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

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Pt. 29

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Times and Measurements (from TFWiki)
vorn = 83 years

decivorn = 8.3 years

meta-cycle = 13 months

stellar cycle = ~7.5 months

deca-cycle = ~3 weeks

mega-cyle = 93 hours

orn = 1 Cybertron day

joor = 6 hours
cycle = 1.25 hours
breem = 8.3 minutes
klik = 1.2 minutes

mechanometer ~ meter

kil ~ kilometer

"There is ice in my wheelwell."

"Don't look at me, mech. Blame him."

"I am blaming him. I am also looking at you."

"Yeah, I can see that. Stoppit."

"No."

"C'mon, how's this my fault?"

"This would have never happened if you were not involved."

"If you think he'd wouldn't of done it to you alone, then you don't know him." A smirk pulled at Red Alert's mouth, although the Security Director didn't look up from reading a datapad. Jazz chased another puddle with his squeegee. "Dunno if he would of make you clean up afterward, but fair's fair."

On the other side of the hall, Prowl sighed and pulled his own squeegee along the floor. "I suppose." He'd argued for fetching a vacuum, but Red Alert had come prepared. Not only did he have Optimus Prime's backing to order two superior officers clean up the mess of spilled water, but he'd brought squeegees along so they could split the labor equally.

Thus did the Autobot Second and Third-in-Command get on their knees to work the puddle of water toward the nearest drain. Every building in Cybertron had at least one in the floorplan. Acid rain had a nasty tendency to make its own leaks. This wasn't acid rain, thankfully. Red Alert had drawn a bucket of water off the tank distilled for human use, and the ice had come courtesy of a shot from Ironhide's liquid nitrogen gun.

Jazz wasn't looking forward to the day the ice formed from the weather instead of artificial means. A chill lingered outside in the mornings and at night, but Vos' position near the equator might save it from more than a mild winter. The planetary poles weren't so fortunate. The temperature had dropped in the north and risen sharply in the south as soon as Cybertron settled into orbit. That would have been novel enough, but the planetary poles had collected cloud clusters throughout Cybertron's journey through the galaxy. Settling into orbit had mucked with whatever weird rules of gravity had ruled the planet, and the clouds had been freed.

The storm clouds around the poles were spreading without the aid of the Rainmakers lately - and despite their deployment. For the first time since the planet left its original orbit and the weather technology was originally developed, Cybertron's weather defied management. Clouds formed, leaving the Rainmakers jetting across the planet to herd them, except lately they were arriving just in time to watch the storms disperse naturally.

For the Autobots, that meant they had to be more diligent about watching the sky during travel or on patrol, but that wasn't a hardship. They'd never had control of the weather overhead. The Decepticons had the raw end of the deal as their weather-tech failed them.

The learning curve for rain-watch was steep. A mech was lucky if he got a second chance at it.

The Autobots knew very well what casualties of acid rain looked like. It was hard to be sympathetic that the Decepticons were finally taking damage from their own favorite weapon. They'd been immune for so long that Jazz felt bitter satisfaction every time a storm formed. It was wrong of him to feel that way during peace negotiations, he knew it, but was nice to see the rain fall on the bases down south for a change. The whole war, the clouds had avoided Decepticon troops and Decepticon territory.

Each city-state core used to have a storm-repulsor, a way to deflect and control atmospheric changes, but what hadn't been destroyed in the fall of the city-states had been dug out and stolen by enterprising mechs. The ones not sold off-planet had found their ways to Decepticon hands to shield major bases and cities. Jazz had it on good authority that those old installations were in poor repair these days, ill-maintained due to the shift to mobile weather management technology. They wouldn't stay functional too much longer. Prowl had every Decepticon center currently under cloud cover marked down. The day Darkmount and Kaon took storm damage, it'd confirm the last of the storm-repulsors as broken. The Rainmakers would be permanently reassigned to keeping acid rain at bay in the south.

Meteorology tech was ancient. The Decepticons were understandably reluctant to hand over even broken storm-repulsors to the Autobots for study, and their own scientists had been unable to duplicate the machines. That left the Rainmakers to corral the spreading storms, and while they were doing what they could, storm-chasing wasn't their intended function. The weather modifications installed in the Rainmakers were the latest in acid rain management technology, not generalized weather control mods. The Seekers were more effective at seeding acid rain over a battlefield than herding storm fronts away from populated areas.

