Sorry about the long update time, writer's block bit hard.

Anyway, here's the new chapter. Enjoy, review, and point out errors.


Chapter 11:

Jazz opened the door to see Blaster standing on the other side. "Um, hey mah mech, whacha need?"

He had to get rid of his friend, and fast. The femme representative would be there soon and he did not want to have to explain that to his best friend. Behind him he sensed Mirage flicking on his disruptor.

"Hey Jazz, can I come in?" Blaster asked, and why did he look so nervous about it?

Puzzled, but realizing that something terrible had to have happened for the cassette-master to be acting this way, the saboteur motioned the other in. Hopefully the femme would be late.

The red and yellow commsmech entered and sat gingerly on the berth. Jazz sat with him and placed a comforting servo on his shoulder. "Blasta', wha's wrong mah mech, ya don' seem right."

The other Polyhexian vented deeply, "Sorreh mah friend, I'm just a little nervous. Um, well, there's no easy way to say this, but, I'm not who ya think I am."

Jazz removed his servo and regarded Blaster warily, while across the room Bumblebee prepared himself for a potential attack. Desk jockey the host-mech might have been, but he was still a trained soldier with four, just as highly trained, cassettes that he could deploy with a single thought.

"What do ya mean?"

Blaster stared into his visor for a moment as he gathered his courage, but found he could not look the black and white in the optics while he confessed. "I'm tha Femme Contingent's Anchor."

The three opsmecha just stared in a state of stupefaction. Mirage's shock caused him to ripple back into the visible spectrum but the cassette-master did not appear consternated by it.

Jazz's processor was racing. On the one servo, he could understand why Blaster had kept this from him. After all, he himself had not told his best friend he was really an ops agent. However, on the other servo, he was just a bit irrationally hurt that the hostmech was afraid to tell him until he had been practically ordered to do so. Of course, then the doubts began to set in. Did Blaster befriend him just because of his mission? Was the music-loving, jokester, snarky, all-around fun mech the real Blaster? Jazz really wanted to express these fears, but the saboteur knew he had responsibilities at the moment that did not include angsting over a potentially false friendship. Instead, he had to appear cool, unphased, professional… he really hated his right now. Jazz plastered a grin on his faceplates and managed to appear, at least, mostly unaffected. "Well, tha'll make things easieh. We already have a great rapport 'tween us, so it'll be less diff'cult ta int'grate ya inta tha team."

Blaster was noth fooled, the black and white was practically oozing anxiety. Anyone who did not know Jazz would be unable to tell, but the cassette-master was empathetically tuned to his best friend. "Jazz, stop worryin'. We are still friends, an' nothin', not even mah mission, will change that."

"Ah'm not worried."

"Yes ya are. I can see it."

Jazz held his façade for a long moment, then waffled. "Ah'm jus' wonderin' if ya really became mah friend cuz ya wanted ta or jus' cuz ya had ta, n' if it was tha real ya, n' whether we'll still be friends when this is ova' or will Ah have ta fin' a new best friend."

The communications officer felt his spark ache as he listened to his counterpart pour out his fears. After he was sure the saboteur was finished, he spoke. "It is true that I acquainted mahself with ya because it was part of mah mission, however, it was never supposed ta go beyond acquaintanceship. Tha intent was for us ta have a connection of commonality ta make you feel more comfortable when, an' if, we got ta this point in mah assignment. Tha personal connection that we made was never supposed ta happen, but I'm glad it did. You are my best friend, someone I would be, an' am, proud ta call my brother. An' yes, it has been tha real me this whole time. I am tha Anchor, an' like tha Atari I have formal trainin' in character alteration. However, tha White Queen felt it would be better in the long run if I were ta be mah normal self rather than a false personality since tha Autobots were intended ta be our allies."

Blaster paused in his explanation to cock an optic ridge at Jazz with a distinct pot-calling-kettle-black grin. "An' you know, I could conversely be asking you tha same. Is this 'Jazz' tha real you?"

"Yes, this is tha real meh, Ah onleh use a diff'rent persona when Ah'm infiltratin' tha 'Cons." Jazz answered sheepishly. "'N while Ah understan' here," he said pointing to his processor, "Here jus' don' wanna coop'rate." he finished, indicating his spark.

