pad aside and dragged his fingertips along his helm. He wasn't used to this kind of anxiety—short term fights and explosions, some quiet stealthing through a base and then loud, fiery escapes, that was his familiar territory. But this long, drawn out waiting for Prowl to heal, waiting for Soundwave to fully wake up, and nothing to distract him for very long...

He pulled the datapad close again, bringing up Prowl's file. Then Soundwave's. A warning popped up for both.

MEDICAL DATA: CLASSIFIED. OPTIMAL VIEWING ONLY.

Jazz vented and entered his own password.

MEDICAL DATA: CLASSIFIED. OPTIMAL VIEWING ONLY.

Narrowing his optics, he spent a moment creating a digital backdoor and bypassing Ratchet's security.

A large warning popped up over his datapad's whole screen and a message typed up in front of him.

MEDICAL DATA: CLASSIFIED. ONE MORE TIME AND I TELL RED ALERT.

Jazz stared at the screen, then huffed and shoved it off the desk. Ratchet himself was keeping an optic on his files. And Jazz would risk many things, but not Red Alert's righteous anger.

His communication line came on.

As your physician, Ratchet grumbled, I strongly suggest that you go talk this out before your servos shake you apart.

Melt in slag, Jazz snarled. I ain't talking to him about this.

Because?

Jazz pushed his hands to his faceplate, covering his optics, and he groaned.

I can't talk about this! No one could talk about this!

Ratchet sighed out in exasperation. Jazz—

It's stupid! What am I gonna say? Sorry, Prime, can't keep my helm on straight over two shiny bots. Just promote Mirage over me an' let me go riding into the sunset so I can self-combust in embarrassment.

Jazz—

I ain't even got a chance to talk to Soundwave and ain't that the kicker, that I wanna hear that damn boombox's creepy voice?

I told you, he took the brunt of the blast, he can't—

What the hell is my life anyway? 'No fraternizing' is a rule for a reason! I can't believe Red Alert ain't got my aft in a vise as it is.

Ratchet chuckled. Interrogation isn't usually fraternizing—who knew Soundwave would take death threats as flirting?

But that's just it, mech! Soundwave? Prowl? I stayed the hell away from anything that wanted to pop my seals, and within hours of giving it up, I'm suddenly playing this game on hard mode! It ain't fair!

Yup—that's life, Ratchet agreed.

That's slag is what it is! And I can't keep this up no more! I'm overclocked and burning through Flipside's data—

—caught three spies in an afternoon— Ratchet added, although Jazz ran right over him.

—and I can't distract myself no more—I finished all my forms, doc! That ain't normal! Ain't nothing normal about this! I never finish all the damn paperwork an' I'm about to climb the walls if I don't get a mission right now, I mean right now, but that means I'll be off base when Soundwave comes online...but then Prowl's gonna be hurt and...

Ratchet didn't reply.

I can do a lot of things upside down and backward, Jazz mumbled. But this...this feels upside down and backward already.

Ratchet still didn't reply. And held silent for so long that Jazz began to fidget. He waited another moment, then ventured a call.

...I made you hang up outta sheer irritation, huh?

The low, patient laugh that came back wasn't Ratchet's. Jazz froze, his spark twisting up inside.

No, Optimus said. But he did send me an audio file.

Jazz felt like he would melt through the chair straight to the center of the earth.

Bossbot, I ain't...I mean—

Jazz—

Ain't no thing, really, I'm just venting out loud here, ain't nothing to get the Jazzmeister worked up—

Optimus' voice carried the reassurance that so easily led mechs on the battlefield. The calm, steady tone settled over Jazz, who didn't stop wanting to fall apart but at least felt a little less ridiculous for it.

This is clearly bothering you. Come to my office.

Jazz inwardly quailed. You...you got lots of stuff to do, Prime.

Even if I didn't need my Third in Command thinking straight, I wouldn't leave my friend to deal with this alone. You're used to fighting, but this is one terrain I think you could use some help with.

Jazz still hesitated.

Optimus added, I'll kick Ironhide out.

With a long suffering vent, Jazz came to his pedes and began the long walk.

Diagnostic run 37%.

Temperature set to 54.5 δ scale.

Internal servos clocking quarter pace.

Prowl floated in a semi-conscious haze as his self-repair nudged wires and receivers into place, repaired scorchmarks, defragmented a crashed sector of cortex. The major damage had been fixed—tanks replaced, armor plating refitted and sealed, ventilation core soldered, and his right arm and pede rebuilt—but Ratchet kept Prowl's cortex secure in looped defrag cycles. Prowl stood both within and without himself, watching his frame heal and aware of the medbay around him.

No longer in the main medbay, he had been moved to a side room normally retained for Spec Ops and officers. There was little to see—white walls, medical screens, dim lighting, all designed to ease the strain on his mending optics. Nothing to look at here, except for his roommate.

Apparently everyone believed in Soundwave's goodwill now because the former Decepticon had been set in the berth beside Prowl, unrestrained.

With some effort, Prowl could turn ever so slightly, just enough to glance aside and study Soundwave. Ratchet had not seen fit to repair him with a mask in place, and Soundwave's frame lifted almost imperceptibly with each vent. Something clicked and whirred—Soundwave's repair functions were also working hard.

Prowl narrowed his optics. He could just see one of the dents in Soundwave's arm straightened out. The small dents in his fingers were even more visible, almost rippling as his armor smoothed.

It was Soundwave's original armor, Prowl realized. Soundwave had not only taken the brunt of the blast, but he'd come through with more of himself than Prowl had.

Prowl stared back at the ceiling. He wondered what Jazz was doing. Or what was happening outside. The distant thud of ordinance and the roar of jet engines was muted this deep in the Ark, but the fact that a battle was happening at all made him wish that someone would send him an update, talk to him, anything—

"Query."

Prowl closed his optics tight.

No, Primus. That was not what he meant.

"Prowl, awake?"

"Yes. Prowl awake," he grumbled with a long-suffering vent.

"Prowl, aware of fighting outside?" Soundwave coughed to clear his intake. "Soundwave, not suffering from auditory hallucination?"

"No, there is a battle ongoing directly overhead. And one yesterday. You must have missed it."

Soundwave considered that.

"Ark...secure?"

Prowl glanced at him. Soundwave's optics were online, glowing a deep amber in the dim light, but his fingertips curled to try to hold the berth's flat frame.

"Of course," Prowl said with more confidence than he felt. "You should know that."

"Decacycles have passed since last update on Autobot security," Soundwave said. "Those updates also questionable at best. Therefore...Autobot victory not assured."

"Worried?" Prowl asked.

"...likelihood of Megatron's forces pushing into Autobot base—"

"—at 2.5%," Prowl said. Firmly.

Silence. Another thud of distant bomb.

"...2.7, previous assessment," Soundwave muttered. "Decepticon spies, clearly deficient."

Prowl would have agreed except that the similar estimation raised another question.

"So if there is an overwhelming percentage that their forces will fail, why are they attacking the Ark? That will result in losses for themselves without any chance of victory."

"Many Decepticon casualties?" Soundwave asked.

"...I have not been updated."

Prowl would have found that admission difficult before. Now that they had been in each other's cortex, there was no longer any defensiveness, just a low level of aggravation.

"But," Prowl added, "I do not detect any casualties in the rest of the medical bay, and I believe I have heard two distinct battles so far."

"Logical extrapolation—surface wounds only, light skirmishes."

"And no prisoners," Prowl added. "So...why?"

"Megatron."

"Of course Megatron," Prowl huffed. "Naturally Decepticon high command is the reason for why the Decepticon forces do anything."

"Clarification—fear of Megatron's anger."

Prowl frowned. "Continue."

"Decepticons fear Megatron. Likelihood of Megatron injuring nearby Decepticons, 54%. Without Starscream, 98%."

Prowl's frown deepened. "His own troops?"

A hollow sound of understanding came from Soundwave.

"Prowl confusion, borne from having Optimus as commanding officer. Different leadership style. Optimus altmode, personnel carrier. Conducive to gathering troops while shielding them. Megatron altmode, large firearm. Conducive to firing, not to good aim."

"...when you put it that way, it does make sense." Prowl glanced sidelong at him. "Does he cause many casualties?"

"Yes, but often repairable. Few deaths."

"From a point blank shot?" Prowl asked, lifting his helm slightly. "From Megatron?"

"Decepticons, often possessed of thick armor."

"Ah. Right." Prowl settled back again. "Warbuilds."

The sounds of the battle faded to nothing. There were no more explosions, no more far-away jet turbines roaring overhead. Just the quiet hum of medical equipment, the steady pulse of one of their chronos keeping a constant rhythm. Their vents running slightly out of sequence.

"Prowl...query."

Soundwave's hesitation made Prowl instantly cautious.

"...yes?"

"Autobot definition of warbuild?"

Prowl narrowed his optics. "Is this some kind of existential exercise? What is a mech? I warn you, I have little patience for unquantifiable philosophy."

"Negative. Prowl, Jazz, all autobots often refer to mechs as either civilian or warbuild. Nomenclature often used by Decepticons as well. Soundwave, uncertain if terms mean the same to either faction."

Prowl shifted on his berth. It was a question he had never considered. A warbuild was a warbuild and a civilian was a civilian, and everyone knew what that meant. But it was an honest question, and sincerely asked, and he found himself curious to any differences as well.

"Warbuilds, commonly built by the previous functionalist government for military use," Prowl started. "Often possessed of thick armors, high caliber ammunition, and other destructive armaments."

"Continue."

Prowl's frown deepened. "Warbuilds, also used as slaves in the coliseum as pit-fighters, or in dangerous demolitions and construction work. After rebellion, took the city of Kaon and Helex, which became the source of war atrocities."

Soundwave stiffened but didn't reply.

"Warbuilds, aggressive, combative, eager to use the skills and strength they were programmed for. Warbuilds are—"

Prowl broke off, but the thought lay bare, and it would have been cowardice not to say what was often muttered in the halls of civilians.

"Warbuilds are killers."

For long cycles, they both lay still, processing what had been said. Prowl entered another light defrag loop and came out again, venting with less pain in his singed valves. Prowl expected defensiveness. Scorn. Especially as the silence dragged.

"Term, mostly similar," Soundwave said finally. "If used with less spite."

"You think that way about yourselves?" Prowl asked, surprised.

"Atrocities cannot be ignored, but are put out of mind," Soundwave said. "All other terminology, viewed positively. Warbuilds, strong, capable, dangerous."

All terms that Prowl might have used with Jazz. Prowl shook his helm once. No, he would not give up anything of Jazz to Soundwave's definition. Jazz was purely—

He stopped himself.

"Please define 'civilian' within Decepticon terminology." His politeness was a veneer over his demand.

Soundwave began immediately, already thinking of it.

"Civilian, common builds of thin polymetals. Fragile, lightweight frames. Built by functionalist authorities for data manipulation, minimal exertion. Business and scientific endeavors not needing heavy frames."

Prowl tilted his helm. True enough. "Continue."

"Civilians, weak and helpless in comparison. Easily destroyed, fearful of termination and, as such, spiteful toward warbuilds. Encouraged the separation of civilians and warbuilds in all facets of Cybertronian society."

The pause that followed was a test. Would Prowl respond to that? But Prowl let it go, more interested in hearing the rest of it than rehashing old accusations.

"At onset of war, civilians relied on law enforcement bots and entrenchment of functionalist regimentation for defense. Would not defend themselves until forced to do so. Civilians..."

Soundwave paused again. It was different having to say the thought while next to a civilian in charge of his life or death. But Prowl had been scrupulously honest.

"Civilians...cowards."

Prowl was not surprised by the final supposition. The accusation was logical, and an insult he'd often heard hurled at himself during prisoner interrogations.

"Civilians...were indeed slow to develop armaments for our own self-defense," Prowl said. "Law enforcement personnel suffered heavy casualties at the initial onset of the war. Police forces are poor substitutes for soldiers."

Soundwave's harsher vent said what he thought of that.

"Civilians...were a step removed from destructive processes," Prowl said. "And engaged in creative endeavors. Establishing social routines, building databases and products for consumption, engaging in the meticulous processes of the sciences. Fighting would have...did...destroy all that."

Soundwave processed. It was nothing more than he'd read before, having stayed current with the editorials and propaganda from both sides as the war built up, until sides had become entrenched and such propaganda useless. But the tone was different. Reading Prowl's thoughts was different than listening to them.

"Civilian processes," Soundwave said slowly, "delicate. Civilians, fragile in comparison."

Prowl considered that and found that he agreed. And understood what Soundwave meant by appreciating a term the other found derisive.

"You said before that Jazz has a warbuild nature."

Surprised that Prowl would address the elephant in the room, Soundwave turned his helm to face him. His golden optics lit his faceplate like candles.

"Affirmative."

"Though he may fit your criteria, Jazz is also a civilian," Prowl said. "Fragile."

Soundwave frowned. Then, upon reflection, gave a soft look of understanding. The disastrous first interrogation. His difficulties with car culture. A gross misunderstanding of the Prime's nature. His fumbling attempts through his writing to understand them and adjusting via commentary. Jazz's disgust at his own skillful kills.

"This...does account for many percentage points of discrepancy regarding Jazz."

There was a soft whirr, barely audible in the silence of the darkened room, as he ran the numbers.

"Soundwave...now 2.2% out of tune."

Prowl huffed. "Doubtful."

"Prowl, run calculation," Soundwave all but demanded, his indignation audible.

This time Prowl hesitated, loathe to reveal his weaknesses. But the demand lingered between them for long minutes, and the question didn't fade as Prowl allowed the silence to drag on. If anything, the demand only grew louder.

"I cannot at this time," Prowl finally admitted through gritted denta. "I am in looped defrag cycles. Ratchet has disabled my longer calculation cycles until healed."

Soundwave considered that.

"Prowl's crash, worse than initially thought."

Prowl didn't clarify that this was because he had crashed more than once and that Ratchet was being careful with the delicate nature of his cortex. Which only made Prowl consider that, even with extra armor and firearms, he was still a civilian. Fragile. So wrapped up in his annoyance, he almost missed Soundwave's murmur.

"Prowl's calculations, superior. Will corroborate my own."

Soundwave lay his helm back on the berth, seemingly satisfied by his conclusion. He didn't notice Prowl's wide-opticked stare, the surprise that Soundwave would accept Prowl's calculations as equal to his own with such confidence.

Prowl felt something shudder in his cortex, and he quickly lay still again, compartmentalizing his surprise. He didn't need this awkward turn of events to push him into another crash.

But he lay there considering everything that had happened, everything that Soundwave had said and done since the interrogation. And he found himself thinking from a new position, one no less radical for how slight the change was.

Warbuilds were destructive. Powerful. Civilians were fragile. Delicate.

He considered it, not allowing his normal calculations to interfere. If Jazz had seen his logic tree at that moment, he would have been proud of how un-anchored by math and percentages it was. And of how it began to expand into a new branch of possibilities.

Chapter Text

Optimus' office lay at the long end of the hall. Jazz dragged his pedes the whole way, barely hearing Red Alert's notice that he had clearance into the highest command quarters. Optimus was hard at work typing on his datapad, looking so focused that Jazz felt even worse for wasting his time, but then Optimus waved him in and the door slid shut.

"Have a seat," Optimus said, waving him to the chair by his work station. "Ratchet's really worried about you."

"Mech didn't worry none when missiles take pieces off'a me," Jazz grumbled. "He sure picks weird times to suddenly worry."

"Ratchet can fix an arm." Optimus paused and fixed Jazz with a look. "But he can't fix a wounded spark."

Jazz sunk a little lower in his seat.

"Ain't no wound there, boss bot. Just got wrapped up on the whole situation is all."

"'Wrapped up' as in past tense?" Optimus asked. "Or are you just tense in general?"

Now Jazz bent forward, sinking his helm in his hands, groaning at himself.

"What else can I be? Prowl? What was I thinking—mech thinks he's helping me loosen up and then he goes and triggers my stabby-stabby programs and I nearly cut him half over a damn kiss. And Soundwave—Primus, Prime, he kidnaps me, almost forces me into overload, and yet here I am, wishing he'd wake up."

Optimus sat quietly as Jazz vented.

"This is not the way I was expecting things to go—Jazz, in charge of Spec Ops, Third in charge of the whole shebang, in charge everywhere but the damn berth—and I wanted to slice both of them in half for—for everything, but then they go and get themselves blown up and suddenly they're fraggin' dying and I'm treated to a damn countdown to them graying out—"

By now Jazz was close to keening, rocking slightly in his seat. Optimus wondered if Jazz had even noticed that he was running a double coolant cycle.

"—and Prowl's had the blue taken off his frame and, I mean, he was a fine looking bot before—not the shiniest mech, true, but now the blue's off, he's looking sleek as hell—when the slag did he start caring about his paint? And Soundwave—creepiest voice in both factions, but those optics just drip gold and he's shinier'n the sun—and the kinks on that mech! How'n the hell can anyone be that up front with what makes 'em overload and still face everyone without dying of embarrassment? He's practically wrote a list of what revs his engine on the surnet!"

"Over 300 of them in the Spec Ops series alone," Optimus nodded.

"It's hard mode, Prime, I'm playing on slagging hard mode!"

Jazz sunk back on the chair, his pedes sticking straight out, arm thrown over his optics.

As he gathered his thoughts, Optimus wrote two more comments to fics and sent them along—almost six hundred done. When he had sent off another, to FlightFright's fic Grounded, (where Whisper comforts a wounded Silverbolt), Optimus put aside his datapad and focused solely on Jazz.

"Yes, you are 'playing on the hardest mode'," he said finally. "Prowl is perhaps the most logical bot on the base, and he does not always understand that logic and formulas aren't everything. A challenging mech to romance, even at the best of times."

Jazz made a noncommittal noise.

"And Soundwave has been our enemy for millennia—that you've found common ground is amazing. That you found yourself falling for him and vice versa is nothing short of a miracle."

"Some miracle," Jazz muttered. "He collected Cybertron music and read Lewis Carrol. I was doomed from the start."

"Why?" Prime asked. "What's so striking about that?"

The question had barely left his mouth when Jazz began to recount what, in hindsight, was the most awkward courtship in history—Soundwave's attack, Soundwave bound on a leash, the long conversations in the brig, the sharing of musical tracks and even discussing Earth cartoons and culture. And the longer Jazz spoke, the more relaxed he looked, the more his faceplate softened into an exasperated smile.

"And what about Prowl?" Optimus asked. "I never thought he was your type."

Jazz paused. Tapped his fingertips. Stared at the wall. The ease with which he spoke of Soundwave vanished as he began talking about Prowl. His faceplate turned tight. At first Optimus thought that was a sign of Jazz's difficulty, but—

"It started out as friends," Jazz siad. "It...it was easier to talk to him. He didn't judge or push. He was...safe. And then he offered, and for a whole buncha reasons, I said yes. Worst damn case of sparking nerves you ever seen—I almost tore him apart in the berth. But he didn't go, and I got so angry with him 'cause I trusted him, I was trusting him more'n I ever trusted no one, and he goes and—"

Jazz vented out. Cycled in. Calmed himself.

"I got so mad 'cause I'd trusted him, and he...he stole a kiss." He laughed once, without humor. "Clearly a smelting offense."

"You've been forced before," Optimus said. "By much more violent characters."

"And killed 'em for it," Jazz said, emotionless. "Almost killed Prowl 'fore I realized it. And it took a bomb blast to show me how ridiculous I was."

Optimus said nothing, allowing the silence to drag on until the emptiness drew more out of Jazz.

"They were dying," he said softly. "I almost lost 'em both. And now I got 'em both back and I..."

"Would it have been easier if one of them had died?" Optimus asked.

The question startled Jazz a little, not because it was his Prime who asked it. Soldiers who only saw Optimus as their leader were accustomed to his camaraderie, his willingness to fight beside them and sacrifice his own safety for his lowest ranks. It was his officers who saw his practicality, the way he could mourn someone's death at the same time as he considered the impact to his army.

But the question itself, that a choice existed...

Jazz's engines hiccoughed and the keen rose up in his throat. Only with a serious effort did he fight the cry back down.

"They can't die," Jazz whispered. "Neither of 'em. They just can't."

Optimus gave a soft vent. Here was the real trouble.

Jazz had been presented with a terrible choice. And the bot who excelled at split-second battlefield decisions...could not decide.

The message from Counterpunch was a relief.

It pinged both of them almost at once as Jazz received the missive directly while Optimus took it from Red Alert. Although mission briefs rarely included an emotional carrier code, Counterpunch's message held all the terse fear of a mech using as few characters as possible.

discovered

running

1353 miles out

twenty 'cons on my aft

Jazz looked up at his Prime, who vented and nodded once. That far away, Counterpunch was deep in Canadian territory and driving on rough roads. Rescue might take hours or days.

"Take a team with you," Optimus said. "I'll have forces on your heels."

Jazz was already heading to the door and transforming to his alt-mode, speeding down the halls while blaring his sound system to clear mechs out of his way. Halfway to the door, he picked up Bumblebee on his right side, and as they roared out into the desert, Smokescreen finished sliding down the side of the Ark and joined up on Jazz's left.

Prime's voice came through his comm.

We don't have many forces in that direction, Optimus said. The aerialbots are too far out on their coastal patrol and Blaster's cassettes are on reconnaissance with Gunrunner. It'll still be over a day and a half before they can reach any sort of triangulated position.

Gotcha, bossbot. Jazz brought his sonic array up into the ready position, settling in for the long road ahead and the sudden fight that would be upon them all too fast. We're just running escort on this—we'll blast whoever's following my bot, roll alongside back home. Maybe be back in time for tomorrow's energon.

Optimus hesitated infinitesimally—Jazz's voice was full of that artificial lightness that masked his anxiety—but he nodded and signaled Red Alert to put the medics on high alert. Jazz usually cleaned up his messes before they grew too dangerous, but sometimes a special operation grew out of his control, and at least Optimus could have the medical staff up and ready to patch his mechs back together.

Come back alive, he said.

Jazz pinged back a happy positive, then went radio silent.

Optimus felt his spark clench every time his spies stopped transmitting. Spies didn't always return. With a long vent, he sat down at his work station and began writing another review. This, at least, soothed away some of the worry. But, for now, he avoided anything with warning tags—he didn't think he could handle tragedy right now.

Three days later, Jazz and his mechs had not yet returned.

There had been no desperate calls for help, but also no reassuring call that they were still alive. Hot fighting and subterfuge, then, and there was nothing more to be done about it. Jazz and his special operatives had gone quiet before, and it was just as infuriating then as it was now. High command would just have to wait.

The Autobots had plenty to absorb their time. A third battle came—a fourth—a fifth—soon Armada attacks were coming twice a day, sometimes more, with a dozen jets scattering as soon as the Ark responded in kind. The sky briefly lit with tracer rounds across the clouds trailing behind jet thrusters, followed swiftly by Autobots hot on their raised heels. Defenses swung into position, snipers grazed 'Cons, and the assaults lasted just long enough for the enemy to be chased off.

Red Alert grew increasingly paranoid until he had every bot on constant shift rotation, working them into exhaustion until he was ordered to draw back down to a normal level of vigilance. His worry became contagious. Every bot knew he could be high strung, but now a constant tension seemed to fill the halls. Bots jumped at the smallest alarm, ready to scramble in an instant, strangely disappointed if Decepticons didn't come and flying eagerly when one came.

It was during the twelfth or thirteenth fight—Red Alert had lost count as an assortment of mechs raced out, without any of their usual formation, already harrying the Decepticons before anyone could catch up. There were few attempts at updating their positions in the mainframe and almost no attempts to rejoin their squads. And Red Alert, shouldering an overload of the base's functions due to Prowl's downtime, just barely managed to spare the front end memory to open Ironhide's commlink and shriek for help.

Which is why Ironhide heard Red Alert freeze, lock up, and begin immediate self-repair as his cortex sparked with short-circuits.

Blaring orders at the troops to raise the base's warning status to its highest level—to regroup and return if outside the far perimeter, to stand and provide covering fire if providing defense—Ironhide rolled at top speed to the most forward position, taking two mechs he found along the way. Flanked by Powerglide and Cliffjumper, he drove up to where the twins were standing looking very confused.

"We took defensive positions," Sideswipe said. "They came in so low and fast that was all we could—"

"That ain't it!" Sunstreaker waved his hand at the horizon. "They didn't stop or slow down or nothing! They just kept flying or rolling, and everyone went with 'em like they all knew where they were going."

Ironhide winced at that thought.

"I hope that ain't true," he said. "Otherwise that would be one hell of a intelligence clusterfuck."

"It's already a clusterbomb of fucked," Sunstreaker growled. "And no one's answering me!"

Ironhide would have agreed, but a ping from Inferno came up on his HUD. Normally Ironhide would have shunted the message to his secondary priority channel, to be dealt with after the emergency, but Inferno was such a constant at Red Alert's side that he was a defacto peripheral device to the security office with the highest level clearance.

Ironhide checked the ping. And felt his spark skip a pulse.

They were photographs. Satellite photographs.

Cosmos, he called immediately. What are these?

High in orbit around the earth, Cosmos floated in his altmode as a ufo, scanning the surrounding desert for miles in all directions. The illicit activities lay before him as he took photos and sent them on, dutiful despite his own embarrassment.

Orbital surveillance, Cosmos answered after a moment. Those photos are about three minutes old, given the time delay of transmitting the information. I have updated images, but...um...

Spit it out, Ironhide demanded, wincing in the depth of his spark at the reply he knew was coming.

I feel like a voyeur! Cosmos cried. Some of them're outright crossing cables! And I'm not even sure what's going on with Nightflight and Skydive.

Ironhide knew. But he didn't say so. Doing so would have meant admitting the background he'd developed as a young mech who'd read Polyhex Manuals in his spare time. Because the photos were the manuals come to life.

Acidstorm on his back as Fireflight knelt on top of him.

Spasma sitting in Groove's lap, licking at his throat cables.

Whisper tending to Silverbolt's wounded wing.

Nightflight on all fours, his aft fins roughly grabbed and bitten by Skydive.

And more. So many more that Ironhide at first couldn't count. He vented once, twice. Decepticons and Autobots openly fraternizing on the field—part of him felt a little satisfaction that the Autobots seemed to be mostly on top—

Yet another ping came on top of everything else, and Ironhide inwardly cursed.

Most of the Decepticons might have mostly scattered, but White Noise must have been nearby. Or else Cosmos had transmitted on a signal that had been hacked. Or, Ironhide winced, Cosmos might have been so startled that he simply blasted his information down to high command on an unsecure channel.

In any case, a new ping came from Red Alert's channel that there had been a security lapse. All of the photos had been uploaded on the surnet.

The Autobots had seen. Every mech not on the battlefield knew what their comrades...who their comrades...were doing.

