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 across the room, twisted almost completely around 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 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' quarterlyaddendums 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 RedAlert and Ratchet arguing wth 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 coalate 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 assing 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 reverring 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. Soundewave 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.

RedAlert, 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 RedAlert, and through him, a sense of frustrated desperation from someone else. Prowl had only a nanosecond to catch it before RedAlert 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 embarassment flared up and demanded that he run cool down cycles that caught Soundwave's attention. That in turn brought Prowl's attention back to the matter at hand.

I need information, Prowl said. Which apparently RedAlert 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?

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.