Acid Storm was stationed in Vos for the time being to keep the city clear of stray clouds during the peace negotiations. So far he had spent most of his time at nearby Decepticon bases, on-call for emergency response to cloud formations. Before tonight, Jazz hadn't had cause to think how much political clout that gave the Rainmaker. Acid Storm might turn out as influential by holding control of his unit's tech-mods. Weather management could end up being a powerful tool for peacetime negotiating, at this rate.

Shockwave and Perceptor had released a theoretical schedule of Cybertron's new seasons as caused by the tilt of the planet's axis and the length of its orbit around the sun, but nobody could make any sort of long-range forecast for actual weather. The flux in planetary gravity was one of many unknown factors contributing to the chaos. The planetary core had been the only reliable source of heat for the surface inhabitants for untold ages, but now a sun warmed the ground. Regular days and nights created a difference in air and ground temperature, and it varied wildly depending on altitude and time of day.

It had been a long, long time since anyone but off-world expeditions had encountered natural weather. The Autobots in Iacon reported frost. The Decepticons in Kaon had morning dew. They were all terribly alarmed by precipitation appearing on things overnight. Rain, yes, they knew how to react to acid rain. What the frag was this stuff? Condensation? Why wasn't there an alert system in place for this yet?!

The Autobots who'd been to Earth had been amused by the panic until they realized the condensation was still acidic. Frostburn was a literal thing on Cybertron. The Autobots who recharged in cold air woke up surrounded by surfaces etched by morning frost. The Decepticons hadn't elaborated on what damage the dew caused, but the Autobots could speculate.

Meteorology was going to surge back into the news real soon, now. Weather forecasting was a lost science. Things like predicting the morning's dewpoint or bringing sensitive equipment inside because frost was forecast for tomorrow would be important information. The moonbases were already getting used for impromptu weather radar until a satellite could be put in place. That satellite was on the joint-faction To-Do list, along with everything else that had to wait until peace didn't feel temporary. Acid rain might be life-threatening, but it was more important to halt the rain of bullets.

Shockwave and Perceptor both agreed that naturalizing Cybertron's atmosphere should start as soon as possible after a peace treaty went through. Aside from an atmospheric filtration project on a scale even the combined factions couldn't support, naturalization was their best plan for how to deal with the massive amount of pollution. War had weaponized an already tainted atmosphere.

Kaon had long experience with industrial waste hanging overhead, as Cybertron's poles had collected clouds even before the acid rain got bad enough to kill. The shining Tri-Peninsular Torus States area had shunted its plumes away toward poorer city-state areas. The smog had drifted and been pushed down to the other pole, away from Iacon, where the dense plumes were thickened by Kaon's low industry standards. The war had only worsened the industrial waste, and air pollution from battles had overtaken even that. Battlefields burned for deca-cycles, sometimes smoldering on a stellar cycle or more until nothing remained to burn and the fires smothered under foul air.

War had made the weather a weapon, and the Decepticons had used it. The more they'd used it, the worse the pollution had become. That had made it a better weapon, to be used more. It had turned into a self-perpetuating cycle of ecological destruction.

Peace alone would do a lot to stop the cycle. Both sides would take sources out of use, troops mobilization and munitions factory output slowly shutting down. Joint efforts to decrease further environmental pollution and reverse the effects would gradually change the acid content in the clouds. Increased natural weather formations would help as well, thinning the smog layers out. Particulates and gasses would gradually settle and disperse once the artificial seeding for acid rain halted.

It would be a long, long process, but not so long as the war had taken. Some day, the Rainmakers would be unnecessary. Some day, the rain would only dull finish, not hiss and melt through metal. Some day, humans would be able to walk Cybertron's surface without face masks and a guardian Autobot at the ready to shield them if the wind shifted.

As a sign of hope, or perhaps just as a touch of home, the Earth Embassy had an umbrella stand near the door. The first Decepticon to notice it had been amused by the thought of the little structure of thin plastic and wire stopping Cybertron's acid rain. He'd picked one up to examine it. Some quick-thinking staff member had snapped a picture and shoved a release form at him.