"What the hell...?" Cliffjumper snarled.

Mirage's voice came to Ironhide, briefly blocking out Cliffjumper. Ironhide, fights are breaking out—Optimus has the base on lockdown—sealing off sectors with blast doors—I think Red Alert's crashed—I'm only getting Inferno's comm—

"Do what you gotta," Ironhide said, cutting off the feed. He was already drawing his gun and smacking Cliffjumper across the helm to cut off what had become a steady stream of threats.

"Shut—the—hell—up," he snarled at them. "I got enough slagging problems without you two ball bearings jacking this smelting clusterfuck even worse."

"But they're overloading with 'cons!" Cliffjumper yelled, one hand holding his helm, the other pointing an accusatory finger out at the desert.

"You think you know something I don't?" Ironhide said, glaring down at his mech. "You think you're bringing me new information from fuckin' Primus himself? Go on, Private Primus, tell me your message down from on high!"

Cliffjumper didn't answer openly, glaring up at his commanding officer, but his mutter was audible.

"Say it again, you yellow-afted mech," Ironhide growled.

"...you're one of 'em, aren't you?" Cliffjumper said. "'Con sympathizing—"

"If I was a sympathizer, you'd be one dead pile of slag right now," Ironhide said, "an' a hundred times 'fore this. Now are you going to help me split this love-fest up or do I gotta send you to the brig?"

A few seconds passed before his words pierced through Cliffjumper's growing rage. The small red mech reset his optics several times in confusion.

"...what?"

"I want us fucking up the 'Cons, but not like this!" Ironhide waved at the plateau and the tiny plumes of dust rising in the still air. "The question is, can I count on you to act like you got two damn positrons of a cortex and roust 'em out without putting a round through our own damn guys?"

Cliffjumper's look promised violence, but at least that promise had been harnessed for the time being.

"...sir, yessir."

Ironhide would cross the next bridge of the bot's violent tendencies when he came to it—he simply glared sidelong at Cliffjumper.

"Do it fast," Ironhide warned him. "Don't linger. Don't posture. Two 'bots and surprise'll chase off one 'con. If you try anything, it could turn on ya real fast."

"Right." Cliffjumper's response came through grit denta, but he still rolled out, headed for the closest set of coordinates on the photos.

Ironhide vented, then noticed Powerglide staring with wide optics at what had just happened in front of him. Ironhide vented deep in his spark. This was not the way he'd wanted to spend the day.

"Well, go on, take the other side and get the rest of 'em," Ironhide grumbled.

To his relief, Powerglide just snapped a quick salute and took off, soaring upward.

With that taken care of, Ironhide pinged Optimus and waited for his response.

I know, Ironhide, I know. Optimus had simply opened an audio channel, and behind his voice, Ironhide heard the sound of yelling and metal clanging as punches were thrown. I'm dealing with it right now. How are things on your end?

I got Cliffjumper and Powerglide running around, startling the lovebirds out of their nests.

Those two? Are you sure that was wise?

You want 'em inside the base right now, unsupervised?

...no. You're right—good call. Wait—let me—

Ironhide shifted on his pedes, rotating his shoulder as he felt the oil begin to sizzle under the desert sun. The dusty wind blew across his armor. Increasingly small on the horizon, he watched Powerglide swoop down, heard the crump of small ordinance exploding with a billow of sand, and then Fireflight and Acidstorm scrambled in two directions.

Fireflight pinged on Ironhide's comm. He shut his optics and sent along his own wordless messages.

Hangar.

Wait.

Idiot.

There was a low ping of apology, and then Fireflight was flying back to base. If a bot's wings could droop, his were absolutely bent down in the expectation of a fierce whipping. Worse, Ironhide knew, was that the whipping wouldn't come from him or anyone else in command. Fireflight and the other cross-factioners would face a gantlet of their comrades turning on them.

—there, Optimus said. Command call—I think we're all here.

Just missing Prowl and Jazz, Ratchet said.

And, um, Red Alert, Inferno murmured. I'm working on him, I swear—

I'mI'mI'm fine, Red Alert snapped. M-m-marginally—

I'm sending Firstaid up there right now, Ratchet said.

I'll go as well, Perceptor said. I can take some of the base functions and ease the stress on him. And I'll take Brainstorm, as well.

Just glad Jazz ain't here to see all'a this, Ironhide said. He'd be insufferable with his 'I told you so' right about now.

The q-q-question is, whaaaat do we3-e-3 do about it right n0w? Red Alert cried. We c4n't h4v3 0ne half of the army a̶t̶t̴a̸c̷k̵i̸n̶g̷ ̷ the other, and w3 can't put half of th3m iiiin the brig! We ¢an't even put the guilty pa®ties on lo¢kdown—that would g®ound half the for¢e.

Ironhide winced. Even just hearing the edge of a short-circuit sounded painful, and they could all hear Inferno murmuring to Red Alert, patched in and defragging sectors of his memory to ease the strain.

...just a sixth of the army, Mirage chimed in. We finished counting.

And is that just this fight? Ironhide asked. I know more bots'n this have been way too eager to fight lately. Maybe this is just the 'Cons that could get away for a hookup this hour.

...we're working on that, Mirage said. We don't have the actual estimates, but, just going off of our own instincts on this, I think the Prime is right. They weren't all out there. The cross-factionists are a little less than half the army.

A heavy silence settled. There were some clangs and squawks as Optimus waded into his own mechs with Sideswipe and Sunstreaker on his flanks, separating fights. Ironhide winced. He didn't like the thought of frontliners like the twins in and among the regular bots, but ultimately the regulars were soldiers turning on each other. They deserved what they got.

Sorry, Optimus, Ironhide vented. I didn't think the rot had settled in this bad.

No apologies, Optimus said. Because I'm not sure that this is a rot. Not yet.

Ironhide reset his optics. Everyone did.

What?

I remember a very long time ago, Optimus said, far too cheerfully. When I was a young commander who didn't know anything about fighting. And the only thing I did right back then was listen to my oldest veteran, who gave me some very good advice.

I'm still yer oldest veteran, Ironhide chuckled.

And it's still good advice. There's no such thing as fighting for peace.

Yeah, might as well be...

Ironhide froze.

...fucking for virginity, he realized.

What if? Optimus asked. What if...forgive my language, but what if we can get these two armies fucking for peace?

Ironhide would have felt the same confidence that his commander did if he hadn't heard the backdrop of fighting and squabbling in the base. What were the odds that the Matrix of Leadership had seen the uniqueness of Optimus' soul and called it leadership, when really their Prime was just as mad as all the rest of the previous Autobot leaders?

I...am really glad Jazz ain't here, he sighed.

Chapter Text

Over-the-Edge: FUCKING TRAITORS CROSS-FACTIONISTS I FIND OUT WHO ANY OF YOU ARE IMA PUT YOU IN THE DAMN GROUND

Mech892352: CoN SYMpatHIZErs aRE ConS thEMSelVES! AUTObOT iN pAint Only!

BrightLight: We WARNED bots, we WARNED YOU All! There are CONS on this SURNET!

Zapwing!: Soon as find any of you sympathizing turn-coat traitor cowards, pow! Fraash! Kapaang!

Lube'nslide: y dont u go lift yr aft for megadope whil yr at it u piles of rust?

NumberOneFighter: I don't get it. I just don't get it. We go on the frontlines, we risk our lives—I've watched mechs got slagged beside me, straight up shot through the spark, and for what? For bots to go crossing cabling with the enemy?

Cusswords: I don't want to say that I told you so but I remember all the different times this came up in the cross-faction surnet and everyone there said they wouldn't actually do a 'con but then some of them were saying that it would be better if we and I quote "fuck cons instead of fight cons" and it's like I don't understand how everyone can forget all the atrocities all the verified warcrimes that the 'cons perpetrated—did you crossfactionalists forget Praxus? How am I supposed to fight side by side with someone who might shoot me to go cross cables with the enemy?

Hippie-Mech: I do not believe what I am seeing. Autobots and Decepticons lay down their guns and opened up to each other, met without killing each other, and that's somehow bad?

Mech892352: shut THE HeLl uP yoU'Re ONE oF the woRsT oF THE bUncH

BrightLight: were YOU one of those TRAITORS?!

Lube'nslide: i find u, ur 1 ded mech

Oasis: leave Hippie-Mech alone, you low-grade mass-produced cheap piece of tin t(-_-t)

Over-the-Edge: USE YOUR REAL DESIGNATION COWARD

Seal-Dive: NO REAL DESIGNATIONS! tHAT'S THE RULE!

HotStuff: NO REAL DESIGNATIONS OR I WILL SEE TO IT THAT YOUR COMMANDING OFFICERS FIND OUT WHO ALL OF YOU ARE, ALL OF YOUR POSTS, AND ALL OF YOUR THREATS

Lube'nslide: Gud! then we can deal with all the traitors the rite way

On_Ice: you might be surprised what "traitors" you'd be fighting

Seal-Dive: You close-minded bots are the ones threatening your own side, crossing cables or not!

Nothing-But-A-Houndmech: you afts come after one cross-cabler, you'll catch all of us

[thread frozen – replies disabled]

Inferno put the datapad down on the table, then straightened and stood behind Red Alert's chair, using the security officer as a shield between himself and the entire command cadre. All of the officers were in attendance, except for Jazz still out on a mission, and all of them were staring at Inferno as if he were personally at fault.

"That's," he started, tapping his fingers on the back of the chair, "that's as far as it got before Red Alert froze the whole surnet this morning. No posts or uploads or comments since."

"Does anyone know you're HotStuff?" Ironhide asked.

"N-no, sir," Inferno said. "Just Red. And you all."

Red Alert squeezed his optics shut and let out a long vent, rubbing a spot on his helm covered with a neural patch. After a moment of Red Alert shifting in his seat, Inferno began speaking again.

"Red says, um, that he needed to squash the 'real designations' talk before anyone let theirs slip. That it'd cause even worse fights on the base." Inferno shifted awkwardly. "I already had an account, so I made the comment for him."

"Red's right," Ironhide said. "We were able to stop any fighting 'cause the bots just wanted to take it out on the mechs they saw in the satellite shots. But those prudes don't know who supports the 'con fuckers."

Perceptor winced.

"Cross-factionalists," Perceptor said. "I understand that the common term they use for themselves are those supporting a cross-faction relationship."

Ironhide snorted. "Prudes 'n 'con fuckers s'more accurate."

Optimus looked at Ironhide.

"Don't gimme the disappointment look, Prime." Ironhide rolled his optics. "I'm all for fuckin' for peace and all that, but don't 'spect me to use those fancy terms the sparklings got nowadays."

"The terms notwithstanding," Optimus allowed, "we need two key pieces of data. How many cross-factionalists do the Deceptions have, and can we keep our side from killing each other until this comes to fruition?"

In Jazz's seat, Mirage felt everyone's optics turn to him. It took every bit of noble bearing not to scrunch down and hide as the officers stared at him. Part of him wanted to say that Spec Ops wouldn't rest until they had created a list of sympathetic 'cons, but his survival instinct knew that Jazz would shoot his fingers off if he made impossible promises.

"We're working on that," Mirage said. "It'd be faster if Counterpunch were still transmitting, but without him, we're looking at outside of a week at the best."

"A whole week?" Ironhide asked. "We could have a body count by then."

"We're sorting comments," Mirage said. "We were already getting a database built, but...it takes time."

"All right," Ironhide said, rapping his knuckles on the table. "So we got a week of sitting on this mess 'fore we can even hope to do anything about it."

Red Alert made a strangled sound and grasped Inferno's hand. A moment passed as Inferno listened, then conveyed the message.

"Uh. Red says to please wake up Prowl and let him deal with it." Inferno shrugged that he didn't know what that meant, and Optimus gave him a little nod that they understood.

"Prowl seems like the best idea right now," Optimus agreed, nodding sympathetically as Red Alert slumped with relief in his chair. "Ratchet?"

The medical bot tilted his helm.

"It's a bit early, but I can clear him for light, non-physical duty. Just make sure he's got some good mechs on the side to enforce his orders."

"The muscle, as Jazz would say." Optimus nodded, then—with the question before them—glanced at Mirage with a raised optic ridge.

"No word." Mirage shook his helm once. "But that's good. If I don't get a final info-dump..."

It was not often spoken of, the mission protocols for if one of them was about to die. Mirage's tense posture, his tight vents and twitching finger on his datapad made a little more sense now—not the nerves of a newly promoted mech surrounded by brass, but a nervous second afraid of his friend's last message.

"Jazz's fine" Ironhide said, glancing at him. "Just trying to avoid the hard decisions in life, as usual. Probably afraid I'll make him acting second in command 'till Prowl's good again."

Mirage laughed once despite himself, behind his hand.

Ratchet lifted his helm slightly.

"Prowl just responded. Says he'll take the twins and start disciplinary procedures tomorrow."

"The twins?" Ironhide echoed. "I mean, sure, I can spare 'em, but they were part of that whole mess on the surnet. Reading it, at least. I don't even know what side they're on."

"Cross-faction," Mirage said automatically. "Sideswipe, anyway. Sunstreaker not so much. He'll read it but..."

His voice trailed off as he realized that no one had expected him to actually know each mech off the top of his helm. Mirage almost asked what did they expect from trying to put together a database of which mech liked which stories, and he was suddenly struck by the fact that the others didn't quite understand intelligence work. They were used to information flying back and forth, but they were also used to having some semblance of privacy. Spec Ops knew that there was no such thing as real privacy, just information that had been buried deeper and needed more prying.

"They're fine," Mirage said, adjusting his answer. "They won't cause any trouble."

"They didn't hit anyone they weren't ordered to," Optimus reminded Ironhide.

Across from them, Ratchet made a soft sound of surprise. With widened optics, he looked up at Optimus.

"Ah, Prime? Prowl also wants to know if...if he can take Soundwave along."

All of them sat straight. Glanced around at each other. At Optimus. Then, at Mirage as he softly tapped his datapad.

"...why?" Perceptor asked.

"Consulting for...field practice," Ratchet said, echoing whatever Prowl was saying to him. "And to handle basic calculations for him, to ease his cortex load."

Red Alert hmm'ed once, nodding, resting his helm against Inferno's arm. Ratchet glanced at him, but there were no sparks under the patch.

"If Soundwave has adequate firewalls," Inferno translated. "Red says he'll wanna look first, verify Soundwave can't get anywhere in the Ark's main systems."

Optimus gave Red Alert a look.

"You trust Soundwave that much?" he asked.

Red Alert closed his optics and vented out. A moment passed, and Inferno nodded for him.

"He was hooked up to Prowl for an extended amount of time," Inferno said. "Prowl had the best look possible in Soundwave's helm, and nothing gets past Prowl's cortex. Ratchet cleared Prowl, so...Prowl can have whoever he needs to help ease the strain. Even if that someone's Soundwave."

Ironhide winced. "Gonna play havoc, him standing in front'a all them prudes and 'con fuckers."

"Prowl says he has an idea."

"Prowl's idea...seems illogical."

Soundwave's voice strained with an audible whine. They stood on a high ridge overlooking the plateau around the Ark. It provided full visibility of several square miles below, which would soon fill with many of the mechs who had been caught fighting in the corridors and mess hall and wash racks. And it would allow every mech to see Prowl, as well as the taller, heavier Soundwave behind his shoulder.

Hands clasped behind his back, Prowl glanced at him from the corner of his optic. If anything, Prowl's chin lifted a little higher.

"'Seems' illogical?" he asked.

"Prowl's logic...superior," Soundwave said as if he were still getting used to the taste of that idea. "Equal to Soundwave's. Therefore...should make sense. But...cannot find that logic."

"Clarify—what do you find illogical?" Prowl asked mildly, already aware of Soundwave's confusion.

"Anti-cross-factionists already attacking cross-factionists," Soundwave said. "Presenting a known high-ranking officer of the enemy faction—"

"—defected officer—" Prowl said.

"Notwithstanding," Soundwave said, a small frown on his faceplate. "They will not care that I have defected. They will hate me and you by proxy. Therefore, your decision for my presence here...seems illogical."

Far from being annoyed at Soundwave's worry, Prowl's satisfaction rose a decimal point.

"It is your remaining 2.2% dissonance with civilian culture," Prowl said. "Perhaps warbuilds are accustomed to seeing heavy injuries on other mechs, but we are not. I asked Ratchet to purposefully leave unrepaired the most dramatic cosmetic injuries to your armor."

Prowl turned to better see Soundwave. Self-repair functions had already diminished the small dents and cracks, but the severe damage to the cassette carrier still lay bare—and Prowl was counting on that.

"How does your frame feel?" Prowl asked. "Pain? Stiffness?"

"Affirmative," Soundwave answered. "Though minimal. Ratchet's medical ability, superior."

"True," Prowl said, as if that was not the answer he'd been looking for. "But will that affect your ability to calculate formula? Would you...prefer...to rest?"

Soundwave looked at him. Without his concealing mask and visor, Soundwave's emotions lay bare to him in ways that Prowl would never have discovered under that carefully monotone voice. The gold optics reset once, twice, and his mouth pressed in a way that suggested confusion. The gleam along Soundwave's faceplate, Prowl decided, was a softer kind of shiny that he'd never noticed.

"This is beyond the requirement of regular duty," Prowl said. "I can permit you to continue to repair in private."

Soundwave's brow furrowed.

"Soundwave's presence, of benefit to Prowl's purpose here?"

"Yes."

Soundwave stood straight as if Prowl's suggestion was almost an insult.

"Pain, negligible in calculations," Soundwave said. "Soundwave, superior."

"Regardless," Prowl said. "I will begin streaming data for you to process. Alert me if it becomes painful."

Soundwave's confusion only grew as Prowl's electronic signature pinged for access. After having Prowl so deep that their thoughts had overlain each other, the polite request seemed superfluous. Soundwave allowed him in without a word, and the header information—timestamps, coordinates, routes and supply databases—made him blink.

"These are..." Soundwave looked at Prowl with wide optics. "Base functions. Ark functions."

Prowl looked at him. "Yes?"

"Prowl..." Soundwave faltered. "You..."

Prowl didn't move, waiting for either obedience or a question.

Soundwave stared at him for a long moment.

Then he began filtering through the data, processing supply requests, updating troop locations and fuel needs, reprioritizing the handful of notes that had slipped between the cracks and forwarding them back to Prowl. And he used Prowl's preferred formulas to do so, even if Venn's Standardized Constant and the Bernoulli Modified Quantex were inferior to Haytham's Anti-Euclidean Parabolic Fields.

It was what Prowl wanted. And there was a satisfaction in giving Prowl what he wanted.

Soundwave's cortex shunted aside his worries over Megatron assaulting the base to make room for the new calculations.

Across the base, Ratchet's datapad pinged an update on Soundwave's health, measuring less pressure in his joints and less stress in his cortex. This, followed swiftly by a ping regarding Prowl's health, measuring less processing demand even while Prowl accepted a hefty weight of base functions from Red Alert.

And in the officer's meeting, Ratchet didn't need the last ping to alert him to Red Alert's change in status. The small red mech audibly vented and relaxed for the first time in days as he no longer took on the vast entirety of the base's functioning. Red Alert leaned back in his seat, helm resting on Inferno's arm, and went straight into a recharge cycle.

Inferno reset his optics and looked down. "Uh—"

"Let him sleep," Ratchet whispered, warning the others in the meeting from raising their voices. "First time he's been able to since the blast."

Uh, yessir, Inferno said. But do you really want me to just leave him like this?

Hell no, Ratchet said. Take him back to his berth. Just for recharge, he added, giving Inferno a look.

Inferno felt his faceplate warm but didn't dare defend his noble intentions to Ratchet.

Of course, sir. Um...do I just...?

Won't be the first time you've carried him, Ratchet said.

Inferno hesitated, then took a deep vent and gathered Red Alert up in his arms. No one commented as he carried him out of the hall, but he did hear Ironhide's murmur just before the doors closed.

"Fuckin' finally. Bot's too small to hang onto all'a that worrying."

On the dry, dusty expanse of desert just outside of the Ark, dozens of mechs stood in neat lines at parade rest. None of the Autobots were restrained. That they weren't in the brig was good news, but none of them missed the way Sunstreaker and Sideswipe held their firearms, unholstered if aimed at the ground.

"You are all here," Prowl called down to the assembled mechs below, and his voice reverberated across the cliffside, "for the infractions of insubordination, intimidation, assault, battery, refusal to obey direct orders, and dereliction of duty."

With every charge, the Autobots winced, lowered their helms, or simply grit their denta at the sheer unfairness of it. Their thoughts were obvious. The mechs literally crossing cables with Decepticons weren't outside with them. Why weren't the Con-fuckers getting their own punishment, too?

Prowl took a step closer to the edge of the plateau, and a collective vent swept through the assembled mechs.

Soundwave stood behind Prowl—he wasn't masked or wearing his visor, but they all recognized one of the highest ranking Decepticon officers of the enemy army.

And Soundwave was broken.

Well, not completely broken. During Prowl's predictable listing of their collective offenses and the damage done to the base, the longer they studied Soundwave, the more they saw how he had been pieced back together—his clear polymer cracked and coated with medical sealant, his wires taped up so that they wouldn't short out. His spark case no longer lay exposed under the cassette case, but the thick welding scars were recognizable to any mech. The patches on his energon cables at his throat and hips, colored red for the heaviest thickness possible, alerted even the most casual onlooker that those cords had been severed—each of them a life-threatening wound. Taken together, the injuries were almost too catastrophic to be believed.

Internal communications flew between the Autobots—instant photographs at high resolution and from different angles, scanning Soundwave for weaknesses as if they were on the battlefield searching for vulnerable points. They all collectively observed, analyzed, tabulated, and assessed, creating a picture of the damage, how the damage must have exploded into him, and—there were thinner, less dramatic tells of injury on Prowl now that they looked—how Soundwave's frame had shielded their second in command from some of the blast.

Warpath: Yowza! Mechs, that is one messed up mech! It was a bomb, right? Boom—right in their faceplates!

Cliffjumper: NOT MESSED UP ENOUGH! I DON'T CARE WHAT HE DID! WHY THE PIT IS THAT PILE OF SLAG UP THERE WITH PROWL?

Gears: DoN't mAttER what HE dId! hE's stilL souNDWavE! I doN't cARe HOW FuCkeD up he GoT

Lightspeed: I WARNED you all and THERE IT IS! A CON at our HIGHEST LEVEL OF COMMAND!

Sunstreaker: I don't get how he's still alive. I've seen those kind of wrecks on the frontlines. No mech walks away from half of that. And he's still going. I can't believe they didn't bleed out.

Powerglide: gotta be a con i mean conjob 'course its a con how culd he hav dun anything if he wuz that wrecked how is he even standin?

Bluestreak: I mean I won't lie I want to put a round through his sparkcase right now but look at the way the injuries line up. He took so much damage and Prowl's left side is all ganked up—that could've been Prowl and no way he could have taken all of that and lived. How did they even get Ratchet to sign off on giving Prowl light duties when he's that structurally compromised? I'll bet Sunstreaker and Sideswipe aren't there to watch us, they're there to catch them in case they fall off the ledge.

Cliffjumper: IF THE CON FALLS, IT'LL SAVE US ALL THE EFFORT

Above them, Prowl monitored their expressions, the tightening of their frames as they held themselves at stiff attention. This was the most dangerous moment. If he could just bring them safely through this, he anticipated nothing but clear sailing through the rest of the day.

"Their reactions?" he asked softly.

Sunstreaker tilted his helm, rotating his shoulder once to loosen up.

"Fucking steaming," Sunstreaker murmured, missing how Prowl gave him a sidelong look. "They want to shoot Soundwave, half of 'em think you've been compromised, and all of 'em can't believe you're both still alive."

"Will they do anything?" Prowl asked.

Sunstreaker checked the group communication going on. Technically he hadn't been invited to this one, but there had been an "anti con group" link for weeks, and no one had kicked him out even when they saw him standing up there.

"Just complaining right now," he said. "But it's mostly hoping Soundwave falls off the ledge. They're too wrapped up in how broken he is."

Prowl nodded once. As he had hoped they would be. Sunstreaker's tired explanation spoke to the vast gulf between the civilian bots and the bots sparked for war. Even though Sunstreaker was no Decepticon, the grounder was perhaps in a unique place between the factions. The twins had seen more than their share of combat. Their only surprise was how Prowl and Soundwave were still alive.

Prowl was reminded of how Soundwave said he would never have attempted to surrender to the twins. He didn't think either of them would have listened to two words before simply gunning down Soundwave.

Fragile, Prowl thought. The way Sideswipe reset his optics slowly, wincing faintly in the glare of the bright sun and ignoring how the condensation off his coils hissed along his armor. How Sunstreaker held his rifle along his arm, finger off the trigger, ready to simply raise the barrel and fire on command, bored with being at the very edge of firing on his comrades.

Autobots are fragile, he thought. In more ways than one. And warbuilds are resilient in more ways than one.

He glanced at Soundwave, who stood with optics half-shut, quietly processing base functions.

"Power down to a light recharge cycle," Prowl ordered. "Continue handling Ark needs as a background process."

Soundwave turned slightly to face him. "...power down?"

"Yes."

Soundwave hesitated. Bit his lip and glanced at the crowd in front of them.

"You're safe," Prowl said. "They won't hurt you. And I will be here."

"Prowl, will be safe?"

"Of course."

Prowl did not repeat his command. He didn't have to. After a moment, and with one more look at Prowl's confident demeanor, Soundwave closed his optics and let his frame lock into position. Soft, regular vents followed, along with a ping confirming that his processor was still managing Ark functions to give Prowl and Red Alert a break. Prowl couldn't help but notice how Soundwave's faceplate relaxed slightly, smoothing out and gleaming in the sun.

When he looked back over his Autobots, he didn't need Sunstreaker to translate for him. They had all noticed. And Prowl stood a little straighter.

Yes, the former third-in-command of the entire Decepticon force was very, very shiny.

And very much under Prowl's command.

With a deep sense of satisfaction, Prowl began speaking to his soldiers again.

"We will begin with military training exercises..."

Chapter Text

To Mirage...it's been great. Remember not to make promises you can't keep.

Three days of pushing through the burning sands, scorching his tires raw—Jazz still hadn't managed to dodge the pack of Decepticons on their tail. The first surprise attack had been easy, taking out a handful of 'cons with a rockfall. When the second wave came, they'd played cat and mouse through the abandoned mines in the mountains. But then the third wave came, and the fourth, when Bumblebee found a datapad on a grayed out 'con, they found the reason why.

RE: DNI

CANCEL COUNTERPUNCH DECEPTICON STATUS.

DESTROY TRAITOR COUNTERPUNCH.

DO NOT INTERACT.

