Jazz had the complete trust of Optimus Prime and Ironhide. Sometimes that made it worse.
Sitting at the command conference table, listening to Perceptor and Red Alert describe reports of the highest classification, he wondered how any of them could relax with him there. Even Prowl seemed satisfied with the calculations as to his loyalty. Behind his visor, Jazz glanced at each officer, eternally surprised that they let him be there.
"The only problem with this information," Perceptor said, laying the datapad back on the table, "is that the codes used on this interception were old. They aren't any of the recent ones we know about."
"How old?" Prowl asked.
"They date back to the beginning of the war," Perceptor said. "The passwords check out, but the digital riders don't match anything we know about."
The problem, as they all knew, was that Decepticons always varied their codes and not all transmissions were valid, like one message hidden within another. The difference between troop movements in Asia or troop movements on another planet. Without the additional digital markers, they had little way of telling if this transmission had been deliberately dropped into their lap or not.
"So it's a visual confirmation only?" Optimus asked.
The room fell silent. Perceptor nodded.
Optimus raised his head slightly and glanced at Ironhide, who read his look and got up, locking the main door with his personal password. At the table, Prowl reached into his compartment and withdrew a small box, which he set down and tapped. A faint highpitched signal raced through the room, like the air pressure shifting across sensitive receptors, as a light electro-magnetic burst killed any weak monitoring equipment, and finally Red Alert put the conference room's main processor into reboot, effectively silencing any audio receiver or cameras. And, one at a time, Jazz set the numerous safeguards and firewalls on his visors to sleep.
"All communication effectively blocked?" Perceptor said purely for formality. Everyone nodded, and when he was satisfied, he slid his datapad to over the table to Jazz. "Can you confirm the message as real?"
Venting once and staring at the datapad as if it were a scraplet, Jazz felt Prowl shift and slide one hand over his, squeezing gently. Above the table, there was no indication that Prowl was holding him, and Jazz turned his hand up to return the touch.
"Gimme a second, bossmech." Jazz forced a smile and audibly disengaged the locks holding the titanium frame of his visor in place. "Wasn't planning on showing off today."
A chuckle went around the table, and Optimus nodded once.
"I'm certain Red Alert, at least, is reassured at how long it takes you to 'show off'."
Across the table, Red Alert tapped the edge of the table without realizing it. "It is tolerable, especially since this is with Jazz's full cooperation and not resisting Decepticon malware. However, I still must formally voice my extreme dissatisfaction that the Third in Command must place himself in the field so often. Jazz and this secret are safer here."
Red Alert's voice turned into the mild whine that it usually did when he couldn't force his security decisions. Optimus usually gave into everything he wanted.
"I know," Optimus said. "With so few bots so attuned to SpecOps work, however, I can only continue to repeat that he's best used in the field."
"Sorry, Red." Jazz clicked the last lock and disengaged the last security protocol, a mild explosive built into the frame. "An instrument this good just gotta be played, know what I'm saying?"
Red Alert's huff and quiet "but you're not a tool" was heard but unacknowledged. He couldn't argue against the realities of war.
With his free hand, Jazz flipped up his visor. He kept his gaze firmly on the datapad, but in his peripheral vision and on his kinectic sensors, he felt the tension in the room rise as everyone else halted their battle subroutines triggered by his optics. Some other Autobots had red optics, to the endless teasing of their comrades, but even they didn't have the deep, dark scarlet of some of the original Decepticon forces.
The message was brief, and Jazz felt the minute servos deep in his optics quickly spin around, rotating a dozen thin lenses to proper position. One by one, they lined up faint receptors that picked up the subtle binary script hidden in the text, and then selected the proper ones in sequence. As they did, he transmitted the translation to the datapad.
"Slag, that's ancient," Jazz whispered. Shaking his head once, he locked his visor back in place and slumped in his chair again, passing the datapad back around.
"It's Soundwave all right," he said, "but it ain't what you're thinking. I don't know if the plans are legit 'cause it ain't about that. He sent this to Megatron, saying he's scoped the spy in their ranks."
"Does he say who?" Optimus asked.
"Nope," Jazz said, "and he's in the wrong dang troop, but he put the why's of his suspicions in here, and...he's close, Prime. He's real close to my guy."
"Do we need to pull your agent out?" Prowl asked.
Jazz tilted his head in thought. If it was himself, he would risk staying undercover, but he didn't want to see Punch executed because he hadn't read the signs right and extracted him in time. That would bring suspicion down on himself, even if the officers never showed it, and worse, it would cost him the only drinking buddy who knew what it was to hide almost every moment.
Not that Punch ever said much when he came back. He was developing that long stare Ironhide sometimes said Jazz himself had, and Jazz sometimes worried that Punch was already lost between sides. But wars had casualties, and Punch's information hadn't been bad yet.
"No," he started slowly. "We don't have to...but if you wanna keep him in there, we're gonna have to reassure them that he's on their side."
Ironhide grumbled and glared at Jazz. "You mean put a round in him or let him put a round in you."
Jazz gave a half-shrug. "Either way, someone's gonna have to take one for the team."
"Ratchet just repaired you," Prowl said in exasperation.
"Yup," Jazz grinned. "So I'm good for another go around."
"Before that becomes necessary," Optimus said, "I'd rather see if we can solve two problems together. Starscream has been moving along the Gulf oil wells. If we can arrange the coming battle on our terms..."
Jazz tuned him out as conversation turned back toward battle plans and long term scenarios. It was nothing he couldn't keep just half an audio on, and he'd receive the meeting notes later anyway.
He hadn't let go of Prowl's hand. Revealing his optics never got easier. In front of the Prime, it felt like a betrayal, even if he'd been Kaonite before changing sides. Optimus never said anything about it except to constantly trust him, promote him and share a love of human sports with him, but the needling paranoia in Jazz's cortex kept the doubt fresh in his thoughts.
Prowl slid his datapad over to Jazz.
Are you all right?
Jazz smiled, squeezed Prowl's hand again and typed a reply.
Be fine later. If you're up to it.
The faint, faint smile from Prowl was all the answer he needed.