Too amused to think better of it, he'd signed.

That poor, poor shmuck. It wasn't for nothing that the Autobots got along so well with humanity.

The Embassy staff had let him keep the umbrella, but he'd probably chucked it into a disposal chute once he found out why they'd given it to him. Too little, too late; they'd suckered him into being the Decepticon face of the ceasefire on Earth, and he couldn't stop them. On the Earth Alliance's pro-peace posters planetwide, a baffled but charmed, fully-armed Decepticon soldier grinned from underneath an open umbrella pinched between thumb and forefinger.

Decepticon High Command had promptly transferred him to Earth. While nobody could be entirely sure every Decepticon had left the planet during the official exodus decivorns ago, the soldier was the sole Decepticon officially sanctioned by the Earth Alliance and the Autobots. The reason, according to High Command, was to maintain a Decepticon diplomatic presence in Autobot City as part of the peace negotiations, and also perform regular upkeep work on the old underwater base. Legitimate reasons, true, but the real reason was public relations.

The Earth Alliance had turned that Decepticon soldier into a symbol, and half the planet now knew him on sight. Decepticon PR just ran with the idea for their own purposes. It was rather rare for humans to know a Decepticon from somewhere other than anti-Decepticon warning posters from prior to the ceasefire. The soldier provided a nonviolent image for humanity, something to bolster post-war Decepticon-Earth relations. Let it never be said that the Decepticons didn't know how to turn propaganda to their own advantage.

It embarrassed the soldier greatly, according to all accounts. He spent a lot of time hiding in the undersea base or looking out of his depth standing beside the Autobots at diplomatic functions. Different countries took turns presenting him with bouquets of umbrellas on the anniversary of the ceasefire.

The Decepticons still didn't know how to treat humans. They painstakingly walked the fine line between indifferent xenophobia and fascinated interest, because Earth was a filthy mudball planet absurdly rich in energy and addictive pop culture, but its inhabitants were squishy and icky. However, the current draft of the peace treaty classified the species as 'Sentient aliens, Autobot allies.' That might someday translate to treating the squishy creatures as equals. What was a superior mechanical species to do?

Borrow their weatherman, apparently. Nobody could accurate predict the weather without a satellite, so it was down to guesswork and whatever scraps of information the moonbases could pass along. Humanity was used to working with uncontrolled weather, plus nobody was allowed to shoot the guy doing the forecast if the forecast was wrong. That was a distinct improvement over weather report duty among the Decepticons. Kaon had been clamoring for the Earth Embassy to broaden their news reports to include weather forecasts.

More weather forecasts, that was. They did a local weather forecast for Vos. A wider weather forecast would be a useful feature to tack on after the treaty news. Everybody already tuned in to watch the Embassy's news broadcasts, anyway.

The humans made a point of inviting a mech from each faction to read the publicly released updates for the peace negotiations, which sometimes opened up a can of worms on air if the two selected mechs started bickering. Throwing punches, if the Autobot and Decepticon had strong opinions on the update, and they often did. Blaster swore he didn't know how Cliffjumper had gotten on the schedule in the first place, but luckily, Sixshot hadn't been offended. He'd been more impressed that a Minibot dared take a swing at him.

The Earth Embassy kept requesting that Brawn return, despite what had happened last time his turn came up. He and Brawl had been forced to apologize at length for what they'd done to the news studio. Swindle's latest anonymous poll put the Decepticons and Autobots in favor of making them the permanent reporters for the update.

The Autobot command cadre was split on it. Violence wasn't conductive to peace, but it'd been strangely satisfying to watch Brawl pitch his datapad at a wall and declare, "Whoever wrote this fraggin' thing's a pompous aft!"

Brawn had glared over his own datapad at the Combaticon. "Pretty sure it was Shockwave."

"Pretty sure that just proves my point!"

It'd actually been a fairly good report up until the fight. The two grouchy mechs had exposed several missed problems during their reading of the update list. Their shared impatience for fancy wording meant Brawl lost his temper and Brawn descended into snippy commentary whenever the treaty got too technical for the average mech to wrap his head around. The two of them griping and rephrasing the negotiation progress as they understood it, in plain and profanity-laced language, had highlighted several unnerving errors that had somehow been missed by the collected politicians on both sides.