(¯`·.⋆ ⋆.·[ ÜMÜ ]·.⋆ ⋆.·´¯)

As the autobots came out of the relative cover of a canyon into a long straightaway, the Decepticons, too focused on their prey, shot past them and had to bank upwards into the clouds. From the ground, it looked like the jets were making a slow arc that would all too soon scream back toward them.

It's the same big name fan, Bumblebee called out, dodging a deep pothole and nearly spinning out. At this speed, even the smallest miscalculation could mean a crash.

Who in the whole flaming pit is this UMU mech! Jazz raged in frustration. Why in the slag is he using this damn name thing to give orders?! Why ain't they normal—

He took a huge gulping vent as the reason came clear in his mind.

Hide the orders in the surnet, he realized. Then, once everyone knows to obey that designation, use it as a cover.

But why? Smokescreen said. It makes no sense to use that kind of open channel when they have their own spies and comm lines.

No, they don't, Jazz said. Soundwave. They lost their communications officer. Everything they had was compromised. Hell, we were picking off their energon depots and bases left and right.

But that was so recent, Bumblebee said. They would've had to be on the surnet since—whoa—

Bumblebee spun out this time and had to transform into alt-mode as his whole frame flipped up and over. He didn't even see the crack in the road that caught his tire, but he managed to completely somersault and land on his wheels again, slamming too hard on his suspension and rattling his joints. He managed to catch up to Smokescreen's rear axle, but his wheels were beginning to shimmy.

Cut the chatter, Jazz said, we're goin' too fast to talk.

The jets were coming straight towards them, anti-aircraft fire exploding down the line of the highway. They were less than a mile away—he had a second to decide—Jazz pushed up off the road before the conscious thought had time to form. Transforming into alt-mode, he arced backward and landed in a handstand on Smokescreen's roof.

Hang on, boss!

The sudden weight change meant they slowed, then slammed back to full speed. The rapid changes left Jazz crouched on top, one hand holding Smokescreen's spoiler, the other drawing his rifle to aim. He had just enough time to get one round off, hitting a jet in the wing in a lucky shot. At the same time, his sound amplifiers lifted from his shoulders and aimed directly at the incoming jets.

Acid rain inside my spark

crossing cables into me

flying

flying

I need escape velocity

Infrasound mixed with highpitched ultrasonic waves, canceled each other out, then wavered unsteadily and crashed together into a concussive sound and light show that hit the jets like a punch in the nose cone. Sparks erupted throughout their systems, and without time to stop, they took the full brunt of the attack as they flew by. The Autobots couldn't stop to turn around, but Jazz heard at least one explosion as a jet crashed, and for a few blessed minutes, they only heard their own engines.

That was a Cybertron song, Counterpunch said, drawing even. Wasn't it?

Steel Lunaire, Jazz said. Courtesy of one Soundwave. Doubt they'll recognize it's from him, but hell, thought I'd remind 'em he gave his resignation.

He still alive? Counterpunch said. Last we heard, he and Prowl were in an explosion.

We'll debrief at the Ark, Jazz said. A lot's happened since you were last at base.

If you don't mind, Counterpunch said, maybe I should give my report on the road. If they keep this up, I don't know if we'll make it back.

Jazz winced, coming off of Smokescreen and driving beside them.

Not a bad idea, he admitted. Let me finish up my part of the last message burst. If we gotta send it off, I wanna take a little more time to make it good.

No one argued. They had a couple of minutes at least before the next flight of jets came—a moment of silence and boredom was precious.

Mirage...we both kept this team together through a lot of slag. Don't let 'em break up Spec Ops. Build your own team, remember that I chose you for my second for a reason. And while you're remembering that, do me a solid and tell Prowl that my last thoughts were of him. Jazz hesitated, decided 'to hell with it' and added then go tell the same thing to Soundwave. Don't let either of 'em know or I'll come haunt you, see if I don't.

I'm sending you the last logs I have, plus anything Counterpunch gave me. Make sure they don't go to waste. And your first order of business is to find out who the hell UMU is.

The brig lay in darkness, barely lit by a dim glow at the far end of the cell block. One prisoner sat inside on the floor, listening to the soft sounds barely audible above the silence—the faint hum of the work consoles, the distant steps of mechs on the other side of the door. Only the medical berth gave any noise, hibernating on a low standby so that it occasionally thrummed or rattled. The rest of the brig was empty—Whisper would have heard another mech's vents or the occasional shifting of steel.

So he was the only one stupid enough to be captured. He rubbed the steel casing over his spark chamber. Whoever that little red bot had been, he'd hit Whisper hard enough to leave a deep dent.

The Decepticon Whisper wondered when the Autobots would execute him. Or force-download him. Or take him apart for scrap—he'd heard that Starscream had lived up to his name when Ratchet the Hatchet got hold of him, howling until his vocalizer finally gave out. No one had seen him since, probably cannibalized and spread through the Autobot forces by now.

He wondered if the rest of his Air Strike Patrol would try to break him out. Were any of them alive, or had they also stupidly tried to fight back while on the ground with an Autobot?

And he wondered what they were doing to Silverbolt. If the Prime was anything like Megatron, Silverbolt would take the brunt of the punishment, a lesson to the rest of his subjects. Whisper closed his optics, wincing to think of it. Silverbolt was a jet and a good soldier, true, but he was so young and his voice trembled ever so slightly in the air—

Light spilled into the brig. Whisper recognized the shadowed silhouette and sat straight, coming to his pedes. His hands curled around the bars as he pressed close.

Silverbolt closed the door quietly and rushed up, putting an arm through the bars and around Whisper.

"Are you all right?" Silverbolt vented. "I came as soon as I could—"

"I should be asking you that," Whisper said. "Your wing, your wing—that little bastard put a round through it—"

"No, he just grazed it," Silverbolt assured him. "I got patched up all right, see?"

Whisper glanced at the wound, but it was covered with kevlar wrap and polished brighter than the rest of Silverbolt's frame. The shot was near the joint where the Autobot's frame was already wearing down with stress, and Whisper's anger rose up again.

"I'll find him," he hissed. "When I get that little aft in my sights—"

"You'll do nothing," Silverbolt said sternly. "I deserved it—I tried to stop him, and I...we were..."

Silverbolt flushed dark with heat and steamed with the coolant rush to his faceplate.

"He hurt you," Whisper insisted. "His own comrade."

"Promise me," Silverbolt said. "Promise me you won't."

Whisper stared at him for a moment, then gave a thin, humorless smile.

"Why not?" he said. "Not like I'll get out of here to shoot him anyway."

Silverbolt reached up, but he hesitated as the sudden movement made Whisper startle back. When the Decepticon saw that it was simply his hand and that Silverbolt meant no harm, Whisper relaxed and allowed the soft caress to his faceplate.

"Promise me," Silverbolt said again.

Whisper gave a long vent, resting his helm against the bars and feeling Silverbolt lean against him.

"Only because you want it." Whisper luxuriated in the presence of the other mech, holding him through the bars, careful of the wing. "Only because you're so scared of the consequences."

Silverbolt grumbled, a low, pleasant hum in Whisper's hands.

"I'm only scared of flying," Silverbolt said. "Nothing else."

"Not even terrible 'cons?" Whisper said, his smile growing fond.

"Especially not 'cons with overinflated egos." Silverbolt closed his optics as Whisper ran his knuckles lightly over his faceplate. "I'll never know how you found out—only Optimus knows."

Whisper vented in harshly, suddenly standing straight. He froze as Silverbolt's weapons came online and targeted on his spark—but then Silverbolt calmed and disengaged each firearm.

"Your Prime—does he know yet? Are you safe? Can you get out of here, go somewhere, lay low for awhile?"

Silverbolt shook his helm once with a rueful smile. "He's not like that. I told you."

Whisper clenched his denta, lowering his glare to the floor. "Everyone thinks that the anger won't come down on them, and then it's too late and you're a pile of crushed metal for the smelting heap."

"Optimus is good," Silverbolt said, putting his hands on Whisper's faceplate to force him to meet his look. "A reprimand, a security scan, some really vicious teasing from Ironhide...I'm more afraid of facing the rest of my team now."

Whisper narrowed his optics. "You've already faced him?"

Silverbolt nodded. "He seemed a lot less upset than I thought he would, even for him."

None of that made sense. Whisper studied Silverbolt again. There was the torn and patched wing strut, the worn joints, some scuffing along his pedes and sides from the sand...but nothing like the crushing dents and rends that should have been there. Megatron would have crippled any bot for such an offense. The Prime would do no less.

Silverbolt was fine. Smiling, even.

Which meant...

Whisper stiffened.

It could only be one thing.

This was a trap.

He had fallen into a perfectly planned honey trap.

"I am a fool."

Whisper backed away, leaving Silverbolt's arm, moving against the far wall.

"What?" Silverbolt wondered.

"I am a fool," Whisper said.

"Wait—what—?"

"The coy act, following after us into the desert, even...even all the stories." Whisper put his hand over his faceplate, pressing hard in sudden realization. "You were all playing the long game. And we fell for it. I fell for it..."

Whisper reached back to the wall for support, reeling as gravity seemed to fail. His pedes shook, and he let himself slide down to the floor.

"I fell for it...all."

"Wait, no—"

Silverbolt followed him down to the floor, pressing so hard against the bars that they groaned under his weight.

"This wasn't a game," Silverbolt said. "This wasn't a trap."

"Why else would you pretend interest in a damned 'con?"

Whisper rested his arms over his knees, cradling his helm. He couldn't even process sadness and loss yet. The sheer immensity of the conspiracy overwhelmed him. Cold sank into him as frame ran too many coolant cycles.

Seconds dragged by. Silverbolt watched him close in on himself, wings angling protectively closer. He considered what Whisper must be feeling, the terrible certainty of a painful force-download and death all alone in the enemy base. The humiliation of thinking Silverbolt had lied.

"You paranoid aft," Silverbolt murmured. "You're so sure we're just like you that you'll believe the absolute worst of me."

Whisper didn't move.

Silverbolt heaved a vent, then arranged his pedes so that he was sitting down more comfortably.

"If it was a trap, then...I came down here for what?" Silverbolt laughed despite himself. "Crazy 'con."

Whisper lifted his helm just enough to glare.

Silverbolt goaded him. "You figured out I'm terrified of heights but then you go and act like this?"

No response. Whisper wouldn't answer. Silverbolt had seen his own aerialbots act sullen sometimes, refusing to talk, so he tried something else.

"How did you figure out my thing with heights?" Silverbolt asked. "What gave me away?"

So here it was, Whisper thought. Part of the interrogation—what tipped him off to their weaknesses? Whisper almost snapped, but the memory replaying in his cortex was too distracting. The roaring dogfight between his patrol and the aerialbots, the way he cornered Silverbolt and isolated him from his forces, the wind drowning out their engines as they plunged through the sky. The sunlight gleaming off of Silverbolt's surface, the way the Autobot clung to the clouds.

"You flew so straight," Whisper said softly. "Your turns were too sharp. Too precise. You don't weave and twist naturally. And your voice..."

Silverbolt didn't speak, waiting patiently.

"'Stay together'," Whisper said. "You told your team to take care of each other, you could handle yourself. But your voice was shaking. And then you turned and transformed, and you..."

Whisper's glare grew hotter, stung by how neatly the trap had been laid.

"Your wings were bent too tight. Frightened little scrap of tin."

Silverbolt waited.

The silence grated on Whisper's nerves.

"At least that was real," Whisper hissed. "At least I know you're a coward in the sky."

Silverbolt waited.

"I won't give you the satisfaction," Whisper said. "I'll tear my own spark out. You won't get anything out of me."

Silverbolt waited.

"Why'd you even pick me?" Whisper lowered his helm again. "Was I such an easy target?"

Silverbolt half-shrugged.

"You stood out," he admitted. "You were in control of yourself, in control of your team. I was...impressed."

Whisper scoffed.

"Okay, and you're on the shiny side." Silverbolt smiled. "Paranoid, vain aft."

Another long moment dragged out. Whisper didn't move. Silverbolt winced as his communications line audibly opened and Powerglide let loose with a barrage of questions demanding answers—Silverbolt muted the line. He could at least put his team off for a little longer.

Whisper had fallen silent again. Silverbolt vented and gave him a look.

"At least tell me why you think this is a trap?"

"You really think I'd believe you'd do all this?" Whisper asked. "Turn your patrol against you, disobey your Prime, risk your command and rank...for nothing?"

Silverbolt met his gaze steadily. "Not for nothing. For you."

Whisper laughed, a harsh wrench of metal grinding on steel.

"A 'con," he said. "A warbuild. A flying frag. Piece of smelt."

Silverbolt didn't flinch. He'd uttered those slurs a dozen times every day for ages.

"A 'con," he nodded. "You."

Whisper snarled. "Liar."

Silverbolt winced at the heat in the word.

"You really think that I don't feel anything for you?" Silverbolt said. "That everything I did with you meant nothing?"

Whisper didn't answer. But he looked at Silverbolt, and his optics were clear. Whisper believed it meant nothing, and that hurt more than what he believed was his impending death.

"Because my Prime didn't half-kill me," Silverbolt said. "What the hell is Megatron like to his own troops?"

Whisper didn't answer.

There was no other way of doing this, and Silverbolt was not given to hesitating over decisions. He gave a long vent, glared at Whisper, and then turned on his comm line.

"Optimus...Silverbolt."

Whisper's optics widened.

"Could..." Silverbolt groaned at himself. "Primus, this is awful. Optimus...could you please meet me in the brig?"

"I'm right here, Silverbolt."

The rest of the lights came on. Optimus stood behind the medical bay, his large frame obscured by the berth and operating center. Ironhide stood a little behind him, rifle unslung.

Silverbolt shot to his pedes in a semblance of attention. "Prime! I...we...I didn't..."

Then he frowned. "How did you get in here without me noticing?"

Optimus chuckled. "I may not be Jazz, but I can be quiet when I want to."

"How long?" Silverbolt asked, his shoulders drooping.

Ironhide grinned. "Red saw ya hightailing it down here, and we were in the neighborhood. Whisper there didn't even notice us."

"So." Optimus turned his attention to Whisper, who pushed himself to his pedes but stayed back against the wall. They regarded each other, and Whisper had to crane his neck to look up at Optimus, now all too aware that the Prime was just as big as Megatron.

"You think I'm not harsh enough with my discipline?" Optimus asked.

"No..." Whisper put his hand out, hesitating. "No, I didn't...that's not what I..."

"Because that's what you expect," Optimus said. He clasped Silverbolt's shoulder as if not noticing how the younger mech looked up in confusion. "Just like Megatron, right?"

"No—no." Whisper came close, grabbing the bars. "I didn't mean that. I thought..."

"The aerialbots haven't seen the consequences of Megatron's anger," Optimus said. "Silverbolt's young. Younger than you. He has no idea what you're talking about, not really."

"I know about Megatron," Silverbolt protested. "Ironhide told me."

"Being told," Ironhide said, "and actually seeing it done are two different things, sparkling."

"But..." Silverbolt fell silent and followed Ironhide's hand, looking back at Whisper.

The Decepticon clenched the bars so tight that metal bits shaved off the edges of his fingers. His optics had gone wide, but it was the brightness inside, the tiny liquid crystal igniting under the lenses, that showed the white rims of his internal servos. He'd stopped venting, and the condensation hissed along his engines and armor, turning his vocalizer scratchy as moisture sparked inside of his throat.

Silverbolt froze. Whisper, proud commander of Decepticon forces, was afraid. Of Optimus. Of Optimus' hand on Silverbolt's shoulder.

Silverbolt looked up at Prime. "I don't...?"

"Imagine if I closed my hand around your wing," Optimus said softly. "With all my strength."

Silverbolt flinched. A wing strut was so delicate—it would have been crushed like aluminum.

"He doesn't have to imagine it," Optimus said. "He's seen Megatron do it."

"...oh."

Silverbolt found himself standing in the center of a conversation going on above his helm. He understood what Optimus meant, and he understood what Ironhide meant. He could even understand that Whisper was afraid and why. But...

"This is why you keep calling me sparkling," he realized.

"Some things," Ironhide said, "you gotta live through to understand. S'just the way it is."

"But..." Silverbolt looked at Whisper. "He won't! You know he won't, I told you he's not like Megatron."

"Aren't I?" Optimus asked, still holding Silverbolt. "I have an army. I have a cause. And when someone violates that cause—"

The threat had barely been uttered when Whisper gave a small shriek despite himself.

"No, no, no, don't—" Whisper said quickly, his voice as low as his name. "Please—he never told me anything. He didn't—he never crossed cables, he never—"

"He told you this was a trap," Ironhide said. "Didn't he?"

"No, Primus, he didn't—" Whisper saw Optimus' hand tighten just a little, just enough to give Silverbolt what seemed like a light jostling. It was enough to make Whisper's voice die as his whole frame trembled.

Silverbolt couldn't stand it. He slipped from Optimus' hold and went to Whisper, holding him between the bars, stunned to feel him painfully overheated.

"Please," Whisper said into Silverbolt's throat cables. "Please. I'll tell you anything. Just don't..."

"He wouldn't," Silverbolt tried to tell him. "Prime's good. He—"

"Please!" Whisper looked over Silverbolt, holding him tight and all too aware of how he could slip away. "Please...anything."

"Anything?" Optimus asked.

"Yes! Whatever you want—patrol schedules, energon depots, our bases, codes..."

Optimus smiled behind his mask.

"Then I only have one demand. To believe him." Optimus nodded at Silverbolt. "Because I don't hurt my soldiers."

Disbelief clouded Whisper's optics.

"Look at him," Optimus said. "Do you think he's ever seen from me what you've seen from Megatron?"

Whisper met Optimus' gaze for a long moment, then leaned back and studied Silverbolt. He read on his faceplate concern, confusion, a little of a youngster's defensiveness of being called young. But no terror. No despair. Silverbolt had never seen a mech ripped limb from limb—shoulder joint torn from its socket, wires snapping, sparking, oil and energon splashing the ground, the high pitched glitching scream and pathetic flailing as the mech helplessly jerked. The awful crash of tons of steel into a weaker frame. The faceplate, irrevocably crumpled while the spark slowly faded.

Whisper held Silverbolt close again, as close as he could through the bars. Looked at Optimus. Looked where the Matrix of Leadership lay in the center of his armor and felt its presence. This was a Prime...but not a Prime that he understood.

"What are you?" he vented.

Optimus sent a ping to Ratchet to send Firstaid along, and pinged Skyfire to escort Starscream from the hangar to the brig. Then he nodded to Ironhide, who grabbed two chairs and dragged them closer.

"That answer takes some time," Optimus said, having a seat. "When Firstaid arrives for the medical scan, we'll be able to talk."

Whisper considered that. Then closed his optics and held Silverbolt close again.

After a long interrogation / discussion / exhibition / Silverbolt didn't know what else, it was finally done. Whisper held his hand through the whole thing, talking with the Prime, listening, sometimes snapping, sometimes silent. The only time Whisper lost his composure again was when Starscream was escorted in, treating Silverbolt and all the Autobots in attendance to a shrieking fit between the two as they accused each other of being spies, being dangerous, and then of being so soft and weak that the enemy had to take pity on them.

How... Silverbolt sent a quiet ping to Skyfire. How on earth did you fall for that howling pile of crazy?

Skyfire's amusement was obvious in his response even as he escorted Starscream back out of the brig.

How'd you fall for that scheming pile of paranoia?

Silverbolt frowned, but Whisper was falling into recharge, leaning against the bars as his pedes stretched out in front of him. Silverbolt squeezed his hand, then tucked it on Whisper's lap and started to slip away.

To his surprise, Whisper held him tight. Wide awake, Whisper visibly hesitated. Glanced at Ironhide and Optimus, who returned his look.

"Silver." Whisper twitched, acutely aware of being stared at. "I..."

Silverbolt waited, refusing to fidget even with their audience.

"I'm..."

Whisper choked. Apologies were a sign of weakness. Apologies were for civilian pieces of tin who bent over backward to anyone stronger. Apologies did nothing useful or practical. Only subordinates apologized to their betters.

"I'm...glad," he said finally. "That..that this wasn't a trap."

Silverbolt smiled.

"So am I."

Silverbolt waited until Whisper was in recharge, then left with Optimus and Ironhide, locking up the brig and heading into the main elevator that, until then, Silverbot had thought was the only way in or out. He had the feeling that he was leaving a bird locked up in a cage, and he mentioned as much to his commanders.

"A bird that can bite yer fingers off," Ironhide said. "Don't forget he's dangerous, sparkplug."

"I know," Silverbolt vented, rubbing a growing dull pain in his helm. "What am I going to tell my flight? That I fell for a mech that's shot us up any number of times?"

"An' threatened to blow up a buncha earth youngsters," Ironhide added.

Silverbolt glanced at him. "I...I know."

Ironhide raised an optic ridge.

"I'm not stupid," Silverbolt said. "I looked at the files we had on him after—"

"—after the first time he revved your thrusters?" Ironhide asked.

"No!" Silverbolt narrowed his optics. "When he cornered me and then let me go. He...he had a targeting solution on me, sir. A sure kill. It was just bad luck...but he let me go. So I looked up what we had on him, and..."

"It does kind of color the whole self-sacrificial 'I'll do anything' routine, huh?" Ironhide said. "I ain't saying he's evil through and through, kid, but he's been through a lot more war than you have. Don't go into this thinking he's some poor, innocent Praxian."

Silverbolt thought about that, and thought about Skyfire and Starscream, and Soundwave. And about the pictures he'd seen of all the other Autobots engaging in tactile play with Decepticons.

"Sir...if I can ask this," he started slowly, not sure if this was even a question he wanted to ask.

"Go ahead," Optimus said. "Worst I can do is say it's classified."

"Why are you allowing this?" Silverbolt counted off the Decepticons on his fingers. "Starscream, Soundwave, Whisper...and those are the ones I know about. Why are you permitting these relationships?"

Optimus and Ironhide shared a look.

Silverbolt felt something settle in his spark. Yes, there was a plan going on in the background.

"Wars are disgusting, terrible things," Optimus said. "They shouldn't go on forever. I would simply ask that, if you continue exploring your relationship with Whisper, keep an open mind to who he is, both good and bad. And remember to extend that courtesy to other 'bots in the same situation."

"Thank you, sir, but I don't think I'll have to worry about giving other bots the benefit of the doubt." He vented. "Not many other cross-factionists to commiserate with."

"More than you might think," Optimus said far too cheerfully to be talking about fraternizing with the enemy. "And if anyone gives you grief, tell them it's a classified operation on a need to know basis only."

"What is?" Silverbolt asked.

"Exactly," Ironhide said, giving Optimus a look that Silverbolt couldn't decipher.

"Uh...yessir?" The elevator came to the second hangar. Silverbolt stepped out, turning and offering a salute. "I'm not sure I—"

"Anyway," Ironhide said. "Tell me, sparkplug. He might be Whisper, but is he actually a screamer?"

Ironhide returned the salute as a dark red flush heated Silverbolt's faceplate down his throat all the way to his spark case. The door closed as Optimus gave Ironhide a firm bop on the helm and a very stern look.

Coughing, not sure that had actually happened, Silverbolt decided to skip talking to his squad and instead went straight to his personal recharge bay. Maybe he could spend the rest of the war in deep recharge and this nightmare would pass before he had to face anyone ever again.

The sun finally dipped under the sky, the last bits of light fading from purple to darkness, and they turned on nightvision—but when Jazz and his Autobots kept sweeping the sky with highbeams, the few Decepticons that hadn't been blinded found it better to simply fire toward the lights.

A bombing run destroyed the highway in front of them. Before they even reached the ruined crevasse, Jazz had his bots turn sharp to one side, going offroad into the sand. Smokescreen added to the billowing waves and covered their escape—carpet bombs fell behind and around them, but the plumes of dust made it impossible to see the shapes of the cars inside.

Left! Smokescreen yelled, and they made a hard turn straight into what was little more than an open shaft in the ground. They had to trust his ability to see through the haze—the pounding blasts chased them right up to the entrance. Single-file, they pushed ahead, not so much hoping to find a way out as much as simply finding cover.

What is this place? Bumblebee asked, pulling a heavy steel cart out of the rocks to serve as cover.

Old iron mine, Smokescreen said. Seen it with Hound. It's got a couple bends we can use for a running fight.

Don't suppose it's got a way out, Counterpunch asked.

No such luck, Smokescreen said.

Better'n catching bombs outside, Jazz said, placing a handful of small charges at the base of the mine supports. Worse comes to worse, we bring down the timbers holding this place up, bury some jets behind us.

The heavy thud of jets landing at the entrance made them freeze.

Think they'll just blast the entrance? Bumblebee wondered. Bury us alive?

No good, Jazz said. We could dig our way out. They'd have been told to make sure.

The steps began to come in, coupled with the deep rumble of jet engines. The smaller Autobots crouched behind the scant cover they could find. Each of them took aim into the darkness, waiting for the lumbering shapes of Decepticons to press in.

Pick your targets, Jazz said softly. Usual spread.

At this range? Counterpunch boggled. In the dark?

They won't be using nightvision either, Jazz said, bringing up his favored targeting heads-up display. He lowered his helm to view through the scope and waited.

The steps came closer.

The vents around him caught and held in anticipation.

Just a little closer, Jazz thought. Come on, step closer, you clumsy aft—

The jet in front ignited a broad beam of light that briefly flashed through the mine and gleamed on the edges of the Autobots' armor. Lit from beneath, Apeface broke into a grin as he started forward eagerly.

There was a shot—Apeface jerked, optics going wide. He started to turn, and a second shot hit his helm. Then a third sent him crashing down, face-first, into the dirt.

Jazz paused. He hadn't fired. None of his bots had fired. The forward Decepticons began to turn around, expecting an hidden Autobot. Then Jazz saw what was coming up from the mine's entrance.

I know there ain't much dirt here— Jazz said, but hit it anyway!

All four Autobots pressed as tight as they could into their cover—the reason why came immediately as tracer rounds lit the mine around them. Bumblebee winced as a shot grazed his shoulder, and another shot stung across Smokescreen's helm.

The fight was over as quick as it started. Silence.

His back against the rock wall, his mechs on either side of him, Jazz stood.

Half a dozen Decepticons stood in front of him, and several grayed out 'cons lay between them.

No one moved.

"S-s-so...um..."

Jazz risked bring up his headlights, set low. The Decepticon Spasma, a small black jet with bent fins and two smoking wounds in his wings, met Jazz's look. Glanced at his comrades. Then back at Jazz.

With a wary vent, Spasma slow, slowly, painfully slowly, lowered the end of his gun.

"C-c-can we come with you?"