"Unfortunately, only time can help with that." the hostmech sighed. "Will ya be ok ta discuss tha information I brought?"

This time the saboteur's smile was genuine. "Ah don' kno', Ah might need some mini-mech comfort first."

The four resulting clangs to the front of Blaster's chestplate set him to snickering. "I think we can handle that."

The cassettes burst from their master's docking bay with delighted urgency. Steeljaw and Ramhorn cuddled up into the visored Polyhexian's lap with much exaggerated purring and authentic happiness. The half-sized minis had come to recognize Jazz as someone they could trust and they had been just as worried as their host that they might lose one of their too few genuine friends.

The little twins, though just as ecstatic as the others, were too hyped up to do more than give Jazz a quick, loving hug before hopping off the berth to pull some games from their subspaces. They scurried under the bunk to play behind their creator's and Jazz's pedes, but every so often one of them would reach out to pet the nearest leg-strut to reassure the bogger mechs that they did care.

"Now then, shall we look at that data?"

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

He hated drones. The malicious little sparkless ones were untrustworthy. Of course, he knew that they were not really drones but he just could not count them as full mecha either. Their nebulous position in-between made him uneasy and he was automatically hostile towards anything that made him feel unsure. That was why he and his gunnery crew had joined with the frontliners to pick at the tiny menaces yesterorn. It was a defense mechanism to attack what he did not understand and as the leader of his compadres he set the standard.

Of course, being reprimanded by that weakling science mech had not helped his powerbase and the officers' interference had given the small almost-drones courage.

Courage that he, Backbite, team chieftain of the lead gun battery, got to joyfully discover when he roused from recharge this light-cycle.

Rattle, rattle, klink, tink. Rattle, rattle, klink, tink.

The loud sounds of the tiny ball-bearings inserted into his joints followed him all through his shift, and as if that was not humiliating enough, the audacious blighters had also attached a mechanism to the interior of his posterior that made a backfiring noise every time he sat down. It was mortifying! Especially since it chose to manifest itself during the quarter-vornly armaments inspection by the ENTIRE SLAGGING HIGH COMMAND!

The raised optics ridges Backbite received were quelling enough, but the glacial look of that was not proper protocol for addressing respect to a senior officer that Commander Prowl cast his way, made his insides freeze in horror. Optimus Prime however, being a gracious, forgiving Prime, waved off the incident in favor of continuing the inspection. That was the worst incident, but for the remainder of that shift he was subjected to hidden tittering whenever his back was turned and looks of held-in laughter when he twisted to look, as every shift or movement of his seated pelvic struts gave rise to another set of spontaneous eruptions.

He was heading straight to Medbay to have the infernal things removed. When he was finished, Backbite was going to find those cassettes and dismember them… slowly.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

::Have you spoken to the target yet?::

::No. He went to a different refectory last dark-cycle.::

:: … ::

::I… I have a plan though!::

::Oh really. Is it better than your last one? Because Soundwave is going to initialize the termination order if we continue to show ourselves as incompetent.::

::I can't control the choices of another mech!... I'm trying, really. The security breach at the Comms Deck has made Command jittery and they sent down orders tohave bodyguards assigned to the walkposts inside the Deck. Since us frontliners tend to get anxious when we have nothing to do, we were offered first choice to the postings. Command probably figure it would keep us out of trouble.::

::Well? Did you volunteer?::

::Yeah. Why would I mention this if I had not?::

::Because… *sigh*, it doesn't matter. Just don't mess this up, because if you do…::

::I know, I know, our creation… It won't happen so it's not worth thinking about.::

::I love you.::

::frame and spark, my love.::

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

To the casual observer the Communications Deck would appear to be the most boring detail in the history of military assignments. The room was set in the base of the circular SignalTower and reflected its shape except for the corridor side which was flat. There were no windows. Because the tower was mobile the entry to the Deck could be accessed from any number of levels as the tower was raised or lower depending on the weather or attack. The interior was lined with massive decryption computers along the curved wall. These computers would take in the comm signals from the powerful receivers and use complicated algorithms to render them understandable. However, the computers had a secondary application. The signal antennae were strong enough to capture Decepticon signals in their raw format, but without the encryption codes they sounded like static and whines. Over half of the computers' processing software was dedicated to breaking those codes, and because of the extreme difficulty of the task they were augmented with the intelligence and skill of the communications officers. The commsmecha would spend the majority of their shifts plugged in to the great machines to lend their creativity, and ability to see illogic, to the stolid, sparkless computers.