It was amazing how many potential misinterpretations could be found by handing the update list to two dedicated demolitionists. They'd performed a valuable service for the peace process.

Well, except for the fighting part. That hadn't been a service. Their insults had steadily worsened, and Brawn had pulled Brawl's last straw. He'd said something about a cannon barrel and an impromptu cork that made every tank on the planet wince.

Brawl's glare should have set the Minibot's helm on fire, but he'd kept a civil front. The news crew had wisely listened when he called to the studio manager behind the camera, "You. Squishy lady with the microphone. Respectifically and all that, I think you better go back to the weather, 'cause this Autobot here's so short he's probably gotta different climate going on down there."

Ironhide had been on his way to break up the fight halfway through the show, and Onslaught had shown up so fast Blast Off might have done an orbital drop to get him there. Neither of them had been in time to prevent the studio from getting trashed, although to hear Brawn tell it, the fight was mostly over by the time the officers busted in and busted them up. The demolitionists had gotten distracted comparing payloads on a particularly large piece of munitions.

Lots of apologies from both mechs after that. Buckets of them.

Much like Jazz and Prowl shelled out to Red Alert, despite the bucket being in the Security Director's hands. A formal, "I apologize for my juvenile behavior. It was meant to antagonize you, and I will accept discipline as befits my lack of respect," from Prowl was an effusive expression of sincere regret.

Jazz regretted nothing. "Sorry, Red."

Peeved optics peered over the datapad at him. "I'm sure."

"I'm sorreeeeeeeeeey," whined from the saboteur. He squeegeed the last of the water into the drain and sat back on his tires to give Red Alert a soulful look of appeal. "Prowl seduced me with his wicked ways." Prowl choked on thin air beside him, and Red Alert's forearm armor clamped tight. "You know me. Usually I'm better than this. I got class."

From the sound of it, Prowl had inhaled an air filter.

Jazz's coy, pretty posing was wasted on Red Alert, who had endured almost a vorn in close quarters with Sideswipe, Jazz, and Optimus Prime. Earth had taught him many things. Suspicion of anyone who made Prowl sputter like this was one of them. "You stop that," Red Alert said, shaking a finger. "You stop that right now."

In Jazz's defense, it'd been a long night and his social protocols looked like a ball of yarn after Steeljaw found it. He tuned his vocalizer to breathy excitement and leaned in, still on his knees. "You gonna make me?"

Indignant Spluttering in C Minor: a duet.

Red Alert stopped mid-denial, one optic turquoise as thin green lines of data crawled up his HUD. "Mirage is currently monitoring the Security room." The at-home version of the joint base's shared room, remotely connected to the monitors there. "He's inquired as to what's going on."

*"Not to ruin your fun,"* Mirage murmured, icon drifting up to nudge Jazz's on the comm. network, *"but I hardly think that's decent behavior for a public location."*

Nothing else could have poured ice down Jazz's back quicker, including the ice Red Alert had already dumped on him. Prowl shot to his feet at his side, but the saboteur didn't move. Somber and quiet, he turned his head to look the nearest security camera in the lens. *"Y'sure about that, Mirage?"*

To the spy's credit, he hesitated. Jazz knew his mech. The noblemech made uptight look easygoing when it came to following proper protocol, but he'd been there for two of the more heated, ahem, exchanges between Starscream and Jazz. Even without a briefing on what the Decepticons were up to, he had to have an inkling that Jazz was bumper-deep in it.

*"…have a nice night, sir."* Mirage's icon retreated up to hide among the on-duty crowd.

Jazz gave the camera an approving nod. When in doubt, trust the boss to handle it. Or at least get out of the danger zone and observe from distance in case back-up or a witness was called for later.

"You're thinking of something," Red Alert said. Jazz blinked and looked at him. "Yes, you. I know you. You're thinking."

"What'm I thinking of?" No harm in playing along with Red Alert's hunch. He was, as usual, correct.

Suspicious optics studied him. Jazz tilted his head to the side.

"Whatever it is, it's going to make the rest of my shift awkward as the Pit," Red Alert concluded after eying the innocence painted across Jazz's face.

