I'm not reposting all the warnings. If you didn't read them in Pt. 1, then on your head be it.

[* * * * *]

Pt. 26

[* * * * *]

The meeting dissolved into multiple groups at that point.

Normally, Jazz would have been right in the middle of the tight cluster of Optimus Prime, Prowl, and Ratchet. That was his place, both as Third-in-Command and Head of Special Operations. Using Ratchet as bait for an information trap temporarily rolled him over into the SpecOp's Division, which wasn't a first and - peace negotiations willing - would be the last time for him. Being that this wasn't the medic's first rodeo, however, Jazz bowed out of the briefing for the moment. Prowl and Optimus Prime were still communicating on a level beyond him, and the probability of his presence disrupting what those two had going on wasn't worth being in on the initial planning stage.

They'd descended on Ratchet moving like one mech. One of the medic's optics had lit noticeably brighter than the other when they'd sandwiched him between them at the table. It'd been too late for the ambulance to flee. Doom. Doom had sat beside him wielding logic and mischief in equal measure to their superior ranks.

While Jazz and Prowl could successfully freak out their fellow Autobots by pulling a seamless teamwork act, they tended to fall into a Good Cop/Bad Cop routine. The trick was telling whom was which, because even Blaster couldn't tell how and when they swapped roles once they got going. They didn't do the Borg mindmeld thing the Prime and his Executive Officer had going on right now, but their routine could send people diving for cover. The two black-and-whites became polar opposites when working together, and they sort of switched roles at will. It was why Decepticons feared going into an interrogation with Jazz but were weld-snapping terrified when both Second and Third showed up. Professional mindfrags scared the scrap out of mechs.

Regardless of how they could work together, this wasn't the time to involve himself. Jazz had removed himself from the equation because Optimus Prime and Prowl had something going that he didn't want to disrupt, and he would. Prowl's expression held a peculiar distance every time he glanced toward him, still. Jazz knew things weren't right between them.

Fortunately - or unfortunately - he had an inkling of why.

Hence the reason why he'd stolen Ironhide away from talking with Wheeljack, who hardly noticed that his audience had been hijacked. Ironhide, on the other hand, seemed relieved to have escaped the SCIENCE! waiting to happen. It hovered over Wheeljack in an ominous cloud full of lightning bolt ideas, and the sparkling blue optics underneath watched with far too much interest in how they'd strike. Anyone who'd ever worked around him knew that look. They knew to seek shelter before things started flashing, because Wheeljack's audio indicators were the least frightening special effects he could produce.

It was never just 'science'-science with Wheeljack. Perceptor did that kind of science. Pure science, the sort that could remain strictly theoretical or stick to computer models. The microscope mech was some kind of ideal for that whole career field. People like Brainstorm could deny their jealousy all they wanted, but the moment Perceptor even looked like he might want a lab partner, the line of applicants told a different tale. That open space had caused defections from the Decepticon Science Division up until the war fully consumed Cybertron. He'd been the tipping point for much of Neutral science community when the time came to take sides or flee Cybertron. Even after the faction lines were drawn, the slightest cooperative effort between the factions required his inclusion, as there wasn't a science-minded mech on either side of the war who didn't respect his opinion.

Then there was Wheeljack: envy of many, terror of most. The galactic science community had him labeled as a menace to society and a planetary treasure, and that had been before the war plunged everything into chaos. People named discoveries after Perceptor; survivors named catastrophes after Wheeljack.

The fact that he'd stepped forward to represent Engineering in the peace talks had gotten half a second of absolutely no reaction from the Decepticon officers, which was as telling as a dramatic gasp. It wasn't that they were unaware of the Autobot officer hierarchy. Rather, Jazz had gotten the impression that they'd expected Perceptor and his levelheaded approach to spearhead the Autobots over in that secondary government building back at inter-factional HQ. He had a much more respectable reputation, after all.

