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 him 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 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 a few feet into 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. Everyone's faceplates were lit mainly from the datapads, shadowed bots in a shadowy room.

FirstAid. 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 FirstAid's helm.

"Why can't I hit you?" he snarled.

"Because it isn't a virus." FirstAid cupped his faceplate. "It's love."

"You really think anyone buys this?" Bluestreak sighed, tossing it back.

FirstAid leaned forward to glare at Rewind at the far end of the table.

"That's what I said," FirstAid 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'."

FirstAid glared at him, then sat back in his chair with a huff. "S'the principle of the thing..."

Beachcomber cleared his intake once and sat straight, and the rest of them sat straight. Bluestreak wondered at that. Beachcomber was controlling the meeting...that was surprising. But 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 kumbama 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 FirstAid, 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 FirstAid'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 FirstAid and Hound straightened in their seats. Rewind started revving up with a list of facts that Bluestreak didn't listen to. Hound and FirstAid 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."

FirstAid 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 FirstAid with a strange feeling that he was seeing the mech for the first time. He'd spoken with FirstAid often, to the point that he'd felt a little sympathy and understanding between them. FirstAid was a pacifist, which was kind of okay for a medic, but FirstAid had seemed like he wholeheartedly supported the cause. To hear him question Bluestreak, worse, to question Bluestreak's disgust at FirstAid'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 FirstAid 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," FirstAid 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," FirstAid 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," FirstAid 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 returned to reassume 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.