Prowl wasn't the only one who could read his mind, it seemed. "Maybe."

Red Alert looked down at him. An empty, hollow sort of despair opened up behind his optics. "This is going to be another instructional diagram thing, isn't it."

Prowl flinched. Jazz's angelic smile turned lopsided and a bit apologetic. "Aw, c'mon, I didn't do that," he protested without much hope that anyone would believe him.

One diagram didn't seem like much, but it had resulted in Tracks not speaking to him for three months and the rest of the Autobots on Earth developing a cough no medic could explain anytime Astoria visited Powerglide. The diagram hadn't targeted anyone in specific, of course, and definitely hadn't featured an Autobot, but that didn't make anyone less aware that the instructions could apply. The general idea had been to highlight Safety First in the most excruciatingly educational manner possible for maximum embarrassment.

Everybody knew a few Autobots had dallied with humans back on Earth. It'd been a carefully avoided topic. The Decepticons, however, hadn't been granted the same courtesy, and everybody knew everything about who'd gotten some cross-species action. It'd been wildly scandalous and not talked about in polite company, which meant that nobody had spoken above a furtive whisper while gossiping.

Jazz had been targeting Decepticon morale, plastering the underwater base in diagram posters. The two posters he'd hung in the Ark's common room had been an afterthought, nothing more. The 'responsible parties' had still been given a stern warning lecture at assembly called by Optimus Prime and Prowl.

In contrast, the Decepticons had thought it a great joke and left the posters up for weeks. Two more Decepticons had set up accounts on OKCupid. All in all, it'd been one of Jazz's least successful sabotage projects.

Huh. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember where he'd gotten the original idea from anymore. First Aid had been involved in giving him the relevant information, he knew that. Streetwise had helped design and print the posters. Jazz had really only been responsible for drawing the diagram and doing distribution.

It dawned on him that he'd been had, and had but good. That sneaky medic and his team had tricked him into dispensing actual useful medical information no Autobot would ever dare outright ask about, all under the guise of a malicious prank on the Decepticons.

No wonder Tracks had gotten over it so quickly. For a mech who could hold a snit for vorns, three months was nothing.

"Someone remind me to talk to First Aid later," he said out loud. Red Alert and Prowl glanced at each, then at him, wary. "For now, er, yeah. Sorry, Red Alert." He climbed to his feet, grinning an apology at his friend and fellow officer. "Not gonna draw anything, but we gotta get some questions going 'round here tonight. Call it a practical demonstration." Prowl took a prudent step away. Jazz's apologetic look turned wry. "And Prowl don't exactly drive down those roads, and he's off-duty, sooooo." He needed somebody on-duty to prod people toward thought instead of reaction.

Red Alert gave Prowl a betrayed look before steeling himself for the saboteur's approach. "Primus spare my spark," he muttered, leaning away. The last time Jazz had wanted people to start thinking, he'd propositioned Ironhide in front of the command cadre. It'd worked, but frag if Red Alert wanted to be the one getting the funny looks this time around. And the shouting. There would be so much shouting.

Mirage didn't raise his voice often, but if Mirage was in Security, then his back-up couldn't be far away. Homebase internal patrol stayed in constant contact with Security. If Jazz remembered right, Cliffjumper was on the docket for tonight.

Jazz intended to detonate a social bomb in the Security room. By briefing time tomorrow, the explosions might have rattled something loose inside people's heads.

Leaning wasn't enough to avoid inevitable capture. The mighty hunter wrapped an arm around his prey's waist to keep him in place, and the Security Director grimaced, resigned. "I got a list of pointy questions you can poke at 'em with," the small black-and-white holding him offered as appeasement. "C'mon. It'll be fun. You know what you're doing compared to them."

True. Red Alert hunched his shoulders and spat, "Fine. Get whatever it is," his mouth twisted around the words, "over with before I lose my nerve." His voice fell. "My head's killing me."

Jazz could sympathize, and he wouldn't have to put up with Hurricane Cliffjumper and the Mirage Ice Blizzard about to hit the Security room. Talk about extreme weather. "Don't sound so excited," he said, reaching up. His hand cupped Red Alert's cheek.

The jaw joint tightened under his fingertips. So that's where this was going.