The problem being that the Medical Division outstripped the Science Division in the Autobot faction. That was reversed among the Decepticons, meaning that an equivalent ranked medic hadn't even been brought in yet to stand beside the Constructicons. Ratchet, on the other hand, had been in charge of the Autobot side of things from the first day. He reigned over the combined Medical/Engineering building and the Autobot team that worked there, both as ranking officer and Chief Medical Officer. He'd used his authority to pull in the most brilliant minds he could that were able to work in his team. Defying Decepticon expectations, Perceptor hadn't made the cut.

He worked alongside the Constructicons as part of the cooperative effort between the factions, but they had the advantage of a gestalt bond. Those Ratchet pulled together for the main representative team had to be able to work that closely. Perceptor and Ratchet didn't do too well when forced to work together too closely. They clashed. Their strengths of personality and undisputed authority within their own arenas meant that they could collaborate quite well but failed spectacularly when pressed into a close working relationship. Neither of them disliked the other, not exactly, but opposites didn't always attract. Perceptor and Ratchet ended up at odds more than they didn't outside of life-or-death circumstances. Sometimes even then, considering how coldly pragmatic Perceptor could be. Medics didn't tend to like his version of efficiency when applied to their patients. He understood that, but Perceptor wasn't as good with social rules as he was the laws of science.

Ratchet hadn't picked Perceptor for the slot for precisely that reason. Perceptor headed a large number of the non-engineering sciences within the Science Division, but Wheeljack had greater flexibility when it came to dealing with people instead of lab equipment. He'd been promoted to the head of the division not because of comparable ability, but because he was officer material. Perceptor was many things, but an officer he was not.

He was still among the Autobots on the diplomatic team here in Vos, of course, because he did hold every scientist's respect. A lack of officer rank and responsibility didn't mean he couldn't be useful to the negotiations. Ratchet had tapped him as part of the nightshift skeleton team that staffed the shared HQ after the main diplomatic meetings and projects were finished for the day.

Ratchet had hauled Wheeljack onto the dayshift so fast the mech's speedometer had maxed out, but officer or not, the engineer was a walking minefield. Right now, he was muttering to himself intently as he filled his console screen with open windows. The quick glance Jazz had taken over his shoulder made absolutely no sense of the mish-mash of information pulled up for review. Possessing a functioning sense of self-preservation, the saboteur had gotten the frag out of there. Anyone who didn't know what was going on in Wheeljack's general vicinity at any given time should flee to safety.

Anyone. It was some kind of universal rule. The Decepticons had known about it even before the ceasefire put them in close proximity to the mech for working purposes. The Autobot science team had started getting awed looks by the third explosion. Their acceptance of Wheeljack's methodology came from long experience, but it was unnatural how they'd just duck behind the nearest large object without interrupting their own work. At least flinch, mechs!

Jazz and Ironhide leaned against the wall opposite to Wheeljack and observed in the way of experienced bomb-handlers. Aw, look at the little explosion waiting to happen. Look at him. So animated, digging into a new experiment like this. He looked fairly harmless, if one went by appearances on these things. Busy, productive, and not at all like he built things like the Dinobots at the drop of a hexagonal nut. The sudden zap of inspiration could light the fuse at any moment. The hard part was predicting when to dodge.

The two watching Autobots leaned a bit harder into the wall. That cloud of SCIENCE! over his head was beginning to coalesce ideas into lightning bolts ready to strike. They knew the signs. He took notes, switched windows, took more notes, and made gestures at no one. From the flickering of his audio indicators, the conversation had gone to internal commlink. The bobbling of his icon on the communication network made it something between a conference call and a round robin.

Jazz had seen Wheeljack at work in a laboratory full of other scientists before, and it looked a lot like what his icon was currently doing. Then again, so did some old arcade games from Earth. The communication network turned into Pinball as Wheeljack's icon jumped from mech to mech in a hyperactive pingpong bounce: here a quick hit from Perceptor, there a backhand from Brainstorm, a parry from Perceptor swatted him again, and Wheeljack's icon bounced down to plink against Ratchet's icon in multiple connection requests one on top of the other.

Plink-plink-plinka-plink nonstop pestering, until the medic put up a Busy status to shoo him away.

