Disclaimer: TFA © Hasbro

Warnings: Screwing with continuity and spoilers for "Transwarped."

Summary: Not everything is as it seems, especially when not even the Prime in charge of Cybertron Intel knows every operative.

Notes: Well, I can't say that I've watched the entire series because that would be a bald-faced lie. I did, however, get curious and wind up YouTubing "Transwarped" after reading reactions. And then I got to reading various "fix-its" and... hell, I can't resist screwing with continuities. Bear with me, I'm completely insane.

While Cybertron Intelligence is the central entity responsible for all intel gathered during a time of war, there is a subsection that exists in the shadows. Very few are ever inducted into this secret organization, created long ago by mech long since returned to the Well. Although a Prime is the top of Cybertron Intel, he or she is never informed of Black Ops unless he or she was inducted into their ranks. The current head of Black Ops received the rank of Prime posthumously, as her believed status is 'deactivated in battle...'

Cliffjumper gave no indication that he intended to do anything other than comply as always, continuing to follow the request made by Longarm Prime only moments before. He slipped the cube into the incinerator, yet did not close the door completely. The instant the office portal slid shut behind Longarm he opened the incinerator once again and pulled the cube from the ledge he'd set it upon.

Not long before Longarm returned to his office, a distress signal had been picked up coming from an Intel-bot somewhere on Cybertron. Cliffjumper had considered informing the Prime of the beacon, but his programming had begun to whisper doubts. Instead of contacting Longarm, he had instead contacted his real superior officer to pass along the information. Her reply had been to maintain his post and scan anything that passed through the office, no matter how mundane.

Plus, there was something not right about this particular hunk of metal. Cliffjumper's observational programming was second to none, and although it was considered a glitch in those who were being trained for battlefield situations it was enough to garner the attention of an organization spoken of only as a myth.

Cliffjumper knew first hand, however, that Black Ops did exist. He'd been recruited by the head of the organization herself, and his programming had been enhanced for the assignment he'd been given: use his skills to seek out any traitors hidden within Autobot ranks. And the best place to be stationed for that task was as Longarm Prime's personal assistant. His programming often whispered to him at random intervals, but never quite so much as this moment.

The red mech glared at the cube, initiating a scan to determine what, exactly, was to be discarded. He nearly dropped it – or rather, him – once the results came back. Cliffjumper immediately opened a secured Ops-only comm link to his superior officer: "Jumper to Lady Prime. I have a lead on our Intel-bot in distress."

"Excellent work, Jumper," the femme Prime responded. "What do you have for me?"

"Blurr."

There was a momentary silence. "Wha...? Corridor 7. Now."

Taking a cautionary glance over his shoulder at the closed door to Longarm Prime's office (a tiny portion of his programming hissing traitor to the mech behind those doors), Cliffjumper moved swiftly from the office and started towards his destination. It took only a few minutes to reach Corridor 7, chosen specifically as a meeting place for any Black Ops bots as it was one of the few areas where the cameras wouldn't pick up their presence. A Black Ops mech by the designation Hound had set up a hologram generator years before, programmed to activate whenever it picked up on one of their operatives' energy signals to give the illusion that no one was present. Other bots could walk the corridor and be seen clearly on the video feed, but an Ops bot wouldn't show up to the cameras at all.

By all appearances, the corridor was empty; however, Cliffjumper had learned not to judge by appearances alone. Rather than speak aloud, he sent another comm. "Jumper to Lady Prime. I'm here."

No sooner had the message been sent that the air a few feet to his left shimmered, an invisibility field dropping to reveal a tall femme bot. Her plating was blue and white, and her optics were neither Autobot blue nor the purple favoured by neutrals but a golden yellow. Her expression was serious and she gave a brief nod to the mech before speaking.

"Cliffjumper. What did you mean, you have Blurr?"

"Exactly what I said," the mech replied, indicating the blue cube he was holding. "Longarm Prime requested that I dispose of this. I performed a full scan as per your orders, and... well, there's a spark reading and it's far too fast to be anyone but Blurr."

The femme's optics narrowed slightly but she performed a scan of her own. It was clear that she had made the same discovery by the shocked gasp that escaped her as she completed the function. "Primus! And you said that Longarm Prime had him?"

Cliffjumper gave a small growl. "Yeah. My observational programming has always been twitchy in that office, but it started screaming when I finished the scans. You think Longarm has something to do with Blurr's current status?"

"It's a definite possibility, but we'll need Blurr's confirmation to be certain." Gold optics locked onto the red mech. "Contact First Aid, inform him that I'm on my way. Then return to your post. Your new assignment is to record all of Longarm Prime's actions and forward anything suspicious to every Ops agent currently on Cybertron."

"Yes, ma'am." Cliffjumper watched for a moment as the femme's form wavered and vanished from sight, and he waited until her soft footfalls had faded completely before opening a private comm link to the Ops medic. "Cliffjumper to First Aid."

"First Aid here."

"Mirage Prime is en route with an injured operative. Situation dire. You may need outside assistance."

"I'll contact Wheeljack on the quiet."

"Okay. Cliffjumper out." Closing the comm link and stamping down on the urge to shoot Longarm Prime (if that was his name and not an alias) on sight, Cliffjumper turned and made his way back to his post.

Whatever Blurr knew, it was clear that Longarm wanted him silenced. Unfortunately for that particular Prime, Black Ops had one cardinal rule that they all lived or died by:

Watch out for our own, and every Intel-bot has the potential to be one of us.

A brief amused smirk crossed the red mech's face before being smoothed out by his usual professional neutral expression. There were quite a few 'deactivated' bots in Black Ops, and if Blurr managed to pull through this that would add one more to the ranks.

And if Blurr's story confirmed the suspicions now brewing in Cliffjumper's mind, all the better.