Jazz dropped his engine down to a smooth purr, but he had to ask. He had to. "Alright?"

Sighing, the taller Autobot forced the tension out. "Fine. Whatever."

"We don't have to. I can make a diagram."

"Don't even joke about that." Red Alert shuddered. "Just do it."

That wasn't the most enthusiastic of consent, but he let Jazz guide him down with nothing more than slight pressure from the thumb against his jawline. The shorter mech pushed up to meet him halfway.

After a minute, Red Alert's hands rose. Metal scraped quietly as they touched Jazz's sides, stroked down to his waist, and felt their way in a slow, meandering path around to splay over his back. One hand slid up his roof and settled between his doors. They gathered him in, gathered him up, until his feet nearly left the floor and Red Alert's head bent over his.

Uncomfortable as he'd been even speaking of interfacing in the hallway with just Jazz and himself present, the public, openly passionate kiss disturbed Prowl all over again. He shifted, doors hitching up in discomfort. His optics wandered the ceiling as he looked everywhere but the two officers in front of him. From the way his lips pressed into a thin line, he was repressing the urge to break up the indecent display.

Fans whirred in the silence. A faint, silvery sound accompanied the parting of their lips, and Jazz smiled hazily up at Red Alert. The taller Autobot's expression had closed off. Impassive, he looked down at the officer cadre's resident troublemaker as Jazz's hand left his face, fingertips tracing along his jaw to fall off his chin.

"That should do it," Jazz said.

Red Alert's face stayed blank for half a klik. The arms wrapped around Jazz tightened briefly before relaxing, hands pulling back as if loathe to leave black and white plating, and they settled behind his elbows. Jazz glanced down, curious, but the Security Director seemed to hesitate.

"If you're going to do it," Red Alert said slowly, "don't do it halfway."

The fingers on his elbow joints moved, getting a better grip. Jazz narrowed his visor and didn't tense up. The metal under Red Alert's right optic twitched once, twice -

- and the larger mech threw him into the wall, doors and back slamming flat. "Do it right."

"What - ?" The wall interrupted him, smashing into his helm. "Stop!"

He had no time to recover from the impact. Red Alert was on him in an instant. The soft pressure of their mouths turned abruptly hard, scraping through polish, paint, and down into the metal as Jazz kicked and squirmed under harsh hands pinning him to the wall. Red Alert had him by the shoulder, other hand forcing the opposite arm to the wall, and he twisted to crush the smaller mech using the side of his body as a barrier, hip pushed into Jazz's midriff. Struggling got the saboteur nowhere.

They both knew he could fight loose if he wanted. Red Alert specialized in many things, but hand-to-hand combat wasn't in the top five. It sure didn't look like a fair fight, however.

Jazz snarled into the violence, biting at the tongue daring to flirt past his lips. Past the moving, shifting, blocking mass of his attacker, he glimpse rounded blue optics. Conflicted horror paralyzed Prowl. He stared on the sidelines while Red Alert pulled Jazz forward and slammed him back a second time, denting wall and mech alike.

Red Alert wrestled Jazz into submission, prompting a pained noise as their mouths crashed together in renewed passion that could have been lust or fury. He didn't give Jazz a chance to speak around the shrill creel of metal-on-metal. Jazz kept flailing. The muffled sounds he made could have meant anything.

Prowl averted his optics, obviously embarrassed, but the scene was magnetic. He stared again, looked away, and started to turn away as well. He stopped two steps down the hall. Joints creaked as his hands clenched into fists. His doors locked in a straight horizontal line that screamed how tense and unhappy he was with the spectacle they were making. Absolutely everything about this twigged him.

It was perverted. Obscene.

Over that, worse than that, somehow different, it was wrong.

He turned around, and the blue optics Jazz caught glimpses of around Red Alert hardened. Prowl's social protocols tangled his mind in updates and error messages, but the situation called for action, not theory.

"Red Alert." His voice froze words into icicles to stab them with. "Stop."

The corner of Jazz's mouth split as Red Alert's lips yanked off his own. "He started it," the Security Director snapped, just as cold but furious as well. "I'm finishing it."

"The Pit you are." Jazz licked at the cut and bared fuel-stained teeth. His visor held Red Alert's frigid gaze. "Get off me."