The inventor's icon bounced on its way. Blaster had a division network set up to close the distance between outposts, and Wheeljack's icon flicked from scientist to scientist within it. Sure, commcalls this close to Soundwave ran risks, but so did communication farther away from him. Sometimes a mech really did just have to call halfway around the planet to check some facts. Wheeljack more than most, but hey, Blaster didn't sit across the room from his rival all day just to look decorative. The Autobot networks were as secured as he could get them, despite whatever subtle attempts to hack them Soundwave slipped in against the terms of the ceasefire.

Wheeljack's icon jumped up and landed on Swerve to do its plinking dance of 'Talk to me. Talk to me now. Now now now.' The hailstorm of connection requests began.

The gregarious mech's icon had been Offline, but it popped Online after about six pings. Jazz's visor went cerulean in amusement as Wheeljack's icon finally settled like a mosquito finding a perch to suck the metallurgist dry of information. Bzzzz. Bzz. Slurrrrrrrp.

Beside Jazz, Ironhide crossed his arms and looked moderately disgruntled. His optic frames crinkled at the corners, however, betraying his own amusement with the officer cadre's resident bundle of energy vibrating in place at the table. Windows flashed and scrolled, the information uploading directly into the inventor's processors as the multiple threads his frametype typically used to calculate speed and routes during racing whirred into utilizing information assessment in a totally different way. Wheeljack's altmode wasn't a muscle car because he lacked for enthusiasm or speed, that was for sure. Sometimes it was incredibly obvious why someone who could almost keep pace with Blurr seemed content to stay buried in labwork. The whole universe was Wheeljack's laboratory, and he would somehow manage to do All The Things in it. Creatively, dangerously, and possibly while repurposing his brakes for 'more important' uses in the zoom onward.

Jazz had a bet with Bumblebee that Ratchet had drafted Wheeljack into the representative slot just to keep an optic on him. Wheeljack was perpetually five projects ahead of his self-preservation instinct, which was a testimony to his genius but also what made him such a hazard. There was no scare quite like walking in on a live test where the engineer running it had collapsed into recharge after driving himself to exhaustion.

It had to be a science thing. The Autobot scientists all had their various quirks. From what Jazz knew about their counterparts, those quirks only got more extreme the less ethics got in the way. His faction had gotten off light on the egomaniac Dr. Frankensteins that seemed to populate Decepticon labs.

"It's alive," he whispered to Ironhide.

Without leaving the intense discussion on security he had going with Red Alert, Blaster shifted his playlist to overly dramatic 'dun dun dunnn' horror music. Jazz's engine sputtered, and he bit the corners of his mouth to keep a grin contained. Of course Wheeljack didn't notice, but Red Alert's head turned so narrow optics could glare at the Communications Officer. Blaster lowered the volume.

"Break out the torches and pitchforks, and Primus help us all," Ironhide whispered back. "Any klik now, Grimlock's gonna bust the door down." Jazz's engine coughed again, but the laughter died when the older Autobot gave him a sober look. "Whatcha need?"

His visor stayed on Wheeljack, but Jazz shifted his attention to the Weapon Specialist. One elbow rubbed into a dent he'd put in this wall. It served as reminder that the ceasefire didn't mean the war had ended. The Decepticons were far more dangerous that friendly fire could be, even Wheeljack's version of it. If he was wrong about this, then the peace process could be jerked to a standstill right here and now.

The saboteur kept his gaze forward and spread his hands, unobtrusive but careful that they were both visible. "I might be compromised."

At the table, Blaster didn't miss a beat. The music didn't change. His superior audios had caught the admission, however, and suddenly the communication network was gone. The HUD overlay showing network activity disappeared in a wash of static before a blank 'Error: Access Denied' screen replaced it. The network hadn't been relocated to an entirely different router, or Jazz's comm. suite wouldn't be able to find it instead of merely not being able to access it. Blaster's security lockdown had kicked him out.