Jazz looked from Spasma to the rest of the standing Decepticons—all six of them—then at the dead Decepticons on the ground. He scanned them quickly just to be sure. This was no illusion and no trick. Those sparks had been extinguished, all of them shot by the jets holding lowered firearms.

"Wanna run that by me again?" Jazz said. "'Cause I think I misheard ya. You want to come back to base? The Autobot base?"

"I know it s-sounds d-dumb," Spasma said, scratching the back of his helm. He looked over his shoulder, but the rest of the Decepticons shook their helms and even motioned for him to keep going.

A tiny muffled chuckle came from Bumblebee, and Jazz barked a sharp internal command to shut up. Jazz couldn't afford to start laughing with him, no matter how ridiculous the 'Cons looked. Spasma had all the presence of a reluctant schoolmech forced to speak for a group presentation.

"It's like, Lord M-megatron is raging at anyone he ev-ven suspects is a cross-factionist. Thundercracker has us f-flying lots of missions to keep us s-safe, but we're r-running out of energon, and...and we saw you, and you let S-Soundwave live...we thought..."

Spasma tapped his fingertips together.

"We figured...I mean, Groove said your prime was better..."

Jazz kicked one of the greyed out Decepticons, just to make sure it didn't flinch and reveal that this was one big trick. That would have made so much more sense than a handful of defectors drilling their former comrades in the back.

"I'ma guess," he said, "that these weren't no friends of yours."

"Purists," Spasma muttered, as if the word was filthy. "Anti-cross-f-factionists."

Spasma didn't explain any further, as if those terms were all the answer Jazz needed. Jazz considered the situation—six 'cons, four 'bots, one mineshaft, and a long road yet to go. Bringing them home would give poor Red Alert a terrible shock, but on the other hand, Jazz would have some fantastic air support for the ride home. Prowl's hopes for seeding this mutiny could only work if Jazz gave it room to grow.

So Megatron had turned his rage on his own troops and chased the more reluctant ones out. Jazz nodded once to himself.

Never interrupt the enemy when he's making a mistake...or doing you a favor.

"Of course you can come with," Jazz said, lowering his gun but not taking it back into subspace. "Damn glad to I don't have to kill y'all."

"R-r-right," Spasma said, chuckling as if they were sharing a joke. "Four 'bots ag-g-gainst six j-jets?"

"Ya never know," Jazz said. "You might'a had reinforcements and made it a fair fight."

Spasma gave a shaky vent and watched as the Autobots stood, and he frowned as he identified each of them. His shoulders drooped in disappointment.

"Groove isn't w-with you," he realized. "I thought...w-wasn't he with you b-b-before? He isn't..."

"Groove wasn't with us," Jazz assured him. "But if you were all hoping for conjugal visits, I might be able to make that happen."

He briefly mentioned how they'd have to be scanned and arrested and put in the brig, but none of it seemed to faze them. By unspoken agreement, the jets went out first, save for Spasma, who kept at Jazz's side as a sort of hostage and show of good faith.

A thought struck Jazz, and he leaned down to whisper at the smaller Decepticon.

"Groove, and, uh...?" He motioned at the other five jets.

Spasma frowned, his optic ridge furrowing...and then his optics went wide and he shook his helm emphatically.

"No no! No, no. Um..." He saw the other jets looking back at him in concern, and he waved his hands. "It's nothing, it's nothing. Just a little m-m-misunderstanding."

He leaned over to Jazz. "Just me. J-just m-me. I met Groove...well, he shot me down and he was going in for the kill, and then he just...didn't."

"Sounds like him," Jazz vented. "He's as bad as 'Comber."

"He really is," Spasma chuckled. "Beachcomber shot me down once, too. And th-then he gave me a l-long talk about pacifism and n-n-not fighting and he gave me...well, s-some of it was energon, but I don't know what it was s-spiked with."

Jazz took a long vent, ran what last drips of coolant he had left—he could feel the condensation sizzling on his overheated armor.

'Comber...for fuck's sake, he thought.

Look at the bright side, Smokescreen said helpfully behind him. Now you know how Prowl feels when you tell him what we did during a mission.

Chapter Text

On the sixth day of Jazz's absence, Prowl felt like his protoform might crawl up and out of his own armor. Disallowed from Autobot mission frequencies, forbidden from accessing signals that would have strained his systems, Prowl forced himself to focus solely on his current assignment—training the insubordination out of half of the base.

A powerful rev of an engine came up along the vertical cliffside of the plateau. It was close, but not so close that Prowl needed to move out of the way. His pedes ached from standing so long, and they would have hurt even worse if he had to walk.

Warpath's tank turret began to creep inch by inch into view. Beside him, clinging to his treads, Bluestreak and Powerglide both tried to drag his frame up while keeeping him from sliding down. Warpath's engine was completely drowned out by Bluestreak's steady cheering and Powerglide's cursing.

Just behind them, Blurr had discovered the limitations of running fast, coming just short of the precipice. On either side, Cliffjumper and Cloudraker both had their hands full keeping him from sliding down.

But it was Blades who slowly came into view, one of the few Autobot fliers, painfully hovering up the side of the plateau. Straining under the weight, the helicopter groaned as he carried Brawn, who hung from one hand from Blade's undercarriage. Brawn was also groaning loudly, and the reason appeared in Brawn's other hand—Tracks in altmode, wincing as the smaller bot grasped his grill too tightly.

And then Tracks was up against the cliff, and his spinning wheels finally grasped dirt and brought him up under his own power. Brawn and Blades both dropped down onto Tracks' roof, flat on top of each other and venting heavily, as Tracks rolled up toward Prowl.

"We...we made it, sir," Tracks gasped. "I think I lost all my coolant on that one."

"You better have," Brawn grumbled. "If I find out you was carrying full tanks..."

Prowl nodded once at them, letting the threat go unmentioned. Brawn was not angry, and stomping on all outbursts would only backfire.

"An impressive win to our modified hill climb," Prowl said. "You have won the privilege of early dismissal to the mess all."

"Right," Blades grinned. "And this time, Tracks, you're carrying us!"

The three of them rolled down the long ramp to the base. Prowl watched them go, then turned his attention to the other groups. Most of the Autobots were at varying heights against the cliff, but Blurr slid down and took his teammates with him. That left Bluestreak and Powerglide finally reaching up over the plateau, digging their fingers into the dirt, hauling Warpath the last few inches until the tank treads grabbed the earth so that they could all collapse in exhaustion.

"Only a minute behind," Prowl commented. "Excellent work. When you are capable, you may head to the mess hall."

Warpath transformed, raised a single thumbs up, then let his hand flop back in the dust.

Powerglide lay on his back, steaming with coolant. "What...the pit...is this supposed to prove? What kinda...slagging race...is this?"

"As with all good training exercises," Prowl said, logging their time on his datapad, "it is based on an actual incident. Two Paradron Medics brought a mech with a broken transformation cog up a sheer cliff."

Splayed on his front, Bluestreak craned his helm to see him. "Did the mech make it?"

Prowl finished typing. "No, but I am confident that you and Powerglide would improve on their time. In the event of an actual medevac, Ratchet will have this data to draw upon for assisting mechs."

"...huh."

Bluestreak put his hand up toward Prowl. Few mechs would have behaved with that much familiarity with their second in command, but both were Praxians—just a handful left of a vibrant city utterly destroyed by Decepticons. And they had known each other for a very, very long time.

Prowl moved to take his hand, but he hesitated halfway. With an apologetic vent, he stood straight again.

"I am still too structurally compromised," Prowl said. "If I attempt to help you up, I will collapse."

Bluestreak's look changed to concern, and he turned on his hands and knees and clambered up on his pedes.

"Are you really okay enough to be out here? Ratchet wouldn't have signed off on you if you weren't okay, but then if you're that hurt...but then I guess if you have to babysit all of us who got into fights..."

Bluestreak looked past Prowl where Soundwave stood, optics lowered, locked in a light recharge cycle.

Throughout the past few days of their training exercises, Soundwave had been a constant presence, silent unless taking orders from Prowl, still unless following at Prowl's shoulder. A constant processing murmur reverberated through his frame as Soundwave unceasingly performed whatever functions he'd been given.

"Is it really true that he saved you?" Bluestreak asked.

Prowl nodded once. "Yes."

Bluestreak frowned and looked back over the vast desert before them. Numerous Autobots scrambled at the bottom in three-mech teams, struggling to bring themselves up to the top.

"Now that I know what it's for," Bluestreak said, "it doesn't seem like it's busywork or punishment. That's what all of us were thinking when you assigned it. But now that I know it's something mechs had to do before and that there's something real behind it, it kinda feels bad that we can't really do it so easily."

"It is not an easy task," Prowl said. "All mechs are not meant for all jobs. I cannot shoot as well as you do."

"I can't calculate like you do," Bluestreak chuckled. "Wouldn't want to, even."

"The right bot for the right job," Prowl said.

Bluestreak looked at him for a long moment. Even as Warpath and Powerglide finally gathered themselves up and headed for the mess hall, Bluestreak considered his question. When they were alone, Bluestreak asked.

"Why?"

Prowl heard all of the different questions wrapped up in that. Why the training exercises? Why Soundwave? Why were the cross-factionists still being trusted? Why Starscream? Why the prisoner down in the brig?

Prowl did not miss the way Sunstreaker and Sideswipe both stood a little straighter, listening attentively. Anything he said here would immediately reach the rest of the Autobots.

"How much about the assassination attempt is known?" Prowl asked.

"Just that there was a bomb," Bluestreak said. "And that he...he took the blast."

"During one of many interrogations," Prowl began, "a drone disguised as an Autobot came inside and sealed the chamber. It was directly in front of me. It drew its turrets at what would have been point blank range—"

Bluestreak winced.

"—and then I could not see the drone. Soundwave had stepped in front and struck it repeatedly. I do not recall hearing automatic fire, but from the wounds he suffered afterward, Soundwave must have taken several shots before he disabled it. After he inflicted enough damage, the drone detonated. It destroyed most of the room, and it nearly killed both of us."

Bluestreak studied Prowl's frame and the concentration of patches and cracks on his frame, then mentally envisioned Prowl behind Soundwave and puzzled out the way that the blast must have unfolded.

"Did he know it was rigged to explode?" Bluestreak asked.

"Not until the last moment," Prowl said. "He had little time to act."

"So he backed up and—"

"No," Prowl said. "He engaged and tried to disable it up until it exploded against him. When he woke, he spliced our fuel lines together to keep me alive."

Bluestreak's lips parted. "Why?"

"...for many reasons." Prowl tilted his helm. "But ultimately because Megatron can no longer keep up the lie that what he wants is what is best for all mechs."

Bluestreak looked at Soundwave again. His fingertips twitched with the constant command to disengage a targeting lock on Soundwave's sparkcase. The warbuild stood taller than both of them, and his armor plating made for an intimidating target. It didn't matter that his armaments had been visibly removed, leaving indentations where sonic arrays had been stripped off. They knew what a warbuild was capable of. Bluestreak had seen all too clearly through his sniper scope when lining up a shot.

He met Prowl's gaze, and the unspoken lay between them.

Praxus.

Prowl closed his optics.

"We're done for the day," he said. "I will see you tomorrow."

Bluestreak put his hand on Prowl's. Turned to leave. Kept a wary watch on Soundwave the entire time, and transformed, rolling too quickly back to the Ark.

Prowl stood for a few more minutes before taking mercy on everyone else, ordering them to return early the next morning before dismissing them for the evening. A heap of collapsed bots gave weak salutes and untangled themselves from the bottom of the plateau, giving rides to those too tired to transform. The line back had all the air of a demoralized retreat.

"Ain't any of 'em gonna start a fight," Sideswipe chuckled. "They're all running on fumes."

"Mission accomplished for now," Prowl said. "The real test will be keeping them from fighting when they are not spent."

He glanced back at Soundwave.

"Re-engage, please, but continue processing. We are returning to the officer's mess."

Soundwave's optics rekindled with their usual golden glow. He took a long vent, standing straight, and glanced down at Prowl.

"Query, continue processing indefinitely?"

"Yes, for as long as Red Alert sends you data."

Prowl briefly considered if their paranoid security officer would continue to trust Soundwave, but in truth, the data sent involved more base functions and synchronous movement than actual sensitive material. And, if necessary, Red Alert could always order Sunstreaker and Sideswipe to gun Soundwave down where he stood. Unlikely that he would do that without asking Prowl's opinion, but...

Escorted by the twins, Prowl and Soundwave walked the long way to the ark. By mutual agreement, neither strained their transformation cogs nor risked exposing their healing systems to the drifting sand. And Prowl made sure that the elevator they took was both empty and large enough to fit all four of them. Only when they were well ensconced in the Ark did Sideswipe and Sunstreaker go off duty and leave them unguarded.

A message came on high priority.

I'm sending along your medical logs, Ratchet said. Soundwave's, too. You're both fit to leave the medbay for your own quarters, provided you come by for scheduled checkups and don't push yourself.

Understood, Prowl said. And then paused. Hm. That...presents a new difficulty.

No quarters for the boom-box, huh? Ratchet shook his helm once. Well, that's definitely a 'you' job. Just don't park him next to my berth, huh?

Oh? Do you sleep anywhere but the medbay? Prowl asked.

Aft. Just whatever you do, make sure he gets a real berth. He took a hell of a beating, too. If he wasn't a warbuild, he wouldn't have made it.

Neither of us would have, Prowl said. Thank you for the update. I will see to his quartering.

The exchange took only a moment. Choosing Soundwave's quarters took even less time—large enough for his frame, removed from the Autobot general ranks, isolated from the rest of the officers, and close so that Prowl could keep him under watch beyond what Red Alert had set up. He had chosen it by the time they reached the mess hall.

There were no other officers when they entered, just a single mostly-empty cube a few tables away. Too early for most of the command cadre, too late for Perceptor and Ratchet, and Jazz...

No. Thinking about Jazz still hurt.

Prowl directed Soundwave to fetch two cubes and sat down to wait. His struts ached as he finally took the weight off of his joints, and he lowered his helm as all of the tension eased out of his shoulders.

"Prowl...in need of medical attention?"

Soundwave set the cubes down but didn't sit.

"No," Prowl said, waving one hand without looking at him. "I'm fine. I am merely tired."

"Understood." Soundwave joined him at the table, sitting across, and put his hands around the cube. He didn't drink, staring into the glowing energon. "Prowl's plan, working?"

"Bluestreak did not fire on you," Prowl vented. "Nor did Powerglide or the others. That is...progress."

Soundwave didn't respond.

Prowl straightened, rotating his neck and easing a kinked wire. He took a long draft of his cube, noting that Soundwave began drinking as well.

"You will not be returning to medbay," Prowl said. "Save for regular checkups."

Soundwave waited. He must have wondered where they intended to put him, but he didn't press for answers. Prowl had the sense that if he didn't clarify, Soundwave would recharge there in the mess hall. Prowl considered, taking another draft, and still the other mech waited.

"You will be restricted to quarters when not under my orders," Prowl said. "Or anyone else's, although I doubt you will be summoned. Your information is, at this point, no longer viable and must be considered out of date. Your main value lies in data processing and conditioning mechs to your presence."

Soundwave nodded once, acknowledging without argument.

"You are not being remanded to the brig, but you will remain under lockdown for everyone's safety. Including yours."

Another nod. Soundwave took a drink, and his optics drifted closed. Prowl had never seen him relax. Possibly no one ever had. Soundwave didn't smile, but his faceplate lost the tension at the corners of his optics. His edges smoothed out so that the light gleamed without flaw.

Soundwave was very shiny.

Prowl finished the cube but made no move to stand.

"You will be in the berth across from mine."

Now Soundwave reacted, optics slightly wide, and he regarded Prowl in surprise.

"Such proximity permitted?"

"I foresee no objections to it," Prowl said. Then, more slowly, as if he hadn't considered the thought before. "...do you object?"

Soundwave did not know how to respond. It made no sense to be placed so closely when there were farther, more secluded rooms. Jazz would have kept him in the brig, and Soundwave would have willingly stayed there as long as Jazz came to visit. There was a sense of clandestine secrecy, as if Jazz were breaking rules to meet him, and the long hours away made their stolen minutes so much sweeter.

But to be taken out of the brig and kept close, kept under watch, kept busy under a heavy processing load that left him little free will save to follow Prowl's command...brought a familiar stability. Prowl was second of the whole Autobot faction, above Jazz even, but more than that. Prowl was superior. Prowl's logic could be trusted. Even though they were no longer in each other's cortex, Soundwave thought that he could map out the logic tree that Prowl had created. And the logic tree held certain branches that, if Soundwave followed them, led to one appealing conclusion...

Their optics met.

Yes. Prowl had come to the same conclusion.

85% accordance and growing.

"Hypothesis created," Soundwave said. "But uncertain. In need of more data points."

Prowl tilted his helm. "'Hypothesis'?"

"Soundwave....1.5% out of tune."

With Jazz? No, Prowl thought, that hasn't changed. With civilians? With car culture? Then with who—?

Oh.

Prowl met his look.

"More data points....can be arranged," Prowl offered tentatively. "To bring you more in tune."

Soundwave gave a slow nod. "Complete harmony, perhaps impossible. But such harmony, desired."

Prowl considered again, briefly. He was waiting for Jazz. Prowl was a commanding officer. Prowl had numerous reasons not to trust Soundwave completely, even now. Prowl had the trust of the base riding on his cold logic. The base needed Prowl's impartiality and emotionless dedication to his duty. They wanted a glorified calculator.

But there were no other mechs who would work themselves into self-righteous indignation over mathematical formula. And certainly no other mech with such golden optics.

"Complete harmony is indeed impossible," Prowl said. "But the attempt would be..."

He struggled for something that didn't imply anything improper and couldn't find the word.

"...desirable," Soundwave said.

They held each other's looks for a long moment. The moment grew, then grew heavy. Soundwave finished his cube and stared into it.

"Programming matrices," Prowl said as if it needed clarification. "Logic trees."

"Base functions for database management," Soundwave added in agreement.

"Comparing battle algorithms," Prowl said. "We could discover the link between our favored formulae."

Soundwave's laugh was more of a vent—short, soft, startled at the suggestion. "Prowl's campaign solutions, often superior."

Prowl felt a wave of satisfaction. "Not going to defend Haytham's parabolas?"

"Parabolas, not in question. Prowl's computations......"

Soundwave paused, allowing for the full sense of what he was about to say.

"No. Prowl...superior."

This time, the thought between them did not land awkwardly or with disgust. Prowl studied him again, reading the small adjustments of Soundwave's optical servos. Seated this closely, the uniform golden glow colored every lens and switch of Soundwave's optics so that they blended and melted together, giving Soundwave a gaze focused on Prowl with hungry admiration.

A memory rose up—smoke, burning oil, the metallic tang of bent steel—and Prowl flinched as if struck. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to bring it up. He didn't want it in his memory banks. But if he didn't ask, it would always be there.

"Were you at Praxus?"

Soundwave's look fell away from Prowl, pulling inward as memories drew Soundwave back.

"Negative. Stationed at Kaon at time, developing control over Cybertronian communications grid. Praxus..."

Soundwave paused, loathe to discuss it. This topic hurt Prowl. The atrocity cut close, but to excuse himself from it was beneath both of them.

"Praxus, not related to communications grid. Praxus...not considered."

Prowl didn't move. He had only survived by virtue of being hundreds of miles away in another city, on an assignment he no longer remembered. When he had finally returned to find only Bluestreak amidst the carnage, the war that had seemed so far away was suddenly devouring his whole world. To hear that someone could simply not think of it...

"1.5% out of tune," he murmured.

Soundwave opened his mouth to respond. Closed it and lay his hands on the table.

"For now," Soundwave agreed. "For now."

Prowl met his gaze. Didn't smile, but gave a small nod. They passed another few moments in silence, and, in mutual agreement, rose from the table. Prowl's pede socket buckled and refused to straighten, and he took Soundwave's offered hand. By the time they reached the door, Prowl was moving under his own power but still holding Soundwave's hand.

Two tables away, seated behind a mostly-empty cube of energon, Mirage finally lowered his invisibility and finished his drink.

Chapter Text

A week later, with still no word from Jazz, Mirage made up his mind. They had almost finished compiling the list of all of what Ironhide called the 'con fuckers, searching out the last few names they couldn't pin down to individual mechs. He could at least present the updated list in person to Prowl and take advantage of the opportunity to make a request.

The time spent with command had been optic-opening, to say the least. No one questioned his loyalties or beliefs. He'd been so removed from the constant questions of Cliffjumper and the rest that he no longer felt so self-conscious about not wanting to kill every single Decepticon on earth. And he had become painfully aware that no one in command was infallible. 

Except Optimus. Optimus was still perfect. But even Optimus sometimes stumbled, and that was so much more inspiring. Even Optimus was trying.

So Mirage loaded everything into a single datapad, wrapped all the information into one packet, and left the base, taking Hound with him. Bumblebee shouldered Mirage's load of the work without comment, focused on chasing down the threads out from UMU. Beside him, Beachcomber and Rewind searched for the access times and ports UMU had used, trying to build a timeline to compare with attacks.

"You that worried about the prudes?" Hound asked, rolling alongside Mirage through the main corridor out. "I mean, Prowl's been out there with Soundwave for days."

Prowl isn't compromised in their optics by years of suspicion and doubt, Mirage said. Jazz always yelled at me for going out alone. If I'm riding out among that cheap crowd of mass-produced junk, I want backup I can trust.

Careful , m'lord, Hound said. Your nobility's showing. 

Warmth enveloped Mirage's spark. Hound was already covered in dust and mud from earlier in the day—there was no putting on airs with this mech. Hound would have been a low groundskeeper or, if he'd caught Mirage's optic, perhaps leader of a cyberfox hunt. And yet...

At long as you put up with me, Mirage said. I need to talk to Prowl alone, though. Could you—

I'll just shoot the breeze with the twins, Hound assured him. Won't even know I'm there.

As they came out, they found that the landscape around the Ark had changed. Hundreds of rocks of all sizes, from pebbles to stones as big as himself, had been painted black. Or, as Mirage drove by and could see more clearly, the tops of rocks had been painted black. The bots outside were absorbed in turning the rocks over so that the unpainted sides were turned up. 

Mirage watched five mechs struggling to push over a boulder larger than all of them put together. By the time he reached the top of the plateau, they were no closer to success. 

He returned a salute to Sideswipe and Sunstreak, leaving Hound with them as he walked up to Prowl. As always, Soundwave stood behind him, quietly computing. Then Soundwave shifted, giving a deep vent that briefly revealed two of his internal heatsinks beginning to steam. Whatever they had him processing must have been particularly difficult. 

"I've brought the updated list of who's who among the 'con-fu—" Mirage caught himself, wincing at Prowl's look. "—um, the cross-faction supporters."

Plus a few that I felt were too sensitive to put on a datapad.

Prowl raised an optic ridge, opening the datapacket even as he responded. 

I am currently unassigned to information gathering , Prowl said. And all other major base calculations.

Do you want me to take the datapad back? Mirage asked innocently.

Of course not, Prowl said. You really are as bad as Jazz.

Mirage chuckled and looked over the sands as bots pushed heavy stones over. A single boulder finally gave way and toppled sideways with a great plume of dust and a loud cheer.

"If I might ask..." Mirage said.

"This morning," Prowl said, "I had the twins plant low grade incendiary charges under cover. There was a panic during roll-out as every single one was triggered. This will ensure they never again take the safety of the road for granted."

Mirage whistled softly. "How did you get them back under control?"

Prowl gave a small smile. "Panicked troops will rally instinctively to confident leadership. It is simply a matter of projecting your sense of command."

Mirage nodded as if taking in a lesson.

"Also, I asked Ironhide to come yell at them," Prowl said. "The right bot for the right job."

Down below, the closest autobots wondered what Prowl had said that made Mirage laugh.

A minute passed. Prowl glanced sideways at Mirage, wondering why the other bot had come out. The information could have been sent along without physically meeting. What would have been important enough for Mirage to come—?

"Have you heard anything?" Prowl asked suddenly. "About Jazz?"

Mirage lowered his helm. "Nothing yet. I—"

The shaky vent that came startled them both, especially that it had come from Prowl. Mirage stared at him, surprised not that Prowl could have such depth of feeling but that it showed so strongly on his faceplate. Mirage was struck by just how much of Prowl was a carefully composed mask. Prowl was a cold, logical calculator—everyone knew that. 

"Is there a chance," Prowl said softly, almost a whisper, "that Jazz could have been killed before sending the message?"

It was good that Prowl was not looking directly at Mirage, who narrowed his optics. Mirage had a noble bearing he could hide behind, but he couldn't help glancing once at Soundwave, still locked within processing. 

"Jazz will have it on a hair trigger," Mirage said. "If he dies, it sends. He just has it toggled to go on his command because...he'd want to do it himself."

Any movement, any twitch or circuit switch—Mirage tried to catch any change in Prowl. But Prowl was in control of himself again.

"Then Jazz must be alive."

"He's alive," Mirage said. "He's hiding and too busy to transmit. Or things are too chaotic for him to send a stable message."

"The calm center of the storm," Prowl agreed. "That sounds like him."

Another poumpf of dust and sand in the wind—the bots had finally turned over another boulder. Prowl turned his attention back on the troops before him, noting the team that had accomplished it and adding them to the top of the leaderboard.

Mirage scanned the desert and spotted Bluestreak in a small crowd. He was pressing his back against a rock beside a tank with smoke coming out of his treads and a minibot punching the stone in frustration. They didn't seem any closer than when they had started, and Mirage glanced at Prowl's datapad. The team was not dead last, but only because so many teams hadn't turned over a single stone either.

"Would you be able to spare Bluestreak tomorrow?" Mirage asked. 

"For how long?" Prowl asked. 

"Probably the whole day," Mirage said. "Maybe more, if he proves useful."

"'Useful'?"

"We're still trying to find out who UMU is," Mirage said.

"...it's been a week," Prowl said.

Mirage frowned. "Yes sir, I am aware."

"Do you require terms for a full search of the surnet?" Prowl asked. "I can create one in a moment if I do not have one on hand."

It had been years since Mirage had Prowl's full attention focused on him. He'd almost forgotten how much of an aft Prowl could be. "No, that will be unnecessary."

"A week to run a single search is beyond the farthest limits of what is usually required. Even if a single mech has used multiple aliases, they should not be so difficult to find."

Mirage ground his denta. 

"I am aware of that—" Mirage started.

"Then I fail to see how one additional bot will aid in the discovery," Prowl said. "If the entirety of Spec Ops cannot find one bot, perhaps the focus of the search should change to something your team is capable of."

Prowl said more than that, but Mirage shunted everything to background processing, to be listened to and complained about later. For now, his programming had triggered a subroutine with Jazz's recorded voice sternly telling Mirage that he was not allowed to be mad. He could get angry later, but any leader of Spec Ops was specifically prohibited from showing anger at all.