The exterior of the tower was enhanced with auxiliary shielding to protect these valuable resources. However, as proved a few orns earlier, the interior was far less protected. So, the ground troops received new orders, 'Protect the Communications Division.' Now, normal guards would have been stationed outside the location they were posted to, but in this case, thanks to the periscope action of the tower, that would mean the guardsmecha would spend most of their time dashing from floor to floor to stay in front of the entrance. Since this was highly inefficient, and Prowl's position on inefficiency could fill several libraries of datapads, the guards were stationed inside the Comms Deck.

Unfortunately, this protective presence did not reassure either Jazz or Blaster. The femme intel indicated that one of the frontliners was the go-between for the information leak, and logically, since the old sender had been eliminated, the spy would be looking for a new outlet for the garnered information. The simplest way for the mole to do that would be to volunteer for the guardpost. So the two of them were stuck… in a sealed room… with a potential sleeper agent…, Scrap.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

The two Polyhexians sat silently at a table near the back of the cafeteria where privacy was at least marginally higher. They stared intently at their rations, appearing to worn out to even talk. The ops-grade, triple-encrypted, shortwave, low frequency, private commline they shared however, was buzzing like a boltbee hive.

-:-What're tha chances, ya think, tha' one o' tha new guards're our mech?-:-

-:-I'd say extremely high if tha furtive glances that blue frontliner was giving ya were anything ta go by. He was sizing you up for a gullibility rating.-:-

-:-Ya think so?-:-

-:-I know ya saw him so don't play dumb with meh.-:-

-:- *snicker* Yer right. Ah did notice n' Ah'm thinkin' Ah might return a few o' 'em next time, see ifn' he'll act on a lil' encouracement.-:-

-:-Sounds good. If this mech is our plant then it could lead us ta his partner eventually, if ya are 'romantically' involved enough ta be brought inta their inner circle.-:-

-:- Ya'll's intelligence still indicatin' tha' our spymechs're bonded?-:-

-:-Yes, our inside agent has confirmed it, an' really, it is tha only logical conclusion for how they're transferrin' it without meetin' up or using our commlines.-:-

-:-Well, then Ah'll be sure ta flash mah optics real pretty n' see where it takes us.-:-

With their business concluded, Blaster deigned to lean back and regard his friend with a contemplative optic. "So, something happened yesterorn ta tha cassettes, but they refuse ta say anythin' about it except that it's bein' handled. You wouldn't know anythin' about that, now would ya?"

Jazz had the grace to studiously observe that the ceiling was a solid piece of synthcrete instead of separate panels like the paintjob suggested. When a few awkward kliks had passed the saboteur caved to the inevitable, that the cassette-master was not going to give this topic up. "Ah do kno' wha's happened, but Ah've been sworn ta secrecy. Bee's involved, but he won' tell meh on account o' plaus'ble deniability. He n' ya littles have cooked up somethin' good, 'cuz they've had slag-eatin' grins on all orn."

Blaster crossed his arms.

"They promised ta share vidfiles when it's done?" Jazz offered tentatively.

The hostmech looked slightly mollified but still did not uncross his arms.

Jazz sighed, "Look even if ya get wha' happened out o' them, their jus' gonna tell ya not ta mess wit' it. Ah tol' 'Bee Ah was gonna deal wit' it n' he begged meh not ta do anythin' until they got their kicks in. So, jus' wait fo' them ta do wha' they feel they gotta n' then ya c'n help meh wit' the real punishment."

The red and yellow mech's irritated visage melted into something more friendly. "I 'spose. As long as mah littled are not in any danger."

"Mah mech, Bee'll look out fo' 'em, so relax." the saboteur replied as he drained his cube. "Now, le's get some shut-optic, it's gonna be a long orn tomorrow."

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

Backbite fidgeted on his chair, mortified, and more than a little fearful, as Commander Prowl ranted at him in that icy, almost inflectionless tone, upon the regulations regarding proper decorum. Sadly, the Commander was on such a roll that the gunner could not get in a statement of defense. If the SIC would only give him a moment, then Backbite would explain how this was neither intended nor done by his own servo.