He still had an open line to the network allowing access other Autobots, but that line fed directly through the communication specialist. Any frequency he pinged would be strictly monitored from now on. The Head of SpecOps being everything his title said he was, that was as far as the benefit of a doubt would buy Jazz. An open line was still enough connection for an operative of his abilities. He and Blaster could engage in a nasty bit of hacking warfare over that line. Until Ironhide cleared him, the Communication Officer assumed that could be Jazz's intent accessing the network from here on out.

Five nanokliks to switch from fussing about the security required to go through the Decepticons' communication network to locking one of their own out of the Autobot network. Slag, Blaster was good. And he didn't even hint to Red Alert that there might be a traitor standing at their backs. Not that the alert wouldn't hit every officer if this came to that, but Jazz had said the magic words to the appropriate mech.

Ironhide's weapons systems never spun fully offline; he kept them at standby. Now his forearms whined softly as the inbuilt cannons charged. The blue of his optics scattered into pinpricks of navy and teal as his targeting systems took over and separated the optical sensors into sections for threat assessment scanning. A useful feature for focusing on different parts of a battlefield, but more than a bit intimidating when directed at a single small Autobot.

Jazz hands! As in, Jazz's hands, in plain sight and rock steady. Not moving in the slightest, because he wasn't going to so much as twitch anytime soon without Ironhide's permission. Not up in obvious surrender, either, because he was attempting not to interrupt the other officers' work until a verdict had been reached, one way or another.

"Ya wanna explain that, Jazz?" Ironhide's voice stayed low, conversational, and granite-hard. That hadn't been a suggestion.

The potentially dangerous weapon in his sights understood completely. He'd invoked the Weapon Specialist to handle him.

He kept his explanation short, words clipped. "Prowl and I are at odds, you might've noticed. Went looking for why I'm reacting funny. Found an entry that might be the source. Don't remember changing it, but I gotta hunch it's why we're buttin' bumpers."

The charging whine became a subsonic thrum, and Ironhide's feet slid apart to brace for the kick of cannon discharge. Jazz kept very still and offered a wry smile when Optimus Prime glanced up. Blaster's music covered the quieter sounds of weaponry, but war had tuned their audios for battle. The Prime's gaze sharpened when he saw Ironhide's stance. Jazz leaned against the wall, more relaxed than the red mech on the surface, but he'd frozen into a statue that didn't dare move.

He couldn't see the ping, but his communication suite was still online. He sensed the network come to life as the Prime asked what was happening.

"What kinda entry?" Ironhide asked. His optics didn't shift a single sensor behind the glass. Jazz knew because he could feel target-lock crawling over every micron of his plating. The buzz of an active comm. frequency at the edge of hearing didn't mean Ironhide was distracted.

"Personality profile entry," he said quietly. "I got Vos as my place of origin."

The threatening growl of a heavy-duty truck engine stalled out for half a second, although the tough old-timer didn't otherwise show a hint of surprise. "That's what's got ya snappin' at Prowl?"

He risked turning to look up at him, visor meeting that startled look head-on. "It's in my root profile, Ironhide. I didn't put it there - I entered it for my mission profile."

Surprise faded into grim concern, and Ironhide reached out a hand. "Show me."

Jazz slowly bent his neck to open up access under his helm, making no sudden moves because the older Autobot's other hand stayed at the ready to transform and shoot if necessary. His visor dimmed, no longer trying to appear casual as Ironhide linked in. His body stayed motionless, but his mind flung an access gate at his handler the nanoclick the connection clicked into place. Opening access like this made for dirty data, less reliable than what was pulled from him during a full interface where Ironhide went in under his defenses, but it was fast. Faster than what he was fully prepared to submit to if Ironhide had any difficulty finding what he was looking for, or if there were any doubts about what he turned up.

Data entered into a mission profile shouldn't have touched his root profile. Jazz could become his mission profiles spot-on, his mind one of the rare ones possessing a near-perfect ability to generate an adaptive profile to fit any situation. It wasn't partitioned, parallel processing; Jazz only had one personality. He simply became the cover personality for a while. It was what made him so good at his job. It was also why finding any trace of a mission profile tainting his root personality called for holding him at gunpoint.