Might as well paint a 'Con decal on you, mech. If you get angry, you just did the enemy's job for 'em, Jazz had said, scolding him so strictly that Ironhide would have been proud. That the dressing down had happened in private with no one else nearby was the only reason Mirage could still hold his helm up with any dignity.

But—! Mirage had burned indignantly.

But nothing, Jazz said. Getting angry means fucking up, and Spec Ops don't fuck up. You ain't allowed to die, you ain't allowed to fail, and you ain't never allowed to get angry—you are cold, you are ice, you are a tall drink of frosty in a hot, dry desert. Got it?

A long vent, a coolant cycle that he deliberately slowed so that he developed no condensation, and a calm stare out over the troops—Mirage even politely waited for Prowl to finish. He clasped his hands behind his back, tilting his helm to audibly pop the stiff joint. He was a cold-sparked noble with an arrogant streak a mile wide, and Prowl was a mere peasant raging about...whatever it was that peasants raged about.

"—and when I am cleared to return to duty," Prowl said, with the air of wrapping up, "I will provide your team with work that you might be able to accomplish until Jazz's return."

Mirage let the silence drag long enough to squash the noble accent from his voice. Bad enough that he was about to channel Jazz's sensibilities—if he did it with a high class drawl, he might find Prowl siccing Ironhide on him.

"If you countermand Jazz's last order," Mirage started, "then we will of course obey, and I will notify him when he sees fit to contact me. Until then, I will request Bluestreak's temporary assignment to Spec Ops—"

"Why Bluestreak?" Prowl snapped. "There is a field of mechs in front of you. Why none of them?"

Mirage reset his optics.  

"All of these mechs have strong feelings regarding any sympathy toward Decepticons," Prowl said, gesturing at the ground below, "but to surround Bluestreak with cross-factionists after a cross-cabling fiasco that led disciplining half the army—"

"Say it more accurately," Mirage said over him. "Bluestreak hates 'cons for good reason. And has never swayed in his loyalty to the Autobot cause."

Prowl halted his diatribe, stymied by the lack of argument and clearly waiting for Mirage to give him the ammunition to refuse the request.

"And the cross-factionists have retreated into their own forums and echo chambers,"Mirage said, "just as the anti-factionists have retreated into theirs."

Prowl narrowed his optics, still not sure where Mirage was going with this.

"Yes. This is accurate."

"Do you really think," Mirage asked, his consonants clipped as his noble accent slipped in, "that I will have the same access to anti-cross factionalist groups through Cliffjumper?"

Prowl twitched. His processor stung any time the probabilities snapped so quickly into the negative.

"Powerglide? Blades?" Mirage continued. "Will Tracks come down off his paint job long enough to explain their slang and jargon to us?"

Prowl still did not answer.

"We have cleared away the noise and mapped out every route we can find through the surnet," Mirage said, "but UMU, whoever he is, is an anti-cross factionalist just as zealous as the mechs down there, and they are all hiding from us. Please tell me, sir, which bot gives me the highest probability of success?"

Prowl straightened. Looked over the field. Watched as another heavy stone finally rolled over. The sun was just beginning to touch the horizon, and heatwaves billowed on the edge of his vision.

"Ask Ironhide," Prowl said. "I have no authority over troop movements yet."

Prowl made no mention that Ironhide would have sent Mirage here. His jaw throbbed from how tight he had clenched down, and he deliberately forced himself to relax. He would continue this ridiculous exercise until the sun fully sank, and he refused to look at the annoying arrogant pile of slag that still thought noble class rankings meant anything on a battlefield. 

Was Mirage still standing there? Prowl felt another stab of aggravation. This reminded him of the first years of working with Jazz, then the unorthodox Tone who never showed anything but merciless grins over heavily redacted reports. Mirage wasn't using the same gallows humor, but the disregard for Prowl's sensibilities rankled just as much.

He turned, about to order Mirage off the field...and stopped.

Mirage had locked up tight, optics staring at nothing. His vents halted in his throat.

A download. 

Mirage was receiving a download of information so huge that it took up almost all of his processing. 

Prowl's first message went to Ratchet and Firstaid so that one of the could come out to ensure that Mirage didn't stall. Then to Optimus, with a promise to update him as more information became available. Then to—

Mirage coughed—his engines choked and he dropped to one knee, gulping down air as his systems threatened to overheat.

"—primus—ouch." Mirage knocked his hand against his helm. "Never warned me about that—"

"Mirage!" Prowl knelt next to him, ignoring the pain that flared in his pede. "Mirage, is Jazz—"

"—that shorted something for sure—"

"Mirage!"

The Spec Ops bot looked up, unfocused, seeing Prowl like a distant blur.

"It's jumbled," Mirage said, sorting the absolute piles of information suddenly dumped into his cortex. "No priority tags. They've been running—used the mines but they're on a straightaway now—"

"That means the highway in," Prowl said, already sending the information to Red Alert. Base defenses came online behind them, and numerous bots below found themselves issued orders to take up defensive posts. Pandemonium followed as bots drove every which way, shouldering each other as they scattered across the sand.

"Twelve jets—no, twenty jets—" Mirage winced. "Wait, no..."

He would only call ahead if he couldn't shake them, Ironhide said, coming onto the command level comm line. And if he couldn't avoid capture. Who's still alive?

Jazz, Counterpunch, Smokescreen, Bumblebee. Mirage hesitated. But...

"But what?" Prowl demanded, almost ready to plug in and download the information himself.

He didn't take anyone else, but he's listed Spasma as critical, in need of medical aid. Afterburner is injured. And four more mechs are listed with them.  

Still reeling from the download, Mirage began to compare the list with his own record of designations, but the orders were already pouring in from Ironhide, who rode out with the aerialbots scrambling behind him. The Autobots suddenly organized to him into recognizable patterns and prepared to receive incoming fire.

You'd think the 'Cons hadn't been coming for cross-cabling before, Brawn grumbled, broadcasting his irritation on the main line.

These aren't cross-cablers, Prowl said, latching onto the slang. They are defectors—

They're all that's standing between Jazz and several jets— Mirage broke in. I'm sending out their designations—do not shoot these specific 'cons, do you hear me?

There was no response, but there were dozens of pings acknowledging that they'd received the names. No time to talk. The fight was on its way toward them. The sound of engines rumbled out of sight followed by the distant thunder of missiles. 

Prowl stood and watched the direction Jazz would come. 

"Seawing, Snare, Deadend," Prowl said. "Spasma, Submarauder, Afterburner...no officers this time. Regulars."

Behind him, woken up out of recharge, Soundwave followed his gaze, trying to catch the first glint of light off of steel.

"Those names, unsurprising."

"Cross-factionists?" Prowl asked.

"Rare pair kink shipping," Soundwave clarified.

"What?"

At Prowl's mystified expression, Soundwave began to explain, then thought better of it and simply nodded. Yes. Cross-factionists.

"Doubled his team," Mirage said, flipping through images of the long escape. "They...they shot their own teammates to join with Jazz."

"Sir—" Sunstreaker broke in. "Red Alert says to bring you and Soundwave inside right now."

Cursing that he couldn't remain on the field, Prowl began the trek down to the Ark. There was a crackle of electrical static, and Mirage vanished, with tiny puffs of dust following beside Prowl. So he had an additional escort inside, and then Mirage would probably return to the coming battle to bring Jazz in.

The first echoing explosion of a mech reached them as they came to the door. Prowl turned, one hand on the Ark's wall as he looked back, only to find Sunstreaker and Sideswipe standing in front of him. A second later, Soundwave was also blocking him in.

"This area," Soundwave said, "unsafe. Prowl should retreat further—"

"Should but won't," Prowl said. "Sideswipe, Sunstreaker—"

"We're not to leave your side," Sideswipe said. "Ironhide's orders."

Prowl clenched his fists. 

"I'll stay with him." Mirage's voice came from the air. "You'll keep him safer by bringing down 'cons and keeping them down."

The twins frowned, their attention drawn by yet another crack of gunfire. The line of Autobots moved down the road, almost a mile of vehicles spread too thin for bombing, all of them listening to Blaster's broadcast of heavy metal.

"I'll keep Ironhide off your aft," Mirage promised.

The assurance was all they needed. The twins transformed and sped out, easily catching up with the front line that opened up to accept them. 

Prowl didn't argue, but he couldn't help commenting. "Ironhide won't like that."

Mirage turned off his invisibility for a moment, stepping aside so that they could all clearly see the road. 

"I just asked him," Mirage said with a smile. "Since you were safely inside, after all. Have you ever watched those two work?"

Prowl shook his helm. He had the battle statistics on every mech in the Autobot faction, but he had never tried to watch the fighting. Even of the battles he had been in, he had scrupulously kept to analyzing the fights from a top-down perspective, moving his resources like chess pieces. If he watched, he would crash. His cortex simply could not keep up calculating the infinite actions and reactions of frontline fighting.

As the first dots of jets appeared on the horizon, following the growing plume of dust, Prowl realized there was a chance that watching this fight could also bring him dangerously close to a crash. 

A hand alighted gently on his shoulder. Prowl looked up at Soundwave, who gave a quiet nod and nothing more. The understanding passed between them. If Prowl crashed, Soundwave would bring him out of harm's way. 

"Will you be fine here?" Mirage asked. "If I can help Jazz—"

"Go," Prowl said. "I have a warbuild here."

Mirage raised an optic ridge, but he vanished without a word.

Chapter Text

"Did they get it?" Smokescreen yelled. "Tell me they—"

"Don't worry 'bout nothing but maintaining cover!" 

Jazz wished he could knock his mech a firm smack across the helm, but he didn't dare move. He clenched the edge of Smokescreen's roof with more combat programming than strength. Smokescreen darted from lane to lane, laying new smoke, slamming to the left and right so hard that each pivot nearly jolted Jazz's denta loose.

Where you at, my 'cons? Jazz demanded. Can't shoot if I might hit you!

Don't hold back 'cause of us, Afterburner called back, ignoring the turbulence shaking his cracked struts. I can take another hit if I have to.

Snare roared by, the distinct sound of his engines rumbling so close overhead that he almost grazed Jazz, briefly transforming so he could turn in midair and fire at a jet making its strafing run. By the time they heard the explosion, Snare was flying back up and out.

Fire Jazz fire— Snare yelled.

There!—the dust opened for just a moment, revealing blue skies and the shadow of a jet passing overhead. No time for identifying the target—Jazz shot from the hip with the full blast of his sonics. The shockwave only clipped their wing. The jet barrel-rolled, but there was no satisfying explosion afterward. 

"How many are left?" Jazz screamed into the wind.

"Five!" 

Bumblebee swerved hard into the cloud, nearly pitting Smokescreen's tail, and swerved just as hard back out. Aircraft fire followed on his aft, shells as long as their hands piercing the road just inches behind him, scorching his finish. Then the jet passed overhead and had to arc back up to prepare for another pass.

"Four—Dead End sniped another one—" Bumblebee yelped as a round punched through his hood. "Frag frag frag—"

Jazz twisted, trying to see the edge of his frame.

"Bee—stay in cover if you're—" 

"I'm good, I'm good—it didn't hit my engine—" Bumblebee drifted back to the edge of the cloud, took a deep vent, then zoomed back out.

"Let him draw fire," Smokescreen said. "We got another twenty miles and these bots ain't got much more'n that."

Jazz looked down at the reasons he couldn't fire his rifle and why they were so slowed down. Even a mini-jet was still a jet, and Spasma was a heavy additional weight on Smokescreen. If Jazz could have leaped down—but Spasma couldn't hold on by himself and he couldn't fly, and there wasn't a jet alive who could keep up with an Autobot on the ground. 

The other 'Cons with them—Seawing, Submarauder—struggled to stay under cover. If the Decepticon jets overhead had known how close the defectors were to the edge, his 'cons would have been picked off easily. They weren't jets—they were built for deep sea combat and Seawing had already lost his radiator, leaning on Submarauder as he began to overheat. Jazz winced. They were both dripping oil. 

To their credit, they hadn't whined or asked how much farther. Decepticon obedience, Jazz decided, was good for something after all. For them, the pace was blistering. 

To Jazz, he could have run circles around their convoy. 

"Terradive's incoming!" Bumblebee yelled. "I'll try to draw him off!"

"Like hell I let the wounded do my own fighting." Jazz let his hand slip down to Spasma's waist and forced him up a few more inches on Smokescreen's roof. "Can you hear me, you nervous wreck?"

More'n I want to, Spasma groaned. Sorry, don't have the energon to talk.

Don't need you to talk. Just need to clamp down and lock your hand in place—

I can't hang on at this speed—

Quit arguing!

Jazz couldn't drag Spasma any further, but Smokescreen obligingly hit a pothole at the right moment, punching them inches off of his roof. Jazz gave out a yell of triumph as he slammed Spasma's hand in place.

Close up tight—you still got a jet's grip—

It'll hurt him—

In ten minutes, it won't matter either way. Now do it—that's an order.

There was no arguing with that tone. Spasma closed his hand into a fist—Smokescreen grunted as the steel crumpled in Spasma's hold.

You okay, Smokescreen?

I ain't thrown up yet, he grunted. But not gonna lie, probably will when we get home.

Won't hold it against ya, Jazz said. Get ready, gonna jump.

Safe landings!

Jazz didn't hear his comrade, too busy sliding off of the hood and landing on two wheels. There was a terrible moment where he went off-road, left behind as the sand slowed him down. But his sudden appearance surprised every mech in the sky, and he had the split-second opportunity of identifying the friendlies—Snare, Afterburner—and then blasting sound at Terradive full in the nosecone.

There was a satisfying burst of sparks, the crackle of electrical shorts through the jet's injured wing, and then the green jet was banking hard left to hit the ground hard with a satisfying burst of flame and thrown sand.

The Autobot cheer cut off as Windrazor swooped in fast, ignoring his comrade's crash to spray missiles in a line straight up the highway, chewing up pavement like an earthquake coming up behind them. Another car came out of the smoke, transformed into altmode, and managed to get off a single shot before tumbling into a crumpled heap. 

The bullet tore through Windrazor's cockpit, a perfect shot, but too low caliber to do more than blind the mech. It was Afterburner, coming back from his own overhead turn, that finally drove Windrazor at an angle into the desert.

Dead End—you still with us? Jazz held his vent, detouring to circle around the other mech. 

Ow... 

Dead End untucked himself from his clumsy roll, coming up on his hands and pedes. With a long groan, he sat up on his knees and stared at the sky.

This...is so stupid, Dead End said, holding his arm that was visibly twisted the wrong way. What's the point? We're not gonna make it back to your—

Oh hell no, Jazz said, transforming and dragging Dead End back to his pedes. He gave him a stim-pack from his subspace, slapping the patch directly on his energon cables. I have put up with your gloom and doom for too damn long to give up on your aft.

They're jets! Dead End wailed. I can't outrun them!

Four last jets, Jazz said, and Afterburner's coming in for another pass. Now get up and go before Windrazor beats him to it.

Dead End looked at him from the corner of his optic...then vented out and nodded. He climbed painfully back to his pedes and transformed, rolling along and then gaining speed. His wheelwell was dented badly and rubbed against the tire, but he pushed through the pain and scraped the wheel down to the rim. In a moment, he was at top speed again, pushing hard to catch up with the concealing cover Smokescreen provided.

How's our one raw nerve? Jazz called ahead. Still alive?

Yes, you insensitive aft, Spasma grumbled.

Afterburner?

—struts finally went—barely holding steady—

Get back with us, Jazz said, you can't do anymore good now. Snare?

Still coming around, Snare said, Eagle Eye's right on my tail—

They came over the crest of the horizon. The Ark loomed in the distance, with a long line of Autobots surging toward them. Suppressive fire came first, forcing the jets low, and Eagle Eye immediately turned and ran, the odds no longer in his favor.

Snare vented out in relief—

On your nine!

—only to feel his aft fins chewed up by cannon fire. Snare's guidance system vanished with his stabilizers, and the emergency alarms blared in his cortex as he rapidly lost altitude. Fuel, oil, sparks igniting the edges of his frame—he screamed as another blast tore up his wing. He fought to keep his nose up. In a miracle, he caught an updraft and slid across the sand on his underside, coming to a smoking rest.

MISTAKE OF A SPARK PIECE OF JUNK TRAITOR Windrazor shrieked into all frequencies, his engines roaring louder as he came in for one last attack on the downed jet. I'LL TAKE YOUR HELM TO MEGATRON —

Jazz cursed—they were too far for his sonics, for Dead End, already shooting and peppering Windrazor with ineffective bullets, too far for Sunstreaker and Sideswipe's advance fire—

A silver red blur intercepted the missiles, climbing up into the withering fire, and then Afterburner smashed head-on into Windrazor. There was a terrible scream of metal and a fireball, and then shards of steel rained down out of the smoke.

Smokescreen and the mechs with him charged through the Autobot line, racing toward First Aid and Ratchet near the rear. Snare gasped out long vents where he was, sending pings to Afterburner even though he knew there'd be no response. 

It was Jazz and Dead End who rolled slowly through the wreckage strewn across the desert. Impossible to tell where Windrazor started and Afterburner ended. The two had similar paint jobs, and the black smoke and tiny pieces blended together. Dead End found Windrazor's helm by itself, grayed out amongst the rocks.  

Jazz revved his engines once, pushing through the smoke and ignoring everyone else's pings. He'd found Afterburner, or at least half of him. The explosion had sheared his frame so that his arm and helm lay connected by his spark case. The weak glow of energy pulsed, but there was no doubt that he was in his last few seconds.

Jazz sat down next to him, thankful that Dead End didn't speak as the Decepticon sat at Afterburner's side and took his hand. Both of them were venting hard, coughing mouthfuls of sand and smoke out of their filters.

.̵.̶.̷Wi̴iindra̴ zo̴r̵?̵

Jazz didn't bother to look down. Afterburner's optics had burned out. 

He's dead. In more pieces'n you.

Afterburner's satisfaction felt strange to Jazz. Death was about to swallow him up, but all the warbuild cared about was claiming the kill. There was no sadness or regret. Just the expectation of rest after a good fight. 

...s.̸.̴n̴a̵.̷r̶.̴e̷ ¿

Dead End half-smiled. He'll make it. He owes you one.

Afterburner was beyond words. The pain stopped. There was a brief sense of relief, the sensation of flying up and out. Then he was gone.

Long minutes passed as the medics fussed with the injured. Autobots were dispatched in groups to the farthest perimeters of the base, holding a line of miles in case the Decepticons thought they might follow up on this attack. Ironhide rolled up with Sideswipe, taking in the scene.

"This all of you?" Ironhide said. 

Jazz nodded once. "If you didn't forget Snare."

"He's already got medics on him." Ironhide sighed to see the jet in front of them. "I think this was the only one you lost."

The wreckage smoldered. Jazz was about to ask Dead End to stay with Afterburner, then remembered that the defecting 'cons were still just 'cons to the rest of the base. They'd all be ordered to a brig soon enough. He gave each of them a reassuring ping that he wouldn't forget them now that they'd arrived, and that he'd see them all resting in their own berths in the brig before he attended to his own duties. There were relieved pings back, Spasma weakly hoping that Groove wouldn't think he was a creeper for coming here. Dead End pinged last, more out of obligation than anything else. 

"We'll put 'em down with Whisper," Ironhide said. "They'll have plenty to talk about, I'm sure."

"'Whisper'?" Jazz asked. "When did that happen?"

"I'll bring you up to speed in a bit," Ironhide said. "Don't worry about your 'cons. Optimus...he's got plans."

Ironhide pointed across the desert. Optimus was kneeling next to Submarauder and Seawing, talking to them as First Aid cycled their coolant. The two seacons stared up at Optimus with fear bordering on worship.

Jazz gave a small laugh despite himself. Despite the dead mech behind him.

Jazz didn't want to look again. And Dead End was sitting with the grayed out frame so Jazz didn't have to. He took another minute to rest, then accepted Ironhide's hand up, patting the sand out of his joints.

"Do me a favor?" he asked, deliberately focusing only on the base.

"Sure?"

"Before you bury the frame, get rid of the 'Con sigil on him," Jazz said. 

"What's left of it," Ironhide said. "Anything else?"

"Yeah."

Jazz started pulling together his datapacket, beginning the long process of giving it proper tags, filling in information he hadn't had time to add. He had a lot of forms to fill, and the prospect of hours of debrief loomed ahead of him.

"Paint one of ours."

Chapter Text

Jazz was still choking on Afterburner's smoke when he gave his report to Optimus. He had just finished explaining the dead Decepticon's posthumous sigil change when he coughed, venting oily black soot from his filters. One of the coughs shook him hard enough that he took Optimus' offered hand, leaning hard as he gasped in clear air.

"You've pushed yourself too hard," Optimus said without scolding. "It's time to see to yourself now that you brought everyone back."

Jazz exhaled heavily, sagging as he felt the days of no recharge coming for their due.

"Didn't 'xactly get everyone, bossbot." His own hands and arms were stained with the melted silver of Afterburner's paints, and he shut his optics tight, turning away from the sight. "Fucked up on that one."

"Jazz."

Shivers went through Jazz's frame.

The voice of the Autobot commander could drive mechs to great feats of heroism or camaraderie—half of the faction's strength seemed to come simply from his leadership. Optimus inspired the kind of faith that led mechs into combat against far greater odds than should have been possible, and emerge victorious as well. Only part of that came from the Matrix. The rest came from the bot...but even that voice didn't often drop to the reassuring rumble Optimus assumed now.

"Those mechs came from a faction built on fear and lies. They'd never known any kind of leadership except Megatron's fists and Shockwave's smelters. And then, for whatever reasons of their own, they found in you the kind of trust and leadership they longed for. They believed you would bring them out of Megatron's world to a place worth fighting for. And, yes, worth dying for. He may not have been here for long, and he wasn't one of us until the end, but Afterburner...you brought him home, Jazz. And he knew that."

Jazz couldn't talk. He didn't try.

Optimus squeezed his shoulder once, gently.

"You should know that, too."

And then Optimus stood and moved among his soldiers to greet the other Decepticons and encourage his own Autobots. Jazz found a convenient boulder beside himself and sat down hard, venting out.

"Everyone forgets he can do that," Ironhide said. "'Till he broadsides you with it."

"What?" Jazz asked, refusing to look at him. "The lectures?"

"Pfft." Ironhide coughed and spit out the smoke in his filters. "Lectures, nothing. You'd die for that bot."

Jazz scuffed the dust under one pede but didn't argue, quietly staring at the sand.

"Die, and be satisfied with it, I'd bet." Ironhide chuckled and checked needlessly that his rifle's safety was off. "We all would. Those 'Cons of yours just got a taste of that through ya."

"I hate losing bots," Jazz said flatly. He vented out, choking on another mouthful of soot.

"No one likes it. But you can be satisfied with it." Ironhide patted Jazz's back once. "Trust me. The 'Con was."

From the corner of his optic, Jazz watched him follow after Optimus. It occurred to him that Ironhide had been Optimus' shadow since day one, and he would continue following just a step behind until the day he grayed out. The bodyguard at his faithful post, a peripheral walking eternally beside his master unit.

Just sit tight, Ironhide said over his shoulder. Ratchet'll find ya, and I think Mirage was looking for you, too.

Jazz gave a half-nod. Mirage would have information that the rest of the base may not have been privy to. His bot's sneaky use of his invisibility was questionable but undeniably useful. Mirage was already asking for access, coming toward him invisibly without anyone else noticing.

Running on fumes here, Jazz warned him. Better be important—all the info was in the packet.

Already sent that to Red. Mirage came to stand beside him, only recognizable by the scuffed up sand that quickly faded in the breeze. This is about your bots.

What's Spec Ops gotten into now? Jazz chuckled.

No. Your bots.

Jazz reset his optics.

Spill it, mech. Tell me everything.

Prowl had withdrawn to the side hall beside the Ark's main corridor. The troops would be returning, shift change was about to start, and the wounded needed to be evacuated to medbay. Best that he and a looming warbuild remain out of the way and out of sight.

Jazz was back. Jazz was alive. Jazz was unharmed. Jazz was in command. Jazz had accomplished his mission. That was all Prowl could glean from the unclassified channels—that Jazz was talking to Ironhide, then Mirage, then finally rolling back to base.

Prowl knew that Jazz would need to give his report to Optimus and then head to medbay. Jazz would be focused on tending to whatever mechs had been under his command, that couldn't wait, but Prowl could at least send a quick missive welcoming Jazz back.

He sent a ping full of his relief that Jazz was safe and returned.

Pause.

Pause.

Prowl frowned. Perhaps the message had not sent—no, he had sent it. Perhaps Jazz had not received—his components could have been wounded—

Hey, Prowler, good to hear you—can't talk long, gotta run off to Ratchet and talk to Red—hey, is Soundwave with ya?

Prowl hesitated, confused. I—yes. What is—?

That's great, mech, just great—wanted to say how glad I am you two hooking up. Seriously, you and him are like totally made for each other, right? Algorithms and formulas and Haymaker's umbrellas, right?

Few mechs could make Prowl crash. Jazz accounted for half of his total complete reboots. Prowl didn't think he was on the edge of a crash, but damned if this didn't feel like he should be teetering on the brink.

Jazz, what—I—

Can't talk, mech, coming up on Red's office—listen, I'll see you at the brass meeting tomorrow, catch you up on the wild ride I just got down offa'.

Prowl could feel him wrapping up, intending to cut the transmission. He flailed for something to say, but his cortex refused to provide anything that could keep Jazz on the line.

Wait—wait—

Don't worry 'bout it, Prowler, Jazz said, quietly. I'm glad for you, I am. You needed someone in tune with you, and I just ain't that. This actually makes everything so much easier. Load offa all our cortexes, huh?

And with that, Jazz signed off.

Prowl felt like a vital part had been deleted. He held the connection for Jazz open, as if the other mech would suddenly plug back in and laugh at teasing Prowl. But there was no reconnection.

Soundwave quietly ran computations in the background, content to wait for Prowl to tell him what Jazz had to say. In the absence of anything to calculate, Prowl turned his powerful processors to where Jazz's dismissal had come from.

Jazz had seemed worried about him before. Days ago, as Prowl and Soundwave healed, Jazz had been helping Ratchet tend to Prowl's wounds.

Jazz had been interested in Soundwave as well. Was that a factor in this dismissal? It made no sense but he had nothing to go on. He ran the calculation—

83% and rising.

Prowl startled at that. He hadn't expected such a high rate, and so quickly returned.

In hindsight, Jazz's discomfort was obvious. He had cut himself off from Soundwave the moment he realized his attraction, but that didn't mean the attraction had disappeared. He had cut Prowl off before, after that disastrous kiss, but he was still clearly interested.