The poor mech had come out of recharge that orn to a most horrifying sight. His entire frame had been painted pink with bold lavender contrasts and light yellow highlights. The drones had repainted him with such attention to detail that to the outside observer it looked like he had gotten a true repaint. To compound that, on his way to the Medical Wing's paint lab he received a basewide alert that a potentially deadly contaminant had been found in the paint supplies and all the color stock was in quarantine until the infected canisters could be isolated. So, Backbite had been stuck with a color scheme that even the gaudiest of mecha would have rejected.

It had also brought on some really awkward attention. Several times mechs had approached Backbite, tried to proposition him, and then become angry when he repulsed them. Most had stormed away with comments that he should not offer if he had no intentions of following through. It had left him confused, and even more angry at the pranking half-bits.

Backbite had only been on shift for a joor when he was called to the SIC's office to address his paintjob, which puzzled him since a change of colors was did not seem like something that would be against regulations. It became even stranger the longer the Commander lectured. The mech kept making odd statements, like, "I am aware that credits and energon are in short supply, but putting yourself out like this is neither the proper response nor an appropriate gesture for this army."

Commander Prowl's scolding was winding down now, so perhaps the gunner could get some answers on what was going on.

"So, what do you have to say for yourself?" the icy blue optics pierced him as if to delve into his processor with his very gaze and pluck the answer straight from his meta.

"Commander, sir, I don't understand? How is my paint color against regulations?" came the tentative objection.

If anything, Prowl seemed to sit even straighter and his doorwings flared minutely. "Your color is not the problem, soldier, it is the prostibot advertisement on your back!"

"Th-the what?!" Backbite replied in a horrified whisper.

"Do you pretend then, to not know what is written on your own armor?"

"Sir, no… I… I did not do this. I am being pranked by those drones. This… I would never become a prostibot!"

The Praxian's optic ridges furrowed. "The cleaning drones are not capable of independent thought. Your excuse is poorly constructed in the face of logical fact and an insult to my intelligence. Would you care to attempt the truth now?"

"No sir, not the maintenance drones, the mecha-like ones that Polyhexian host carries around!"

Prowl paused for a moment in confusion. "Those are not drones, they are cassettes."

"Cassettes, drones, it makes no difference since neither of them got sparks." Backbite replied mulishly.

Prowl's optics flared in surprise and his battlecomputer immediately began making some disturbing suggestions about this entire situation. As a tactician however, he was not wont to play all his reserves at once, so he feigned ignorance. "So, your claim to defense if that the cassettes, who are sparkless drones, repainted you?"

"Yessir."

"Why?"

"I-I don't know sir, but I'm not the only one they've bee targeting. For some reason they have fixated on my unit and the others have suffered from the antics of the drones as well."

"And you have no clues as to why your unit has been singled out?"

"None sir, except for maybe… Well, we sit near their chosen table at the commissary, so, familiarity and accessibility?"

The SIC's gaze relaxed slightly. "I see. Very well then, you are free to go, and I would suggest that your first stop be the Medbay for a stripping."

"What about the contaminants?"

"What contaminants?" Prowl's wings flicked in confusion.

"The basewide bulletin this orning stated that the color supply had been quarantined for planted contaminants…" Backbite was bewildered that the Commander would not already know about such a potentially dangerous situation. Then, the truth dawned on him. "There was no bulletin this orning, was there."

Prowl's optics showed signs of sympathy. "No soldier, there was not. Mark it off as the culmination of the prank, and rest assured that I will be investigation the unprovoked vindictiveness of the cassettes in regards to your unit."

Backbite smiled in revenge-happy delight. "Thank you sir."

"Dismissed."

The gunner turned on his stabilizer and marched from the office to finally rid himself of the humiliating prank. After he left, Prowl leaned back, servos steepled under his chin, to consider the problem before him.

-tbc-


Nikkie2010: so was it who you thought?

RagdolDark: I know! Perce was so much fun and my Thesaurus got a serious workout for it too.

Thanks to all who have reviewed and will review. When I need incentive to keep writing it is your notes that give me encouragement.

Thanks again,

- Ghost