Part 48

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 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 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 Functionalists 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 miniscule 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 resistence, 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 acronymn and slang. Even if he'd been tempted to see the notes and outlines of how the board was run with Decepticon rules, FirstAid 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 to us and no one talks to us, there's no way to check."

"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 Zapwing is," Ironhide muttered, "I'ma smack the paint offa him. Pretty sure I can hazard a guess who he is."

"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'."

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 chat 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 equalty, 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 deepend 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 Masked-Mech 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 millenia," 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 inadvertantly.

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 battleplans, 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 millenia, 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 coudn'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.