But then why...?

Prowl had very few clues. He replayed Jazz's conversation and considered everything, down to the intonation on each word.

Algorithms. That was not something Jazz would have mentioned unprompted. Haymaker's umbrellas...a nonsense phrase. He was about to ask Soundwave for his input, but the thought of that phrase in Soundwave's voice brought up the voice match with Haytham's parabolas. 95% that this was what Jazz, unfamiliar with computations, had been referencing.

In tune.

Jazz had said 'in tune'.

Prowl and Soundwave had bandied that term against each other ever since this whole debacle had started.

Prowl had never said that to Jazz. Or around Jazz. Or around anyone else. Had he?

When had been the last time Prowl had said it out loud?

Prowl searched his memory banks, and he requested a search from a confused Soundwave as well. Corroborating the two results yielded very few instances, and none in front of others. The interrogation room, their own cortexes, the mess hall—

Prowl froze.

The mess hall, empty except for one lone energon cube.

The command mess hall.

His optics narrowed.

"Mirage."

The smoke from the wrecked jet was still blowing across the sky as Mirage escorted Bluestreak straight from the battlefield back to the Ark and into the room set aside for Spec Ops: Operation Deceptively Yours. The light from the hall spilled through the doorway, but the rest of the room was dark. Only the lights above the table were on, and even those had been dimmed—everyone's optics were strained from lack of recharge as servos began to fry. Their faceplates were lit from the datapads, shadowed bots in a shadowy room.

First Aid. Beachcomber. Mirage. Hound. Rewind.

Bluestreak recognized them all. Of course he did—being a faction for thousands of years meant that they all knew each other even if they didn't hang out or count each other as friends—but all of these bots together, in one room, meant one thing.

All of them were suspected 'Con sympathizers. If he thought hard about it, he could even begin to pick out possible forum names for them.

They sat clustered at one end of a long workstation with Rewind in the middle, the minibot slumped back in a throne of stacked datapads. There was a trio of empty seats across from them, and Bluestreak sat in the center.

"So you're the ones," Bluestreak said, looking down at the datapads. He picked the closest and scanned the screen.

"—your pacifism malware is infecting my cog," Verminator growled, raising his fist. His hand shook, he trembled, and he slammed the wall beside First Aid's helm.

"Why can't I hit you?" he snarled.

"Because it isn't a virus." First Aid cupped his faceplate. "It's love."

"You really think anyone buys this?" Bluestreak sighed, tossing it back.

First Aid leaned forward to glare at Rewind at the far end of the table.

"That's what I said," First Aid grumbled. "Pacifism Passion is the shmoopiest reach we've ever reposted."

"Three hundred comments so far," Rewind groaned, staring only at the ceiling."Including twenty from Big-Pointy-Teeth, who—and I quote—'likes the way his faceplate flashes when he's angry'."

First Aid glared at him, then sat back in his chair with a huff. "S'the principle of the thing..."

Beachcomber cleared his intake once, and the rest of them sat straight. Bluestreak wondered at that. Beachcomber was controlling the meeting...that was surprising. All of the other bots deferred to his lead.

"Sorry to drag you into all'a this," Beachcomber said. "It's not the...nicest...work on base."

Bluestreak tilted his helm. "I would've thought you'd want everyone in on this. Sway everyone over to 'con-fucking so it's just one big love in and we all pretend nothing bad ever happened and sing that stupid human song kumbaima or whatever. War's over, party on, up until Megs and his 'cons run up your afts."

Beachcomber closed his optics and vented. His helm tilted ever so slightly toward First Aid, who quietly dug into subspace and pulled out his medical datapad. He scanned something briefly, then put his hand on Beachcomber's wrist and began to count.

Bluestreak stiffened. The medical bot was uploading a cortex numbing program—a string of code that inserted static to fill in the gaps left by a defrag program, easing servos already straining with difficult processing. Bluestreak recognized the procedure, including the faint, steady tapping of First Aid's finger, from his own appointments.

"Sorry," Beachcomber murmured. "Been a long shift. Not at my best right now."

"It's...not something we wanted to weaponize," Mirage said as they waited. "These stories were not supposed to be part of the war. We wrote...well, as 'Comber would say, they're our hopes and dreams. They were just an escape."

"And then Starscream defected," Hound said. "It sort of grew up out of that."

"Saving 'Cons?" Bluestreak asked. "Putting them in the brig instead of in the junk pile? Starscream's killed thousands of mechs—"

"So have I," Beachcomber said.

Bluestreak glared. "Not like that and you know it. He's killed neutrals and Autobots and 'cons and—he's fraggin' insane—"

"Let's be honest," Beachcomber said with a rueful smile. "So am I."

Bluestreak's mouth twisted. "No. You just..." He looked away. "...need to walk away. Be a noncombatant."

Beachcomber half-shrugged. "Issat what they say about me?"

The silence stretched out awkwardly. But none of them would gainsay Beachcomber, and he refused to move on until he had an answer.

"I mean," Bluestreak started, "it's not like we didn't suspect some of you. You're all on a DNC list—"

"Do not comment?" Mirage guessed.

"Do not comm," Bluestreak said. "Unless it's orders, but then Red Alert shifted all the schedules and it was suddenly weird how everyone on the DNC list wasn't on shifts with the rest of us, so we figured something was up. And it's not like we ever really talked anyway. We weren't friends."

Bluestreak frowned.

"Is that why I'm in here? You want to know who my friends are? Am I supposed to name everyone on the comm group so you can round them up for Prowl's punishments? Solvent away all our faction marks?"

The accusation brought deep vents as Rewind and First Aid and Hound straightened in their seats. Rewind started revving up with a list of facts that Bluestreak didn't listen to. Hound and First Aid both started protesting that they weren't Decepticon high command. Bluestreak didn't pay attention to either of them.

Snipers were trained to look for movement. But when there was plenty of movement, as if he were studying a busy encampment, he focused on what didn't move.

Beachcomber didn't flinch from the accusation. That didn't startle Bluestreak—either Beachcomber went by the forum name Hippie-Mech or MechVibe, and he was probably used to defending his 'con-fucking on the surnet.

But Mirage didn't even reset his optics at the accusation. He glanced at Beachcomber, waiting to see if the other mech would respond. As Beachcomber vented, gathering his thoughts, Mirage took the moment to stare at Bluestreak.

"Our orders come from Optimus," Mirage said conversationally, as if Bluestreak hadn't just hurled an insult, and he slid a datapad to him. "So we'll need everything you can give us on anti-cross-factionalist chat groups from twenty four hours before and after these specific dates."

Bluestreak glanced at the screen, about to snap that those groups were only full of loyal discourse, then paused.

Looked at the dates again. Cross-referenced them to his internal calendar.

"This is...when Prowl was hurt," he said slowly.

"The first date, yes," Mirage said, and a fake polite smile grew across his face. "The second is the time stamp from the command that took Jazz off base. Both were sent by a designation unknown to us, using the same style of pseudonym and data riders as those we use on the surnet."

Bluestreak reset his optics, processing what he'd said. It took a moment to parse into something that made sense.

"A 'Con is using the surnet to pass information?"

"Something like that," Mirage said. "You're smart, you'll figure it out."

Bluestreak had already figured it out. Someone was using the surnet to spread commands to the Decepticon faction. Not just information—commands. Soundwave was lost to them. They had no one who could pick up on the trails of espionage and the broad net of faction communications like he could. So whoever it was on the 'Con side was using an already existing account to put information out.

"Everyone uses the surnet for stories," Bluestreak vented. "Even the ones on DeceptivelyYours are mostly reuploads. The Cons are using our own forums to send messages and orders."

Mirage didn't correct him to the finer points of the Decepticon communications. It would've been impossible to have every 'Con using the surnet, but the high command, yes, some squad leaders. Enough to send vital missives as Megatron reestablished his layers of espionage and troop movements.

"Getting warmer," Mirage prodded.

"But...you can't find them." Bluestreak looked up at Beachcomber, who still didn't speak. "You can't find who you're looking for. You've got access the whole surnet, I bet. Right? So that means you can't find the 'Cons where you usually go looking. Con-fucker forums. So he has to be..."

Oil and energon hit the back of Bluestreak's throat. With a great deal of effort, he swallowed it back down and glared at the datapads.

It had to be.

But that didn't make it any easier to take.

"I'll give you what I have," Bluestreak said. "Everything. All the chat logs and private group addresses I have. You don't think he's infected anyone, do you? If he's been accessing our groups for so long? Oh...Primus...how many of the mechs on there are actually 'Cons incognito—"

"They'd probably lurk," Beachcomber said. "Don't wanna attract attention to themselves."

"No one's allowed to lurk," Bluestreak said. "Everyone has to identify themselves, link to their surnet handle, set their tags and follow-lists to public, and maintain a comment count."

Mirage reset his optics. Everyone at the table shared glances as if to verify that they'd heard him correctly.

"...all'a that?" Hound asked. "Just to be in a group?"

"Of course," Bluestreak said. "It's war."

First Aid froze, then realized the signal under his fingertips had lost its rhythm again and continued tapping. He glared sideways at Bluestreak.

"'War'," FirstAid said lowly, glaring at nothing. "Against us?"

Bluestreak slowly looked at First Aid with a strange feeling that he was seeing the mech for the first time. He'd spoken with First Aid often, to the point that he'd felt a little sympathy and understanding between them. First Aid was a pacifist, which was kind of okay for a medic, but First Aid had seemed like he wholeheartedly supported the cause. To hear him question Bluestreak, worse, to question Bluestreak's disgust at First Aid's borderline treason—

Bluestreak's grip on the table tightened too much, denting it. Everyone flinched, except Beachcomber, whose optics had begun to haze. Another wave of nausea crested in Bluestreak. Was this the best that the Autobots had to offer? How had sympathizers risen so high in the command?

No wonder there were Decepticons even in their own heavily moderated groups! The more he thought about it, the more he stared at them and the piles of pornographic treason surrounding them, the more enraged he grew.

"I don't get you," Bluestreak said, and his voice quickened as they stared at him and said nothing. "What do you think this is? A love in? I saw 'Cons gun mechs down in the street—they picked us up and I was the only one they didn't drop to smash a mile down, and you want to talk about forgiving them all? My city's gone and Cybertron's a scrapyard and they followed us here so they can keep killing us, and you think they'll stop if they just cross cables with us? Admit you're burned out and let the rest of us finish this, but quit holding us back. Even if—if—the 'Cons are using one of our groups, all they're seeing is that we hate them. This isn't back before the war—there's no excuse. You can't sit in the middle, you have to pick a side—for frag's sake, you've already picked a side! Did you forget that?"

Bluestreak smacked the datapad before him.

"And just a note—Verminator? The real one? One of the jets who was at Praxus. Or did you forget that part, too?"

None of them spoke, but not because there was nothing to say. Bluestreak read it in their optics—they had their arguments ready, had probably made them dozens of times on the surnet. But they were stewing in restraint, holding back from arguing. Rewind had backed up into the crook of Hound's arm and First Aid was visibly putting his attention solely into Beachcomber. But they were all angry. Hound was glaring bolts at Mirage. Bluestreak wondered why they didn't—

One of them wasn't angry. Bluestreak ran a cycle of coolant. Mirage was staring at him like...Bluestreak couldn't even place it. He'd never seen that flat lack of emotion, and Mirage was even smiling. The smile didn't reach his optics.

"We'll also need information on one name in particular," Mirage said.

Bluestreak wasn't sure how to respond. Mirage's voice was as flat as a drone's. His faceplate moved even less.

"You said there were multiple 'cons," Bluestreak started.

"Did I say that?" Mirage asked.

Bluestreak opened his mouth to start arguing, then thought back and frowned. His mouth pressed tight in growing anger.

"So I was right, and you just want names," Bluestreak growled.

"Just one," Mirage said, giving him back the datapad he'd smacked aside.

Bluestreak almost threw the datapad at his helm. Only his hatred of 'Cons kept it in hand so that he could read the screen.

RE: AUTOBOT FICTION

DECEPTICON PURITY WILL BE MAINTAINED.

DESTROY XXXXXXXXXXX, TOP PRIORITY. AUTOBOT XXXXXXXXX, SECONDARY. ALL OTHER MISSIONS SECONDARY. KILL XXXXXXXXXXX AND ANY AUTOBOTS WITH HIM.

(¯`·.⋆ ⋆.·[ ÜMÜ ]·.⋆ ⋆.·´¯)

RE: DNI

CANCEL XXXXXXXXXXX DECEPTICON STATUS.

DESTROY TRAITOR XXXXXXXXXXX.

DO NOT INTERACT.

(¯`·.⋆ ⋆.·[ ÜMÜ ]·.⋆ ⋆.·´¯)

Bluestreak reread the name. Read it again. Reread the messages and the name again. The room went silent with a high pitched positronic whine somewhere in the distance. His optics focused in on the name until everything else went white.

He hadn't felt this lost in freefall since the worst day of his life. He felt the jet's cold hands crumpling his shoulder armor again.

"b l...s t r…..k"

" r...k"

"... k..."

The ceiling. He was looking at the ceiling of the suddenly bright workroom. Bluestreak closed his optics and ran another cycle of coolant, only to feel the tanks slush.

"Stop cycling," First Aid murmured, holding his wrist. "Your tanks are starting to freeze. Can you hear me?"

Bluestreak couldn't bring himself to speak. He pinged affirmative.

"Okay, I'll work with that for now," First Aid said. "I've cleared the room—just you and me and Mirage. I'm going to start downloading code, and I'm putting on a stim pack so you don't purge your systems. All right?"

Another positive ping.

"...doesn't help that Blue' came straight from the fight, and field exercises before that," First Aid said. "His system's as stressed as I'm willing to let it go. Ask him anything else so I can get him to medbay."

"Understood." Mirage came and knelt beside Bluestreak, who found that he had fallen back in his chair. Mirage seemed so much taller now—he'd always had that streamlined tower design—and his face was just as controlled and emotionless.

"I need whatever you have, Blue'. Send it to me."

Bluestreak winced and swallowed back oil. Might be fragmented.

"I'll have Ratchet do it properly when he's taking care of you," Mirage said. "But Optimus wants anything we can find on UMU as fast as possible. We need it now."

Overheating, stress-aches throbbing in his joints, hoping he hadn't purged in front of them, Bluestreak searched for the right data tags, tried to wrap it up in a single pack, then heaved a long, cooling vent. His cortex refused to pack anything together. Wincing at himself, he began streaming as fast as he could.

Mirage took it without complaint, receiving and sorting logs, member lists, timestamps, separate forums for smaller groups, and now UMU was very easy to find. Always typing in caps, always in fragments, always in commands.

"Why did you react so badly, though?" Mirage asked. He put the data aside for the moment—he could scroll through it later. He had Bluestreak only for a few more seconds. "Who is UMU to you?"

Bluestreak almost keened.

(¯`·.⋆ ⋆.·[ ÜMÜ ]·.⋆ ⋆.·´¯) created the group.

At the end of the shift—having given his reports to Optimus, dodged Prowl's insistent pings, and set his team to combing through the anti-cross-factionist group logs—Mirage excused himself from the command comline. Jazz had reassumed command over Spec Ops, Mirage had just finished three shifts in a row, and he was finishing up the last bit of his interim briefing as he took the elevator down to the barracks.

—in short, Prowl wants to smelt me, Mirage said. Bluestreak wants to smelt me. Half the base wants to smelt me.

If it's any consolation, Jazz said, Prowl almost always wants to smelt me. Something about Spec Ops just brings out the worst in that bot.

The elevator stopped and opened. The mechs walking by only saw an empty car and nothing inside as Mirage, invisible, kept to the far side.

Hound absolutely loathes me right now, Mirage vented. You didn't see them. I had to keep all of them from strangling Bluestreak, but then the bot goes and falls over and Hound just looked at me, and...

Yeah, I looked over your logs on that one, Jazz said. Prowler's gonna have something to say to you when he hears about it. I'll get Optimus to give him a hobby, though, keep him off your back for awhile.

Thanks, Mirage said. That just leaves me Hound to fix...if he still even wants me.

You really have been a cold-sparked bastard, Jazz agreed far too happily. But that worked for you.

Kept running that lecture file of yours on loop, Mirage admitted. So I never got angry. I just alienated everyone, I acted like a perfect tower mech, and no one will ever want me near them again.

It's called a leadership style, Jazz said. You think I was this flawless when I started? Took a long time for Tone to turn into Jazz.

Mirage winced. You know that Smokescreen told Ironhide about the comment you left, right?

Jazz paused. What?

The comment you left on Soundwave's SOS fic. You left it as Tone. Mirage put his hand on the door to his berth, resting his helm on the door for a moment. I'm so sorry, Jazz, I didn't want to have to tell you—

Weren't nothing to feel bad over, Jazz said. It solved all the problems I been having in one swoop. You focus on mending things with Hound and let me take care of the brass work now, huh?

Sure thing. I don't think I want command ever again.

Don't let Ironhide ever corner you then.

Jazz signed off.

Mirage heaved another vent. There were a handful of mechs in the hall, and he waited for them to pass by. He didn't want anyone to look at him right now, even if they couldn't see him. Maybe Jazz would let him go invisible for a few vorn, give him some time to put out the bridges he'd set on fire. Running away to hide in his berth felt like such a sparkling thing to do, but it was all he had the energy for.

The hall was empty. He opened his door—

-and Hound was sitting on his berth, waiting quietly.

Hound couldn't see him. Didn't need to.

Mirage froze. Didn't vent. His voice caught in his throat-cables.

Hound wanted to scold. List every bad decision Mirage had made. Call him m'lord and rub in just how much of a terrible aft Mirage had—

Hound pat the berth and put out his arm.

Mirage, salvaging his dignity, managed to squash any keening. But it was Hound who remembered to close and seal the door behind him, holding him close, and nothing was said through the night.

Chapter Text

Whisper still sat alone in his cell, framed by a single light overhead. On the Decepticon's Sonoran base, he preferred to isolate himself and review the day's mission, to consider what he had done and to chart the course for the next day. This practice had kept him alive while surrounded by his Air Patrol mechs, who would have stabbed him in the back for his position of leadership. Now, even though he was locked in a cell, he had more than enough to fill his thoughts—his odds of survival, Silverbolt's touch through the bars, the sheer presence of Optimus Prime.

But quiet meditation became nearly impossible in the brig when there were other mechs inside.

The small, black jet lay on the medical berth in the center of the brig, secured with kevlar straps, murmuring incoherently as he received a slow drip of energon and neural coding to ease his pain. Spasma had been triaged second—Snare had been there briefly, stabilized and then carted off to the real medbay—but Spasma had been well enough to be left to rest. Lost in a medically induced haze, the small jet spoke in soft whispers to no one.

That would have been tolerable, but the mechs in the cell to Whisper's left were infuriating in their chatter. He recognized Seawing and Submarauder, but he'd never given them much thought. What did a jet have in common with an oceanic mech who plunged into dark waters?

"—try to stay around 4400 meters—"

"—prefer the coastal shelf—"

"—Kavichi volcanic crater, acid does a number on the armor, though—"

"—try to record whale song but it's so damn loud sometimes—"

Whisper couldn't tell who was speaking over who. He refused to look at them. They'd been comparing notes about their undersea exploration for hours and showed no signs of stopping.

His aggravated vent brought a chuckle from the mech in the cell to his right. Whisper tensed, shutting his optics tight.

"You've been silent so far," Whisper hissed. "Keep it up."

Lying flat on the floor of his own cell, Dead End smiled affably, one hand under his helm. His other arm lay on a workstation on the other side of the room, twisted off at the joint. His shoulder was an empty socket covered in polystyrene bandages, given time to heal in anticipation of receiving the repaired arm.

"—pretty sure I saw a levyatan—"

"—impossible to get good images in the murk these days—"

"—plastic bags at 12000 meters, can you believe—"

Whisper heaved another vent and gave up, leaning back against the wall. He'd been given a datapad that could access the surnet, but he wasn't in the mood to read. He wanted to fly, to chase something down and pin it to the sand—something fluttery and scared and so fun to tease with sharp claws—

Spasma moaned and turned his helm, murmuring something about the long highway.

The pleasant fantasy vanished. Whisper was reminded of Afterburner's death, and Windrazor's, and a handful of others that these Decepticons had personally seen fall. His own teammate Stormcloud had been shot in the back, not that he felt any great loss there.

"You said Jazz led you in?" Whisper asked.

Dead End half-shrugged.

"More like he dragged us in. Those last twenty miles were not fun."

Whisper considered that.

"But why?"

Dead End vented. "Why do anything?"

"Don't be stupid," Whisper said. "Why save you? Why'd they accept Decepticon help?

"I mean, he was gonna die if he didn't?" Dead End said. "That motivates most mechs."

"Hm." Whisper frowned. "But...you're not dead now."

Dead End glanced sideways at him. "...no."

"They didn't kill you." Whisper tilted his helm, musing on it.

"...apparently?"

Whisper glared at him. "The point is, why not? Why are we still alive? Why is the Prime keeping us alive and repaired and...giving me a datapad to read cross-faction stories? Letting Silverbolt meet me?"

Dead End rose up on his elbow, then tilted badly and struck his empty shoulder on the floor. Wincing, cursing to himself, he sat up straight, clamping his hand on his bandages.

"'Letting Silverbolt meet you'? Why are they—?"

"Exactly," Whisper said. "There must be something they gain in return, some—"

"No no no, that's not what I meant," Dead End said. "Why Silverbolt in particular?"

Whisper ignored him.

"They want our goodwill, that much is clear. But how do they intend to use us?"

"Ugh, you rotten slag, I asked you a—"

The brig door opened. Silverbolt came in, with two mechs hesitantly poking in after him. One of them stumbled in, nudged from behind.

"Go on," Inferno said, bumping him forward. "You only got 'till shift change."

"But we're really allowed?" Depthcharge said, looking over his shoulder as if expecting Ironhide to come up behind them and arrest them all. "Did Optimus allow this?"

"S'what Red told me. Go on—I gotta stand watch."

As Inferno stood in the center of the brig, optics and audios open, Silverbolt was already to Whisper's cell, taking his hand, holding it to his lips. Lowered murmurs passed between them, and Dead End understood why Whisper had been allowed this mech's visits in particular.

On the other side of the brig, Depthcharge had grasped Seawing's hand, standing helm to helm. After an awkward moment, Seawing had introduced him to Submarauder, and then the three of them were lost in oceanic chatter. They could have been sitting around cubes of energon in a mess hall, except they were seated on the cold floor instead, and Seawing and Depthcharge were still holding each other through the bars.

For the mech by the medical berth, Dead End almost felt a measure of sympathy. This had to be the Groove that Spasma hadn't stopped talking about. Silver with blue and gold features, the mech certainly wasn't shiny or impressive—Groove was as small as Spasma, and he certainly didn't sport any spectacular armaments or armor. Groove didn't seem like a bot to make a Decepticon change sides...but Spasma was already venting easier as the Autobot leaned over him, touching his faceplate.

"No 'bots for you?"

Dead End looked up. Inferno had come close, leaning against the bars.

"Didn't know that was a requirement," Dead End said.

Inferno shrugged.

"Not really, I guess. Just figured all the 'cons I've met so far are mechs who found an Autobot shiny enough to defect for."

Dead End laughed once. "A ground pounder for ground pounding?"

Inferno gave him a look.

Dead End didn't apologize, but he did duck his helm as he smiled.

"Really?" Inferno asked skeptically. "No one? Then why defect?"

"Is that what I did?" Dead End gave a long vent. "Frag. I did, huh?"

"Uh, yeah?" Now Inferno clearly thought Dead End was dented in the helm.

Dead End considered everything he could say. Megatron's anger. The smelters. Shockwave's experiments. A dying Cybertron. One military base after another, with nothing to anchor him anywhere. Kaon in ruins around him, burning. Earth, alien and strange, whose dark roads would never lead him home.

"Why anything?" Dead End stared at the floor, past the steel plates, far into the distance. "Why...anything?"

Inferno raised an optic ridge.

"You almost died," he said. "You busted yourself up good keeping our mechs alive. And you killed a bunch of 'Cons to do it. Seems like you did a lot for not knowing why."

Dead End didn't answer. Inferno wondered if he was being stubborn, but no. Dead End just looked...he looked like Bluestreak on a very, very bad day.

"It sucks," Inferno said, "being alone in here. You got anyone you want me to contact?"

"And get someone in trouble?" Dead End muttered. "Get 'em labelled a sympathizer?"

Inferno tilted his helm at the others. "They look like they're in trouble?"

Dead End glanced at the others, all settled close to each other. Close enough to share cables, and they might have if this huge red bot hadn't been here to keep them honest. None of the Autobots looked worried at all. Silverbolt looked downright…

Dead End turned away. That was an emotion he didn't recognize.

Inferno didn't push. But he sent a request to Red Alert, who sent a request to Jazz, who approved it and sent it along to Ironhide for confirmation.

In the official report available to all Autobots on base, Jazz's arrival was amended to add the names of the Decepticons who had aided his escape and come to great harm in order to reach the Ark and freedom. Afterburner was listed as an Autobot, posthumously. Dead End was singled out for singular bravery at great cost to himself.

Only a quarter of a joor had passed when another mech arrived—gold, black, and, if anything, even more emotionless than Dead End.

Inferno almost boggled. There were few bots who hated Decepticons more than Gunrunner, and fewer who took the war more personally. He'd lost his entire squad and had never recovered from their deaths.

So it was doubly surprising that the bot scanned the brig, spotted Dead End, and went directly to his cell. He knelt, glaring at at the Decepticon, who met his gaze for a long moment...and then looked away.

"Why'd you bother?" Gunrunner asked.

Dead End hesitated.

"Gonna...gonna die anyway."

Dead End knew how stupid he sounded. His voice trailed off. Yes, he was going to die. They were all going to die. Eventually they'd all grey out, fade away, and nothing of any of this would be remembered. He should have just stayed on the Decepticon base, or been shot in the back like the other jets in the mine. There was no point. Gunrunner hated 'Cons anyway, and nothing Dead End ever did or said would make any difference—

There was a hand under his faceplate, lifting his helm. Making him meet Gunrunner's optics.

"Not today," Gunrunner said, his voice flat. His thumb slid over Dead End's faceplate, just beneath his optic.

Dead End put his hand over Gunrunner's.

"...not today."

"Now don't that just beat all?"

Jazz watched the little drama unfold on his workstation's monitor. He'd known Dead End for all of a few days, but the morose mech had proved himself as selfless as any Autobot—if on the sorely depressed side. He'd wondered why Dead End had defected, but in the time they'd been on the run, there'd been no time to ask. Trusting the 'Cons had been a matter of snap judgement, and a good choice looking back on it.