Root profiles leaked into cover personas, giving them the sheen of genuine believability, but that didn't work the other way around. Mission profiles infiltrating a root personality compromised agents. Changing a root profile changed deep data. That kind of change wasn't done casually, and too much change could cause that drastic divide between CPU and spark leading to a crash.

Beyond the possibility of error and accompanying health concerns, a change that deep was a massive security risk. It could reflect the root personality syncing agreement whatever mission profile it current ran. It could indicate a shift from mask to reality as an agent's base persona became the cover. Such changes weren't unheard of. Jazz zeroed in on that when sounding out a Decepticon spy for a turncoat, in fact. The more an agent understood a disguise, the better developed it became, and the easier it became to sympathize instead of just infiltrate.

And here Jazz was, with a base profile slot full of Vos.

Ironhide rifled through him as only his handler could, and Jazz repressed his defensive protocols and firewalls ruthlessly. They didn't have time for niceties. Trace social protocols back to their basic causation models, and the root personality profile laid the foundation weighty decisions were based on. Entering Vos as his city-state of origin had triggered a reaction to Prowl that he could only understand in the wider context of his mission profile: 'Jazz; Autobot; Vosian; intended of Starscream; potential government authority figure.'

That Jazz prioritized his desirability to Vos over everything but serving the Autobot Cause. The end justified any and all means. That Jazz had to think that way. It was part of the mission to become Vosian enough to fit in, and Vos had gone to the Decepticons. In order to appeal to Vos - to be Starscream's intended - he had to become one of them. His mission profile had started as a copy of Jazz as shown to the Decepticons, but he'd soaked himself in the culture, ideals, and thoughts patterns around him all night, altering it as quick as possible to fit Vos as it'd been presented to him.

That Jazz was an agent of, not part of, the Autobot officer cadre. He'd only picked up on that difference because he recognized hostiles when they spoke to him. Most of what had been discussed tonight fit his current mindset or stirred uneasy, angry feelings to begin with, so nothing had toggled him as wrong right away. It'd taken standing opposite Prowl and resisting the tactician's arguments against all things Decepticon - and therefore Vosian - to recognize that threat assessment had labeled his fellow officer as enemy instead of ally. The minor difference sitting at the root of Jazz's social protocols had magnified disagreement into discomfort, unease, and irrational anger.

Now that he'd discovered the cause, fear appeared in the mix as well. Jazz splayed his processors open under Ironhide's examination because he didn't trust himself. He'd changed. The key question was whether the change was incidental, or had he been compromised?

If the change had come about by happenstance, a self-induced alteration that Ironhide could track back to a definitive timestamp pointing to Jazz as the editor, it carried some complications but meant Jazz hadn't been hacked. It'd still need to be dealt with, but not with the same sense of urgency.

Compromising an operative, especially this one, was an act of war. He was an officer, Third-in-Command of the Autobots, and acting as the equivalent of a good-faith ambassador by permitting Starscream's courtship. If he'd been hacked, by whom, when, and how? The answer to those questions could end the peace process in one fell swoop.

Tampering with any Autobot violated the ceasefire terms, but tampering under the cover of practices the Decepticons claimed were vital to their society would be an unforgiveable breech of negotiations. It'd reveal everything that had happened in the last two days as an elaborate hoax, one more attempt to deceive the Autobots. One of a dozen other mockeries of diplomacy throughout the course of the war that had proven to be nothing more than Decepticon plots, poisonous bit of treachery hidden under false attempts at peace.

It didn't require more than half a nanoklik of thought to see how easily Starscream could have fooled him, how the Decepticons could have fooled them all.

Jazz waited for Ironhide's verdict in stillness and silence. This was out of his hands. The only thing left he could do was pray.

Let it be incidental. For the purpose of ending the Great War, let it be Jazz's own processors playing tricks on him.

Please, Primus. Please.

[* * * * *]

End Pt. 26

[* * * * *]

[ A/N:This part was commissioned by DeathComes4U. Thank you so much!]