Red Alert sneered in contempt. "What, you've changed your mind? Ha! Don't think you can fool me. I know better." He leaned, grinding against the smaller mech. "You want it."

Prowl's optics flared a pale blue, and his heel-tires squeaked on the floor as unease drove him a step back, away from them. This was intensely personal. This was nobody's business but their own. Jazz could almost hear Prowl's circuits overheating from here as conflict solutions collided head-on in his processors. Intervene or withdraw. Take a side or get out of here. The easiest solution would be to simply order them into a room to sort themselves out in private.

Vents opened to suck air, perhaps for courage. "Red Alert. I - he gave you an order."

"Hmmph. Prowl, you know he was asking for it kissing me like - "

"Release him immediately!"

That voice could have frosted the walls. Under the steel mask of an officer, anger and agitation simmered. The bizarre situation had Prowl off-balance, but his optics were glacier cold.

Red Alert and Jazz cut their fans at the same time. Prowl blinked as they separated, not a hint of anger between them. "If you're going to do something," Red Alert repeated to Jazz as if nothing had happened, "don't do it halfway. Do it right."

Prowl looked from one to the other, confused all over again. "What…are you doing?"

Jazz smiled at him, a bit sad. He recognized that confusion. His overworked social protocols had to be bombarding him with nonsensical alarms at this point. "Why'd you stop us?" he asked, neutral as he could. The question was meant to provoke thought.

It got two blinks and a wordless movement of Prowl's mouth.

"More useful to my purposes tonight, why didn't you stop us before? What was the difference?" Red Alert gave the security camera a penetrating look.

Jazz did, too. So many questions could be asked about what they had just done, and about Prowl's reactions to both. Prowl was already thinking it over, the furrow under his chevron deepening as his optic ridges drew together. Red Alert had been right to take the demonstration that drastic step further. Jazz pulled silly stuff to get morale up, but that second kiss went far past a prank. It couldn't be ignored.

If Jazz set the fire, then Red Alert would feed the flames. The Security Director had burnt out circuits retrieving files on the topics raised tonight. Distrusting the Decepticon agenda didn't mean that he couldn't connect the dots on his own. He'd seen the ugly picture drawn in Autobot history.

Prowl didn't know what he'd seen. He looked back and forth between them, unable to articulate what he'd done, much less why. Red Alert and Jazz shared a concerned look. They had their own reasons to worry, but there was enough overlap to make them allies right this moment. It felt odd to stumble over a common purpose, but it shouldn't, it really shouldn't be that difficult to describe what consent was and wasn't. They'd provided two graphic scenarios one right after another, yet Prowl had barely been able to look at them, much less judge if there was consent. The Autobots were so used to censoring anything related to interfacing that Jazz doubted Prowl could accurately or impartially describe what he'd just witnessed. Jazz had struggled and demanded to be released, but he'd bet his hubcaps that the kiss preceding the violence had created an aversion so strong Prowl had trouble separating the two kisses as different incidents, one willing and one not.

That provided a ten-course dinner of food for thought, both in personal implications and actual law. The full impact of Jazz's debriefing would take everyone a while to digest, but Red Alert now had a smorgasbord of topics to feed anyone on duty tonight.

"I may have preferred another diagram," Prowl said. He looked between the other two officers a last time and shook his head. "If we are done here..?" A slight fear entered his optics. Oh no, what if they planned to do more?

The corner of Red Alert's mouth pulled up in a tired smirk. "For now." Mirage's icon hadn't moved on the network, but it fairly quivered among the on-duty icons. Yeah, he'd seen everything. A mix of indignation, apprehension, revulsion, and unease had to be turning the noblemech inside-out. He knew Jazz was up to something, but Jazz doubted he could guess what it was.

Red Alert stooped to gather up the forgotten squeegees from the floor, gave Jazz and Prowl a brisk nod each, and strode away down the hall. "Goodnight," he said.

The Security room was going to be an interesting place tonight.

[* * * * *]

End Pt. 29

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[ A/N: Commissioned by the ever-awesome and infinitely patient Jeegoo. Thank you!

Shibara drew a thing. I laughed helplessly over it. It's so perfect. It's the Umbrella Decepticon, over on Ao3 or on Tumblr.]