But Gunrunner? That made Jazz curious. And, alas, he still had no time to ask.

In a rare instance of obedience to the rules, he was in his office during his office hours doing actual office work. Datapads of reports lay in stacks on one corner of his workstation, slowly moving to the other corner as he read Mirage's logs, Red Alert's base updates, Optimus' quarterly addendums and Perceptor and Brainstorm turning those addendums into practical weekly goals.

Ironhide's generous effort of rendering all of what Jazz had missed into a single brief were all that made reading the updates even tolerable. Because at the top of the new goals was what Ironhide openly called Operation Fuck fer Peace.

1. Minimize all contact between bots that are known members of the cross-faction board and all outspoken members of the anti-cross-faction groups.

Ironhide: Don't let the prudes and fuckers cross paths. For Primus' sake, don't let 'em know we got all but cross-cabling going on in the brig.

2. Perceptor and Brainstorm have refined the measure of energon to cortex control. Practical applications will begin trial runs soon.

Ironhide: Fuck if I know. I had to take the notes an' I still don't get any of that.

3. The defecting Decepticons in the brig have been cleared clean of viruses or hidden code. They cannot be released—unused floors in the ballast area of the Ark are being considered.

Ironhide: Be grateful. I cut out a joor of Red Alert and Ratchet arguing with each other about espionage and another joor of them grilling Silverbolt and Skyfire.

4. Prowl's discipline of the most violent anti-factionists is irregular but maintaining peace.

Ironhide: It's keeping the prudes and Prowl outta everyone's business. Win/win.

5. Counterpunch's cover has been blown and he has returned fulltime. Full debrief to follow at the next meeting.

Ironhide: Sorry, mech, that's a you job.

And a fuck you too, Jazz huffed, slumping in his seat. He tossed the datapad across the desk and watched it slide to the edge, hang in the balance, and then topple off the side. Counterpunch had received the all-clear from Ratchet and Red Alert, but Jazz was in no frame of mind to collate everything the bot had recorded into a clear line by line report.

Normally he would have begged off on some excuse to Prowl, who would have seen right through him but done the summary anyway. For...many reasons, Jazz couldn't do that this time. He only had a couple of joor before the meeting over Counterpunch's notes, and then immediately after was the new information on UMU...

His pede was twitching hard. His fingers tapped the edge of the datapad. His whole frame demanded that he get up and move from sitting back so long—

A run around the Ark was what he needed.

Prowl finally had full access to base functions and command comms. The daily updates and meeting minutes he'd missed had been uploaded, read, re-read, indexed and tagged. The holds on his processing had been removed, and he could run his allocation of the base's processes with no strain on his cortex.

So he somehow managed to compartmentalize all of that into a sector of his processor while the majority of his analytic power focused solely on the problem of Jazz.

He was not used to a logic tree that ran in circles.

Jazz had wanted Prowl.

Mirage had told Jazz about Prowl and Soundwave's growing interest in each other.

Jazz had congratulated Prowl on the relationship and cut himself off.

But...why? Why had he been so satisfied with this result? Soundwave was certain that Jazz had desired Prowl—and Prowl's own calculations backed up that conclusion.

Jazz had also desired Soundwave. So why was Jazz happy to see the two of them together without him?

Hadn't Jazz wanted Prowl?

Jazz had indeed wanted Prowl.

But then Mirage…

The logic tree looped back on itself, and Prowl had added another identical note to demote Mirage and assign him to cleaning the washracks for the rest of the war. He had only been calculating for a joor, but there were two hundred accumulated notes.

With a vent, he deleted all but one of the notes and instead searched for variables he might have missed.

The process was rendered easier with Soundwave's help. Across from him, Soundwave reclined in the provided chair. Prowl had opened a port in his receptors dedicated solely to Soundwave, hovering at the edge of his consciousness. As Prowl worked, the other mech occasionally took on processes that began to strain at Prowl's diodes. When Soundwave felt the touch of a lingering glitch, Prowl untangled the bit of misfunctioning code.

The link would not have worked if either of them fought for dominance. Instead, the question was settled by Prowl's authority and command, and by Soundwave's loyalty and focus. Prowl set the rhythm and speed, Prowl chose the equations, and Prowl lightened the load when they both flagged.

The office was silent save for the faint whirring of processors and their steady vents.

It was also immensely satisfying. Prowl found himself pausing now and then to feel the presence of the other mech, glimpsing the code working with as much precision and care as his own. If Soundwave chose a different command line or parsed his lines differently, it was a pleasant surprise to read.

Soundwave likewise found the work satisfying. He'd almost always worked alone—sometimes with Shockwave, once or twice with Starscream—but he'd grown to trust his own algorithmic structure and to distrust anyone else's. To work with someone else opened him up to someone else's errors and humiliation if he made a mistake. But instead he was trusted, guided where the Autobot systems flowed differently, and mended when he glitched.

He felt, a little, like a cassette, held inside Prowl's office.

The room fit Prowl. It was as spare as he'd expected—an oversized workstation, several datapads, a wall-mounted monitor currently displaying different camera angles of shift-change as the night rotation came online.

A sleek white and black porsche rolled along the main corridor, taking a side route when the path became choked with mechs. Soundwave watched him speed along, transforming back and walking as he passed Optimus and Ironhide, then speeding out again as he rolled out of the Ark.

"Query: speeding in base, not allowed?" Soundwave asked.

Prowl lifted his helm. "What?" Following Soundwave's look, he vented out. "Yes, it's dangerous. But Jazz picks and chooses what rules he obeys."

Soundwave watched Jazz until he vanished into the night. Jazz walking by the commanders and revving off out of sight was definitely going into his Spec Ops story—

"Are you writing something?" Prowl demanded.

Soundwave froze.

"…yes."

Prowl waited. When nothing was forthcoming, he pushed.

"Tell me?"

Soundwave vented out. "Spec Ops 389: Saboteur's Sinful Dance of Deception."

Prowl, who had read every Spec Ops story in the interest of military intelligence, shut his optics.

"Another seduction plot?"

"Negative," Soundwave said, a note of defensiveness creeping into his hollow voice. "Jazz, at the heart of Decepticon base. Must use black and purple paint to blend in to complete assassinations and destroy base."

"'Assassinations'?" Prowl echoed. "Another one where he kills you?"

Soundwave's shoulders tightened. The change was small, barely noticeable, but his joints stiffened and his helm tilted forward just so that he wasn't quite looking at Prowl. That was by design. Prowl had permitted his downloading of basic social subroutines, but the type he'd selected had several tell-tale cues. It conversely made Soundwave even easier to read than before.

"Creative outlet helps. Jazz, declined Soundwave. Outcome expected. Inevitable." Soundwave hands tightened and clenched. "Painful, regardless."

"...true."

Prowl turned off the monitor. It was only a distraction for Soundwave, and thus a distraction for both of them.

"You are still performing background computations?"

"Affirmative," Soundwave said. "Less data, but constant stream. Leaves 62% available memory. Much simpler than Decepticon load."

"More 'bots to take the weight," Prowl admitted. "Your work has been a relief to all of us."

Again, Prowl noted how even acknowledging Soundwave's efforts brought out pride and dedication. Having been in Soundwave's cortex, he knew that Megatron had praised him before, but only for his loyalty and capability to Megatron himself. Never for Soundwave's sheer capability.

A thought occurred to him.

"Have you noticed any changes in the surnet?"

"Prowl, clarify."

"I am not certain how to clarify. I am not familiar with this subculture, regardless of how much study I perform. There have been several defections and fights. Has that bled into the surnet?"

"Surnet forums still frozen. With no possible comments or interaction, story uploads are nonexistent. No comments, no stories. All anti-cross-faction chatter has vanished—likely to private groups. Deceptively Yours, still uploading regularly. No forums are active there."

"Didn't Beachcomber and the others create forums there?" Prowl asked.

"Affirmative. Decepticon discourse, too dangerous. All work must be public to ensure loyalty to Megatron. Safer to craft comments to stories and avoid forums. Keep one's vocalizer shut."

Prowl frowned. Something in that sounded familiar. He began running a search—

Soundwave jolted straight in his seat. His optics widened, and his gaze turned inward as he began to hunt for something online.

"What's wrong?" Prowl asked, instantly alert. "You've seen something."

"Comment, missing."

Prowl reset his optics. "What?"

"Comment missing from S.O.S." Soundwave's optic ridges furrowed slightly, shading his gold optics. "Note of Prowl's delusion still remained. Soundwave intended deletion, then noticed comment count discrepancy."

Prowl alarm turned into annoyance. "Do you keep track of that? There were hundreds of—why bother?"

"Every comment collected and reread for analysis and improvement." Soundwave reviewed the long list of comments once more. "Acknowledged, over one hundred comments removed by system administrator immediately after rescue to place doubt among any Decepticon readers. However, last comment removed days afterward."

"A monumental discovery," Prowl muttered, returning to his processing. "Inferno simply missed one."

"Commenting frozen. Impossible for any but system administrator to add or remove comments. Comment in question also completely useless to Decepticon high command."

Prowl didn't look up from his datapad. "How do you know? You said it was deleted."

"All comments saved in memory." Soundwave brought up the text to read aloud. "Comment—Tone: Primus let them live."

Prowl dropped the datapad.

Tone.

Jazz's name before his promotion to Third in Command.

Primus, let them live.

Not Soundwave.

Not Prowl.

Them.

Red Alert, this is Prowl.

What—no, not right—

Did you erase a—

Prowl, now is not a good—

One question and then I'm gone. Did you erase—

Prowl—!

-erase a comment to Soundwave's SOS from Tone?

There was a sense of intense aggravation from Red Alert, and through him, a sense of frustrated desperation from someone else. Prowl had only a nanosecond to catch it before Red Alert had shunted his communication out of his cortex, transferring him to someone else.

Prowl's optics widened slightly. Oh.

—whoa, wait, I—Primus' rusty sparkplug, what in the pit did you say to that bot? Ironhide groaned and sat up in his berth, resting his arms on his pedes. That is one seriously pissed off mech. You better not need any requisitions for awhile, Prowl, 'cause war be damned, he ain't gonna give you nothing.

It was not my intention to interrupt his...Inferno… Prowl grumbled deep in his vocalizer. It is his own fault for engaging in such activities during shift.

It's after shift, you aft, not that you'd notice. Even Red's gotta get recharge time now and then. Ironhide, roused painfully from his own interrupted defrag cycle, now gave a single chuckle. Or did you lose time processing with Soundwave?

Prowl shifted in his seat. That is none of your business—

Oh mech, Ironhide laughed. This war better end before some 'Con swoons over me and Chromia rips my armor.

Prowl stilled.

Is...is it that obvious?

What, calculator love? You put every defecticon in the berth across from you? I mean, hell, you were crossing cables to save your lives, I ain't surprised.

Prowl's embarrassment flared up and demanded that he run cool down cycles which caught Soundwave's attention. That in turn brought Prowl's attention back to the matter at hand.

I need information, Prowl said. Which apparently Red Alert thought you could answer.

That bot would've patched you into Megs if he thought it'd get you off his back.

Ironhide...Soundwave maintained the SOS story on the surnet while we waited for rescue.

Yeah, and? Some of us wanna get back to recharge.

Among all the comments to that story, did Tone leave a comment?

No answer.

Prowl waited all of five nanoseconds.

Soundwave noticed the discrepancy. He remembered the comment. I need to verify—

...why?

Ironhide's demand was all the confirmation he needed. Now Prowl was left without an answer. Not one he wanted to provide. So he'd take a page from Jazz's playbook and simply cut and run.

Thank you for confirming, Prowl out—

I'm telling Prime.

Prowl faltered. What?

I swear to Primus, you click off and I'm telling Optimus.

About what? A comment verifica—?

I will interrupt whatever he's doing and you will have his full attention, you got me? He might be recharging, he might be communing with the Matrix, who knows? And you will be what interrupts that.

Technically, you would be the one—

Oh, fuck you, bot—

Prowl couldn't tell how he knew. There was simply something in Ironhide's tone, the way a mech's communication incuded data of their emotional state, that meant Ironhide had swung up out of his berth and fully intended to go into Optimus' office.

—I am complying, Prowl said quickly. I will...refrain from signing off.

Good. Ironhide vented and sat down again. Hell. Been a long time since you acted like a new recruit.

That brought a wince from Prowl. My...apologies.

That comment got deleted 'cause I didn't need anyone realizing who that was. Made-up names are fine, but that was too damn close to reality.

...understood, Prowl said.

But why do you care about it? It was just one comment. You could'a just asked him yourself.

...I cannot. Prowl felt his spark clench just admitting that. He...he said…he made it quite clear that his feelings toward us are...no longer of relevance.

Ironhide made a soft sound of understanding. Damn. Sorry 'bout that. Damn. You know he does care about you, just not—

But that is exactly the issue! Prowl leaped at the topic, startling Ironhide. He does care—about both of us! It was in his vocal signature—he only sounds like that when he's forcing himself to sound positive—you know that sound, you've heard it at least 49 times based on his missions and casualty lists, that .00038 harmonic waver off of his usual tone—

Wait, what—

And he said my interest with Soundwave was making things easier. Not better, not worse, easier. Jazz wasn't lying, he was hiding his sadness—71% and rising as new information becomes available—

Okay, how the hell do you even get these numbers —?

And this comment verifies it—he cares about us both. Myself and Soundwave, both of us, but—and this is the crux, Ironhide, the vital pivot upon which all of this data catalyzes—

Ironhide, stunned, listened expectantly.

Jazz is a neophyte at relationships. He understands teammates, group dynamics, and he understands cultural romantic groupings on an intellectual level , but actual experience with relationships is beyond his frame of awareness. And letting slip a prayer, hoping to reach us—

Or he chose to cut things off, no matter how he felt, Ironhide interrupted.

Prowl's explanation came to a halt. ...what?

Sometimes things don't work out, Prowl. Don't overwork your cortex on something simple. Feel bad about it, get overenergized, and get over it. And for the love of Primus, don't let whatever it is with Soundwave interfere with your work. Ironhide out.

The connection cut.

Prowl was left staring distantly at the far wall.

His mouth opened as if to argue. Then closed. Tried again…and closed again.

Is it that simple? Am I overthinking this? Is Jazz truly...not interested anymore?

From the other side of his desk came a soft whisper.

"Tone...is Jazz. Jazz commented." Soundwave sat straight, optics wide. " Commencing search."

Prowl tensed. He'd forgotten that Soundwave had been in his cortex, processing quietly in the background. He'd slipped. He'd let a secret slip—the original identity of the Autobot's best espionage agent and Third in Command. To a former Decepticon. He needed to call RedAlert, he needed—

Soundwave vented out and slumped in his seat.

"Jazz left no other comments. Jazz said nothing about any works."

Prowl leaned forward and put his helm in his hands. No, it was fine.

Ironhide had been right about one thing. This was not like Prowl. He should have been calm and collected and mildly aggravated at the world around him. Instead he was rattled. Yes, he was rattled, tired, in need of recharge and overly stressed.

Long minutes passed. Half a joor. A full joor.

Soundwave summed up the problem.

"Jazz, cares about Prowl. Cares about Soundwave."

Prowl nodded once.

"But...desires both?"

Prowl closed his optics. "I cannot tell. That is...beyond my current data."

Soundwave bit his lip.

"I have means of collecting further data."

Prowl looked at him for a few seconds before he realized what he meant.

"No," he said firmly. "I will chalk this up to your 1.1% continuing dissonance with Autobot culture. We will not use telepathy against a comrade to clarify his feelings."

Soundwave nodded once. He had expected that. Still…

He looked at Prowl. They held each other's gaze, and an understanding passed between them.

They would, nevertheless, clarify those feelings.

Their processing power combined as they planned.

In his office, Prime vented suddenly as dust ran across his filters. He returned to his reviewing. All of his spare time was taken with leaving comments, and although he'd run across many awful, awful things, he'd also discovered some real sparks of joy. He leaned forward across his datapad. PetroBunny Orgy was surprisingly character driven and compelling. He already had three pages of notes he would use in his comment.

Chapter Text

Optimus did not often sit in on meetings. His officers were handpicked, tried and tested over centuries, all of them trusted implicitly...and all of them frighteningly capable. Their recommendations were always precise, their delegation of tasks usually the best, and their overall quality was worth the odd quirk or two. He didn't spend time micromanaging his mechs—there was no need.

So his presence at what should have been a simple fact-finding operation was unusual. The results could have been summed up in a neat memo for the command cadre staff meeting later in the day. But instead Optimus sat in at the meeting of Operation Deceptively Yours, now subsumed under Operation Fuck for Peace, with Ironhide beside him, locked in a light recharge cycle.

Even more disconcerting—Optimus wasn't seated at the head of the table. He lounged back at the end, datapad in hand as he followed along, sitting next to Bluestreak, one hand on the smaller bot's shoulder. It provided a little reassurance since Prowl could not sit with Bluestreak as well. The second in command had to be at the farthest side, a bulwark against Soundwave at his shoulder. In fact, there seemed to be no obvious hierarchy to the places where anyone sat—Counterpunch was beside Bluestreak, and Rewind was couched in Mirage's free hand.

"The group's called Functional Autobots. Pretty obvious, in hindsight." Mirage scrolled down the datapad with one hand.

"'Obvious'?" Bluestreak echoed, looking at Optimus.

"It's a callback to the Functionists on Cybertron," he explained. "Those who believed that mechs were no more and no less than their function. After they gained control of the senate, they enacted sweeping legislation that turned the majority of bots into little more than drones, enslaved by their own unique transformation cogs and personal generators."

"But why call Autobots functionists?"

Optimus heaved a vent. "Because, after a vorn, that's what the Primes were. And they, in turn, were Autobots."

Bluestreak visibly considered that. He had been young when the war started, and the nightmare of Praxus falling—

—Praxians falling—

—was the first time politics had become something horribly real. Before then, he'd been learning how to manage long financial ledgers and minuscule budgets that required a keen eye to catch the smallest of errors. He'd been sparked for that function, and it had suited him well. Performing that forever had seemed so natural that he never questioned it. If anyone ever resisted...

"I don't think I ever saw anything like that," Bluestreak said, trying to remember.

"Functionism was law of the land by the time Praxus fell," Mirage vented. "There were pockets of resistance, some last legal maneuvers being squashed in the senate. For all the good it did."

"No point dredging it up," Ironhide muttered, shifting in his seat. "S'in the past."

"UMU doesn't seem to think so." Mirage brought up the outline of the meeting and pushed it out to everyone's datapad. "There's a lot of anti-Functionist similarities in the rules and wherefores of the anti-cross-faction group…all right, is there something we can call them besides that mouthful?"

"Prudes," Ironhide said, not moving an inch.

Mirage gave him a look that Ironhide didn't even notice. Optimus shrugged helplessly, so Mirage gave up and continued.

"...so the anti-cross-faction group has several rules that I've outlined, but the main thrust is to shame any deviation from the group. I've coalesced everything as far as I could, but the actual comments and dialogue are attached with links so you can see the originals."

The room fell silent as the bots began reading through the material, except for Bluestreak, who pushed the datapad away. He already knew what was in there—he'd walked them through the hundreds of pages of group chat, explaining every acronym and slang. Even if he'd been tempted to see the notes and outlines of how the board was run with Decepticon rules, First Aid had warned him to avoid anything too stressful. The neural patch on the back of his neck cables was streaming soothing code into his cortex, but if he pushed too hard, even that wouldn't be enough to keep him stable.

"I think you missed one," Rewind noticed. "What does AINO mean?"

Bluestreak winced. "Autobot in name only."

Rewind tensed as if struck, and he grumbled under his breath as he curled his pedes under himself.

"Y'know...some days, I really just want to zoom off and see the galaxy."

"Counterpunch," Prowl asked, "did you ever encounter a group like this among the Decepticons?"

"Never," Counterpunch said. "There was no forum privacy among the regular troops, and I rarely ever spoke with officers except Skywarp or Hook. After Soundwave left, there was a lot of confusion and miscommunication...and then it all suddenly cleared up overnight. The regulars didn't know where the orders were coming from, but the officers did."

"So it was probably just officers hiding in the group," Mirage said. "Once we had the logs, we started cross-referencing from the forum names that Soundwave gave us, and then what the other defecticons—sorry, defecting Decepticons, what they said. We know Nova Storm, Whisper, Scrapper, Snaptrap, Thundercracker and Motormaster are in the group for sure, but we're still going through the logs, putting names to bots."

Bluestreak pulled his datapad close and scrolled down for their names. He shouldn't do it, he knew he shouldn't, but he needed to know.

Acidstorm...BittenFin

Thundercracker...Boom-Boom

Whisper...Silencer

Bluestreak heaved a soft vent. He'd never interacted with any of them. But then…

"How did they keep themselves secret?" he asked. "On the group, you're supposed to post who you really are in your profile."

"Easy enough," Rewind said. "Not all bots are active on the surnet. Eject doesn't like anything but sports, but he's listed as a member of the prudes. Since the group is closed off and no one talks to us, there's no way to check. Eject never knew they were using his name."

"Many of these chat logs are sparsely written," Prowl said. "Some of them are rants, but some seem...nonsensical?"

Bluestreak glanced at the text Prowl had highlighted.

Lube'nslide: got all scratched last fight, srsly need new paint

Over-the-Edge: JUMPED THAT AINO GOOD HUH?

Zapwing: bust up confuckers whoo!

Lube'nslide: ironhide not sure whatto think

Lube'nslide: broke up pinkos confucking but not shot them too?

Mech892352: LotSa PiNKo BOtS out THeRE

Mech892352: neVeR ThOuGHt i'D SEe it In An aERiAlBoT

Over-the-Edge: DIDN'T FIREFLY USED TO BE HERE? AS WILLOWISP?

pchoochoo: his accounts been blocked and good riddance

Over-the-Edge: ONCE I FIND THAT BOT I SWEAR

UMU: DNI WITH AINO

UMU: RISK IS TOO GREAT

UMU: TAKE NO LOYALTY FOR GRANTED

UMU: TRUST AND VERIFY ALL LOYALTY

UMU: NO TRUE AUTOBOT FEARS SCRUTINY

"I find out who Over-the-Edge is," Ironhide muttered, "I'ma smack the paint offa him. Pretty sure I can hazard a guess."

"What does 'pinko bot' refer to?" Prowl asked.

Bluestreak wanted to curl up and die. Optimus' hand on his shoulder was all that made sitting there bearable.

"A 'Con sympathizer," Bluestreak said softly. "'Con's wear purple decals and 'Bots wear red decals so the color between them is magenta, but we decided that was too much of a mouthful to keep saying even though I didn't mind it so much but then UMU said to keep it short and said pink would work."

"No true Autobot," Mirage vented, idly tapping the screen. "Primus, I've heard that so many times."

"He says it a lot," Rewind said. "'Real 'bots don't interact, true bots demonstrate their true loyalties. A bot's interests and comments reveal a bot's true loyalties. 'Bot fiction influences 'bot reality'."

Optimus highlighted a single line from weeks earlier so that everyone focused on it.

UMU: DO YOU FOLLOW YOUR FUNCTION?

Optimus frowned, and he scrolled through the responses that followed.

boom-boom: Always

turnmeround: alwayz

two-helm: alwys

willowisp: Yes!

UMU: AND YET...AERIAL DISPLAYS?

willowisp:

UMU: YOU SAVED IT. YOU READ IT.

willowisp: i was just curious

UMU: YOU SAVED IT. YOU READ IT.

willowisp: i clicked it by accident and then i just

willowisp: i'm sorry

willowisp: i was curious

UMU: LOYALTY IS OUR ARMOR

UMU: NO CRACK CAN BE COUNTED SMALL

willowisp: i got rid of that datapad

willowisp: it's gone

UMU: GOOD

UMU: NO BOT IS DISPOSABLE

UMU: BUT SOME BOTS TURN THEIR BACKS ON US

UMU: SO MANY OF BOTS HAVE DIED

UMU: DO NOT BETRAY THEM

UMU: LIKE SO MANY ALREADY HAVE

UMU: AUTOBOTS IN NAME ONLY

"Poor Fireflight," Optimus murmured. "To have to face that all by himself, with everyone in the group watching."

"Public ridicule is Decepticon tactic 101," Rewind said. "From Megatron's first speeches in the arena to the public executions at Kaon."

"Whoever it is," Mirage said, "they've cultivated their own echo chamber. Boom-boom, turnmearound, two-helm? Thundercracker, Flipside and Double-Dealer."

"That...must have been a lot of pressure," Prowl said. "And yet Fireflight still ultimately followed his own feelings."

"Of course," Optimus said. "It's impossible to command a mech to feel something. You have to terrify them into submission."

"There is…" Counterpunch mused. "...a very palpable fear in the Decepticon ranks. It's been low-level for ages, but recently it's become much more tangible. Mechs around Megatron end up crumpled and beaten, some of them too far gone to repair. Thundercracker's been sending waves of the Armada out just to keep them out of his reach."

"Yes, your reports have been very thorough," Optimus nodded. "I don't think it's any coincidence that this UMU posted more frequently once Deceptively Yours was created."

"Why?" Prowl asked. "This group focused on sabotaging Autobot morale and transmitting orders to Decepticons. Deceptively Yours was designed to turn Decepticons against each other, to foster the same maliciousness in their ranks as we've suffered in ours."

"You may have wanted that," Optimus chuckled, "but I'm afraid that purpose was sabotaged the moment you put together a team of cross-factionalists. Beachcomber is many things, but malicious isn't one of them."

Prowl's mouth tightened, and he glanced at Soundwave for his opinion.

Soundwave nodded once. "Deceptively Yours, encouraged fraternization with Autobots. Gave Decepticons an outlet outside of Megatron's control. Logical conclusion: Autobots cannot help being Autobots."

Optimus, curious, tilted his helm. "What do you mean?"

In front of the Prime, Soundwave took a long vent, crafting his answer.

"Decepticons, commanded by Megatron to 'rise up', but always it is a command. To rise up to his will. Autobots, commanded to idealize equality, freedom. Therefore, did not have to lure in Decepticons—simply demonstrated what Autobot ideals look like."

"No wonder UMU became more aggressive," Optimus said. "Deceptively Yours and the surnet couldn't be controlled like...hm. What is the name of the Decepticon surnet?"

Counterpunch shook his helm. "One doesn't exist."

"What?" Rewind sat straight. "We looked for days for any mention of a 'Con archive. Why not? 'Cons were posting to the surnet like crazy, there has to be something they were coming from. They just hid it well."

Counterpunch leaned back in his seat, taking in Rewind's surprise and the looks from everyone else. Even Soundwave looked slightly taken aback, and Counterpunch would have bet that was from not realizing that an archive had been lacking.

"I don't think you understand the major differences in culture we're talking about. Decepticons aren't openly creative. They can't be. You're allowed to be loyal, to follow orders. Writing something that can open you up to criticism? Way too dangerous. Of course they were posting it on the surnet. That's literally all they have."

Bluestreak's frown deepened as he listened until finally at the end he was bursting to argue.

"But then why are they still 'Cons? If everything so slagged on that side, why would they want to stay that way? We're over here—some of them are already defecting—why'd it take that long before any of them started to try to leave?"

Counterpunch shook his helm again. "They're sure that it's just as bad here. They all think Optimus is just as vicious as Megs—it wasn't until MaskedMech kept updating that they realized Soundwave had survived. And of course the M4gn1f1c3ntSkyPr1nc3 is still commenting…"

"It's more than that."

Optimus took a long vent, cooling his systems as he read through the chat group. Long diatribes from his own mechs ran through the logs, so many of them sincere in their loyalty to his cause, so many of them losing themselves in Decepticon rhetoric.

"It's fear," Optimus said. "This UMU spreads fear—makes them afraid of being shunned, of being branded a traitor. And he welds his followers as close as he can, turning them against former friends. He demands obedience, and then he tightens his grasp on what that obedience looks like. One day it's enough to simply be in the group, the next day you must disavow those who think differently. Write the wrong thing and you're evil, to be deleted."

UMU: LOYALTY MUST BE DEMONSTRATED

UMU: FACTIONS CANNOT BE CROSSED

UMU: TRAITORS MUST BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE

UMU: ALL TREASON MUST BE DELETED

"He's using this group to find any hint of cross-factioning among Decepticons and to create doubt among Autobots. He's using the fear to ensure obedience—fear of himself, and fear of those who should be a bot's friends and allies. And he must use fear—that's all he has to keep them in line."

Prowl sat straight, realizing where Optimus was leading them.

"Because UMU has no longer has a telepath to root out disloyalty."

Optimus nodded once. "Yes. I had my suspicions, and this confirms everything I feared."

"UMU is Megatron."

There was little to say after that.

Optimus excused himself from the meeting, one arm still around Bluestreak and clearly in a private conversation with the smaller bot. Counterpunch asked if Mirage needed anything else, and a moment later he had also left, off to continue comparing notes and debriefing with Jazz.

Prowl's helm swam. He'd skipped recharge in order to compile notes with Soundwave, and he was beginning to feel the effects of three shifts without adequate defrag. If he didn't rest soon, Ratchet would find out, and then Prowl would probably be off active duty for another week.

"I think," Mirage started, "that we'd better take a few breem to break. Get a cube, hit the washrack. Come back just before the shift change. We'll look for anything else in UMU's...in Megatron's posts, and later see if the others have any ideas regarding what to do about Deceptively Yours."

Rewind flopped back in Mirage's hand. "Ugh. Don't bring Beachcomber in 'till we're dealing with DY, huh? Bad enough he took that slag from Blue—he doesn't need to read all'a that prude group sluicing."

"Mm." Mirage gave him a nudge, sliding his hand free. "Actually, I think he'll be happy to read it. He gave an entire faction a taste of freedom, and there are a half dozen mechs down in the brig he's effectively taken off the battlefield. Not bad work for a pacifist."

"...give him the option?" Rewind asked. "You didn't see him after the meeting. At our reading group, he was definitely self-medicating again."

Mirage groaned. "Fine, I'll ask. Actually...maybe I can bring Fireflight in on this instead of Bluestreak, too."

"Do you require Soundwave's further input?"

Mirage glanced at Prowl. "I think so. We have access to the logs now—he can probably figure out who's who, identify the orders passed through."

Prowl rose. "Then I will leave him here. Inform me when he is being escorted back to his berth."

Mirage gave a curt nod and left the room.

With a deep vent, Prowl followed. This was not a conversation he was looking forward to, but it was vital to the plans he and Soundwave were creating.

To his relief, Mirage had not transformed. Prowl caught up to him with a few quick steps and sent a ping to announce himself. After a brief pause, Mirage pinged back.

"I really do need a cube," Mirage said, almost apologetically. "Walk with me?"

Prowl nodded. "I wanted to offer my commendation. Your selection of Bluestreak was, in retrospect, appropriate."

Mirage, if anything stiffened. Was that indignation (25%) or surprise (89%)—Prowl relaxed. Good. No major problems so far.

"I...thank you," Mirage said. "It wasn't...I didn't intend for things to turn out so badly for him. Fireflight would have been a better choice."

"Do not apologize for your decisions," Prowl said. "Fireflight is only superior in hindsight. There was no evidence to lead to his inclusion until now."

"True," Mirage said through grit denta. "This would be a damn sight easier if bots weren't afraid of posting their honest feelings, but they won't even do it under a fragging pseudonym."

"We have been at war for millennia," Prowl said. "Of course emotions run high."

"Autobots are supposed to be free," Mirage said. "And half our faction thinks the other half are traitors."

Mirage raised an optic ridge as he glanced at Prowl. "How is your disciplining doing on that front?"

"More time is required before any progress will be visible. However, I'm hoping to see some change in attitude within the next few days."

"Through war games?" Mirage asked.

"...field exercises," Prowl said. "I am not yet ready to reveal that detail to the mechs in question."

"I would worry it might backfire on you," Mirage said, pausing as they came to the elevator. "But who knows? As coldly logical as I thought you were, your methods can be unpredictable."

Prowl lifted his helm. "Logic is not always predictable. But it forms the best foundation for positive results. In the fog of war, mathematics provides the only available control."

"You certainly seem to have Soundwave under your control."

Prowl did not react physically. Inwardly, his processors overclocked—Mirage had broached the subject that Prowl had intended to raise, and he had done it with tones of hostility and innuendo. And the elevator was on its way up. He had almost no time to calculate—

Mirage suspected (55%-60%-75%-90%)—

No. Mirage knew. Ironhide hadn't said Prowl's affections were obvious, but Mirage had been in the mess hall, invisible and listening. Even though Soundwave had couched his interest in percentage points and they had framed their overtures in computational language, Mirage knew. And had explained to Jazz in a way that cut Jazz off to both of them.

Prowl turned accusing optics on Mirage.

And stopped.

As before, he'd expected Mirage to react with the same deference and worry that had followed all of his interactions with officers. Even Mirage's arrogance was merely a cover for the anxiety he felt as a cross-factionist. Mirage should have been self-conscious about spying on his own officers, no matter how inadvertently.

Instead Mirage met his look with accusation.

Of course.

99% probability that Mirage had seen Jazz's feelings for Prowl and Soundwave...and then seen Prowl and Soundwave conspiring behind Jazz's back. Prowl almost snapped at him that this was none of his business, but his emergency processors, usually in reserve for break-neck changes in battle plans, screamed at him that respecting rank or propriety was not important here. Mirage was Jazz's friend. He was concerned. Dismissing him would be...

Prowl reassessed the formula and looked back at Mirage.

Dismissing Mirage's concerns was 73% dangerous.

Dangerous for Mirage's confidence and his command. For Mirage's faith in his commanders. And because of Mirage's spite. For millennia, Mirage had borne what must have felt like the entire faction's disrespect for his 'Con sympathies. And Jazz had chosen this bot to succeed him as head of Spec Ops.

Prowl imagined Jazz with just an ounce of the anger and isolation that Mirage had suffered, and he didn't like what that led to.

Dismissing Mirage's concerns was the wrong tack here.

"...it must look like—" Prowl started "—that as soon as Jazz was gone..."

"…a little," Mirage admitted, already losing some of his edge as Prowl deigned to speak with him. "I had no right to see what I did, but—"

"You do not believe yourself worthy of your rank," Prowl said, waving aside his explanation. "Of course you hide when you can."

Mirage winced at how that cut right through his spark. Worse was how Prowl didn't mean for it to. It was simply that obvious.

"Our intention is not to hurt Jazz," Prowl said. "I don't know how much he told you—"

"I saw how he looked," Mirage said. "When he thought both of you were dying."

Prowl paused. Opened his mouth, then rethought himself and stood straight again. The need to ask for more information warred with his own indignation at having this brought into the open. This was his affair—

Oh. Prowl felt like he'd dug a knife into himself with that.

"Jazz...hides as much from us as he does from his enemies," Prowl said. "You saw more than I did."

"That's unfortunate." Mirage gave a long, sad vent. "For all involved."

The elevator opened. Mirage stepped inside and turned. There seemed to be nothing more to say. Prowl blasted himself for the loss of gaining more information, and he gave a small tilt of his helm and began to go—

Mirage grasped the door and held it before it could close.

"Prowl…"

"Yes?"

"...I know he was under a ton of stress before. What with...both of you. He seems more at ease now. At least." Mirage vented. "He was genuinely happy that you two were together."

Prowl threw caution to the wind—he was on borrowed time already—the doors were closing again.

"Because he couldn't choose?"

Mirage's optics opened wide at the meaning. Then there was a secondary vent, his mouth opening in understanding at what Prowl was thinking.

That was it—Prowl's spark leaped at the confirmation.

Yes—that Jazz couldn't choose—89% and rising.

Yes—that this new possibility hadn't even been thought of—99%.

The elevator hadn't even closed before Prowl had turned, heading for a recharge. On the way, he was already sending a request to Jazz to attend the next round of field exercises and to bring his best bots—if they were up for a challenge.

Prowler, I don't know what you're planning, but if you think I got a spare moment after I dragged me and my team back from hell—

If your team wins, I will do all of your filing and reports for a month.

—then you're right as rain. I'll bring a stack of datapads for when ya lose, save me a trip.

Jazz signed off.

With a sense of satisfaction Prowl hadn't felt since before Soundwave's defection, Prowl clasped his hands behind his back and strode down the hall. He didn't know if Mirage would tell Jazz anything, but it didn't matter. Prowl fully intended to lose this battle and win the war.

Chapter Text

Operation Fuck fer Peace called it quits halfway through shift. Rewind had collapsed in Mirage's hand a joor ago, Hound was dragging from an earlier mission with Groove, and FirstAid had two more stints in medbay before he could even hope to recharge. Even Soundwave sat with his helm propped in his hands, optics shut, drowsing in a light defrag as he waited for an escort back to berth.

"Well, don't y'all look tuckered out."

Blaster scooted to one side so First Aid could slip by, then came up to the table and gently took Rewind in his hands. Neatly tucking him into his cassette mode, Blaster set him into his case to recharge.

"Really long day, huh?"

"The longest," Mirage vented, already rousing Hound up out of his chair and leading him toward the door. "Can you stay here for a few? Soundwave's escort is on their way, but they're running late."

"Uh—bot, I don't—"

"Thanks a bunch, Blaster, I owe you one, ta!"

Blaster watched him vanish out the door, resetting his optics once. His back was turned to the one mech he'd never thought to face off the battlefield, and his comrades had gone and abandoned him here. With a handwave and jaunty salute, no less.

He gave a long vent meant to settle his twitching servos. And heard a similar vent behind him.

Blaster scowled.

This was ridiculous.

He was not going to stand here for the entire time, pretending Soundwave wasn't there.

He was the Autobot here. He was the base's resident communications officer and the best boombox this side of Cybertron—and no two bit defecticon was going to make him feel any weirder about this than he already did.

Blaster turned and took a seat at the table, not exactly opposite Soundwave, but close enough.

They were silent, regarding each other over the memories of their previous fights. There had been duels, little wars between their cassettes, raging sonic blasts that destroyed buildings and threatened to rupture their spark chambers.There had been quieter fights, maneuvering signals in the sky, disrupting satellites and scrambling signals. And always in the small moment after one of them claimed victory, either jubilant cheers or hollow laughter needled the loser.

"Jazz says you traded him Steel Lunaire," Blaster said. "The whole discography."

Soundwave narrowed his optics. Was this a trap? Should he remain quiet? Would silence be taken as antagonizing a ranking bot in a hostile base? Or was Blaster, as Jazz had implied, eager for files Soundwave might have?

86%, Blaster wanted music files. Which meant that there was an 86% chance that Soundwave had the upper hand.

"...Jazz assertion, correct."

"...did he trade you anything for it?"

"Affirmative," Soundwave said. "Selection of ambient sounds. No spare time for more."

"No spare time?" Blaster echoed. "For a download?"

"Steel Lunaire discography, complete. Recorded at highest quality, no compression." Soundwave sat a little straighter and deliberately baited the hook. "File, very large."

"Huh." Blaster tapped his fingers on the table, drumming out a faint beat.

Soundwave said nothing, his faceplate unreadable.

"Jazz said you also had Insilico Syndicate and F5te in there."

"Among others."

Blaster shifted in his seat, glanced at the door to make sure it was sealed, and leaned a little forward.

"Kaonitics?"

That provoked a reaction. Soundwave's optics widened, and he leaned back, bringing his hands in closer to his cassette casing. The protective gesture wasn't lost on Blaster.

"Chill, mech, I ain't looking to cause trouble," he said, lifting both his hands. "I only managed to save one of their albums, and from a pretty shabby pirate station, too."

"...'save', a good description," Soundwave said. "After Kaon's fall, little survived."

Blaster didn't respond. The unspoken curse of communications was that, when a city fell, he had to listen. He'd listened to Praxus the night it fell, with the shrieks of civilians and the rage of the jets. The night had been nothing but murder.

Kaon...

Kaon had been a death of inches.

Kaon had never been a hub of the arts like Iacon or the sciences like Vos. It hadn't been as rich as Praxus. But it housed and manufactured numerous warbuilds, and taking Kaon had given functionism its muscle.

As functionism became a political force, anything deemed outside of a mech's need was deemed unnecessary. Extraneous. Wasteful. All of Cybertron was a grand machine, and every mech was but a cog in that machine. No writing, no art, nothing that did not serve the needs of the whole could be allowed.

Music that helped a mech work faster or focus had the Prime's blessing. Music too distracting or, worse, subversive, could land a mech in prison. Mechs who refused to be corrected by prison were then transferred to the re-education centers of Kaon. The city became the center of reprogramming, rewelding, and execution.

To Blaster, living in nearby Kalis, the music scene of Kaon sounded like a choir of voices slowly diminishing one by one. There were a couple of state-sanctioned radio stations airing their news, philosophy and bland drumbeats to keep the energon flowing. And there were dozens of small stations, little transponders a mech could run out of their apartment, airing what was really happening. Kidnappings, murders, what little information that could sneak out, sandwiched between the most screaming nightlife that Blaster had ever heard. As if Kaon itself was roaring in pain, mechs played music nonstop at hidden raves that didn't end. Blaster recorded, boosted signals, gave interviews to mechs...and listened as each station slowly died, one by one. Cut off on air, with a mech's fading screams under breaking cassettes, Kaon slowly went silent.

By the time Megatron and his forces had attacked the city, most of the musicians had been reprogrammed or smelted.

"How'd you even manage it?" Blaster asked. "I heard their rave get hit—I heard everyone inside die."

"...as did I."

The massacre hadn't taken long. In the time before the war, many mechs hadn't had armaments at all, and as the functionists grew, weaponry was simply unnecessary to most mech functions. There had been screams, the sound of laser fire, a few paltry return shots, and the final screech of a chrys-guitar on a single note.

"Assault on Kaon, launched a cycle later," Soundwave said. "Megatron, took functionist headquarters. Soundwave, attached to Armada forces taking smelters. Found functionist priests smelting all remaining prisoners. Many freed...many already dead . Kaonitics, all but one grayed and gone."

Blaster grimaced, but not for the dead mechs. They had died millennia ago—he had done his grieving and more. Part of him rebelled at hearing the Decepticons doing anything beneficial. Part of him rebelled at sympathy for Soundwave, who stared at a distant point past the table.

"One was still alive?" Blaster asked.

Soundwave shut his optics tight . The new protocols that Prowl had let him download allowed him to mask some of his feelings, but the memories were powerful. It was a time when Megatron had been at his most heroic, the cause had been the most pure, and Soundwave completely sure that he was doing the right thing. He was still certain that the Decepticon cause had been right. Just...not anymore.

"Kaonitic drummer Shells...helm slagged. Arms shot off. Pedes, dismembered. Shells' spark, trapped in a steel box."

Blaster turned his helm. "Yeah, sounds about right. Functionists carved up bots to make it easier to send 'em to the smelter. Primus...poor slag."

"Tried to read his cortex." Soundwave swallowed the oil hitting the back of his throat. "Shells... incoherent. Spark, corrupted and damaged. Opportunity to save discography presented itself. When downloaded ended, spark faded."

Much of the story remained unsaid, but Blaster could read between the lines. A corrupted spark was a mad, glitched out thing, barely a pulse fueled by its last lingering emotions. Touching something like that was a nightmare, even just with crossed cables. He couldn't begin to understand what it was like to actually feel that madness in his own cortex.

Neither spoke. Blaster obviously wanted the songs. Soundwave had their file up and active. Trades were often done along such lines—what could Blaster offer for the music? But there was a difference between swapping files and swapping files over the dead.

"...I got a 1.58 Ghz signal that'd give 'em one hell of a comeback," Blaster offered.

Soundwave considered the offer for a long moment. In all the time he'd been part of the planetary communications grid, he hadn't played any of the music he'd recovered and salvaged. Their resistance had turned into a full-blown war with factions springing up overnight, and Megatron had relied on him to coordinate their global offenses. And then the Autobots had escaped and Megatron had followed…

"Blaster, query," Soundwave started slowly.

"...yeah?"

"Never played Kaonitics on your station. Blaster, boosted signals. Framed interviews as brief insets between songs." Soundwave's optics narrowed. "Blaster, did not play most anti-functionist songs or air full speeches. Blaster, safe. Did nothing. "

Blaster's mouth parted slightly, and he took a vent that brought him straight.

"So that's what crawled up your exhaust pipe," he realized. "Is that why you hated me all this time?"

Real bitterness colored Soundwave's empty tone .

"Blaster, had voice. But all talk, no shock."

Blaster leaned back in his seat, his arm stretched out on the table in front of him. He stared at Soundwave, gauging how willing the other mech was to hear an explanation. Should he simply get up and storm out, his loyalties and devotion to the cause so insulted? He owed Soundwave nothing, and here Soundwave was anyway—so much for the glorious Decepticon revolution.

"What's your uppermost range?" he demanded.

"8.288 μ∞," Soundwave said slowly, expecting a trick.

"Mine's around the same," Blaster said. "Now. After tons of military upgrades. But when I started, I only had 3.339 μ∞."

Soundwave tilted his helm back, looking at him skeptically.

"3.339 μ∞...impossible. Barely functional."

Blaster scoffed. "I'll have you know that was top of the line for civilians. With the most illegal modifications, true. But all'a that boosting and pirating? I did that on pure skill."

Now Soundwave narrowed his optics, recognizing that for the oblique shot across his box that it was. But he also recognized that Blaster had little to gain from lying and that everything he said could be verified later.

Dark thoughts filled Soundwave's helm. If his telepathy circuitry had been activated, he could have peered into Blaster's memories, into his emotions, and found the lies and half-truths, the dirty little secrets that the other mech held. Anything to wipe that smug, cocky grin off of his faceplate. But Soundwave couldn't, and they both knew it.

Recoiling from Soundwave's glare, Blaster vented softly and shook his helm once. "Mech...if looks could kill, I'd be one dead pile of slag."

Soundwave didn't bother to argue. In his spark, he knew that Blaster could have taken recordings from other sources rather than simply boosting from Kaon, knew that he could have spun more tracks from Decepticon stations in other cities. Soundwave knew that Megatron's speeches had been processed, put to music, cut to soundbites—he'd done it himself before officially joining the cause. And he knew that having pieces of accurate news and cries for help from Kaon had been powerful simply because they'd been aired on a hot Autobot station among popular songs. In his own way, Blaster had recruited for the Decepticons just as well as Soundwave had.

But Soundwave didn't have to like it.

A single moment couldn't erase millennia of hating Blaster, the frustration of failed assassination attempts, the endless maneuvering around each other's signals and satellites, the rage of a failed mission or the aggravation of ripping away a victory that should never have been in doubt. The impotence of sitting across from Blaster, stripped of his own authority, command, and function.

Soundwave clamped down on his emotions. If Laserbeak or Ravage had been there, he could have shunted the process over to them. But he was alone, and there was no point in indulging in useless sentiment.

"1.5 Ghz signal now?"

"S'what I can spare from the day to day grind," Blaster said. "But it's a good signal, and it'll give them a great comeback to mechs who haven't heard them in ages, if ever."

Blaster didn't mention that it'd be a fitting tribute, or a fine remembrance. He didn't say that it was what the band would have wanted. He certainly didn't beg.

And Soundwave didn't try to negotiate. When Soundwave's escort finally came, the mechs walked in on Blaster and Soundwave trading datapads in silence, exchanging mountains of audio files.

Jazz stood on the high plateau in front of the Ark, overlooking what Prowl had turned into a glorified training ground. He glanced sideways at Prowl, who stood at easy attention beside him. Jazz had been faintly worried about attending one of Prowl's training sessions, after his own elation at evading paperwork had worn off. Did Prowl still want to try for Jazz's affections? But it was impossible to tell. Prowl had a killer poker face.

At the foot of the plateau, anti-cross-faction Autobots who had been involved in the shipping fights now stood in neat rows, all at parade rest, waiting for orders. The sky looked like rain coming, providing a gray backdrop to the gloomy faceplates before him.

"Damn," Jazz said. "Gotta admit, I knew how many there were, but it's different to see 'em all in one place."

Prowl gave a small nod. "Hence why it was so critical to address this. Megatron has sunk his claws in deep and we didn't even realize it."

"...have you told 'em yet?" Jazz asked.

"No. Optimus said to wait and allow him to do so."

Jazz frowned.

"He's planning something."

Prowl nodded again.

Jazz's frown deepend. "You're planning something."

Prowl gave a nother nod . "These war games are part of a long-term plan."

"...gonna fill me in on it?"

"Soon," Prowl assured him. "After this demonstration. Are your bots ready?"

Jazz didn't look at the mechs behind him. "' C ourse they are—you think I'd bring us here half-cocked?"

But he sent a quick ping to verify just in case.

Y'all ready to do me proud?

His mechs didn't snap to attention. He'd warned them beforehand that they were to stand in a line but to stay casual and project an air of easy confidence. "You're my bots , elite of the elite, so you're disciplined, but you're cool about it, capiche? Don't go egging 'em on, but don't look like new-sparked cadets out there, neither." All of them were following his instructions to the letter.

Hound and Smokescreen pinged back; First Aid and Bumblebee followed a second after. Beachcomber, at the end of the line, gave a cautious reply.

You sure you really want me an' 'Aid out here? I'm not really Spec Ops material…

'Comber, you start that trash again and I'll put you through the crash course I gave Mirage, and trust me, you ain't want that. Only reason I haven't pulled you in on the team is you're too pure a soul. But I figure playing around in the dirt is right up your alley.

Beachcomber vented wearily at the view below him. That crowd makes having fun look like work.

Jazz gave him a positive ping as a pat on the back. Prowl was starting.

"—a preliminary round, and the top scores will go on to compete and represent us against Autobot Special Operations."

A murmur went through the bots beneath them. Jazz heard the subtle 'us' versus 'them' that Prowl was building—so this was the plan to build up the sense of camaraderie between the ranks again.

As Prowl put them to their paces, a brutal hill climb up the steeper part of the plateau, Jazz wondered if putting them against his bots wouldn't build resentment instead, especially if his own team won every event. And he voiced that worry quietly to Prowl.

I hope your bots put in a good showing , Prowl said. This is also to demonstrate the skills and prowess of the bots they don't normally associate with, rebuild some of that respect. But…

Here Prowl turned his helm to smile at him.

'Every event'? My mechs have been training for weeks. You might be surprised at the outcome.

Jazz wordlessly nodded once, accepting the answer.

He sent his message out to his own mechs.

If you lose, double trainings for a month .

Fortunately Prowl was not facing them, and so he didn't notice the collective wince that went through their otherwise casual look. Beachcomber and First Aid looked at each other, not sure if that applied to them, and decided not to ask.

The first round went swiftly—a hill climb up the sloped side of the plateau. The rest spaced themselves out to get a good view of the coming event. As volunteers from Prowl’s bots held a quick run-through on a smaller hill, sorting themselves into the fastest and most agile, Hound and Smokescreen nodded at each other and moved down to the bottom of the main ramp.

“What you think?” Hound asked, motioning at the route up the side of the plateau.

Before Smokescreen could answer, a rough laugh came from behind them. They both glanced back and found Brawn seated on a rocky outcropping, joined by several of the more compact bots, including Cliffjumper and Powerglide.

"I think you're the wrong bot for the job." Brawn nodded at Blurr and Tracks, who were already past the halfway point of the preliminary, well ahead of the rest of the pack. "Speed's what you need, and you aren't exactly the quickest bots."

"Tracks has good traction," Hound admitted. "And Blurr has the best accelerators this side of Iacon."

"That'll be tough to beat," Smokescreen said, "since we have to play fair."

Powerglide tilted his helm. "'Play fair'? How could you cheat on this?"

"A smokescreen to hide the route," Hound said, "and an illusion of the handholds just a few inches offsides."

Cliffjumper almost came to his pedes, leaning forward aggressively and raising his voice. "You can't do that—it'd crash 'em!"

"Yup," Hound said. "And we swore we wouldn't cause any casualties. So we'll see what I can do so I don't drag down my speedy companion here."

Smokescreen gave a rueful laugh, crossing his arms as they waited. Soon enough, Blurr and Tracks had reached the top of the plateau.

"Just like Arizona?" Smokescreen asked.

Hound grimaced. "What, Tuscon?"

Smokescreen shook his helm quickly. "Oh, Primus, don't remind me. No no. Gold Canyon."

"Huh. Yeah, that'll work." Hound started walking back several meters, moving into the crowd that parted to let him through. "Get a good headstart, okay?"

Smokescreen looked doubtfully at the cliff-face. "Mark a path?"

Nearby, Warpath laughed and motioned at the dusty patch of sand below the cliff. "Just make out where you're gonna splat, huh?"

Hound glanced up at Prowl and Jazz, who were giving Blurr and Tracks time to rest and let the remaining mechs gather to watch the competition. As much as Hound didn't like the trash talking going on around them, he didn't defend himself or Smokescreen—not with Jazz's training triggered in his helm.

I ain't training ya in diplomacy—Decepticons ain't gonna like you neither. Too bad for them—they can make friends with your bullets. You know the worst person you'll ever piss off? You—when you fuck up 'cause you let yourself get mad.

Hound studied the route—the path up was steep, at least a 45 degree angle just to start, and it swiftly ramped up until it was less of a drive and more of a mountain climb. And the ground was treacherous, pitted with loose rock and sand.

Beachcomber, he asked, any advice?