[ti]Ep 3[/ti]Interior Design [Carbine, Patch, Ratchet, Thunder]

[Windshield]

Episode 3 / Week 1 / Day 5 / Closed


Somewhere in Arizona...

This night was dry and dark. Stars dotted the black canvas above a wast, endless desert. Cacti spread far and wide across the red sand, kept company by tan grass and the occasional shrubbery. This arid environment was no place for a human.

And yet, humans did dwell in this area once. Today, all that remained of them was an abandoned structure. It had once been an airbase. Vacancy did its integrity no good. The black runways were cracked after long days of stress under the unforgiving sun, and the structures surrounding them have fallen into disrepair.

However, the local hangar remained in relatively good condition. And curiously, it still held one occupant; a new occupant at that. Windshield had taken to this place as his new home after Optimus and Agent Fowler pulled some strings. Since he moved in, it has been furnished with some new utilities that a Cybertronian needed.

For one, the hangar has been segregated into three smaller areas with concrete walls, so that Windshield didn't have to recharge and do his paint job in the same giant room. One of these rooms has been designated as his sleeping quarters, another housed a computer to keep in touch with Bot Base among other things, and the third one, Windshield used for various frivolous things.

Why, just today he installed a table so that he could play a human game known as table tennis. He also hauled in some human tech to fix himself a makeshift TV—of course, he kept this stuff off-record. Nobody needed to know he's been digging around scrapyards for junk.

And credit where credit is due, the Autobots even equipped the place with a jammer to mask Windshield's life signal from any Decepticons that might come looking for him. This afforded him some amount of comfort. Still, he was deathly afraid of intruders. So, of his own volition, he bugged the entire place to high hell and set up cameras everywhere. One could never be too cautious in his position.

But today—today, the extra layer of security was down because today, Windshield expected a visit. A while ago, he made a request to get some supplies from Omega Outpost. For a mercy, his list was rather short and involved only the most necessary things and a few luxuries that weren't hard to acquire by any measure. Such things were permissible even in a time of scarcity without straining the busy minds of Ratchet and Optimus Prime.

And so, he threw wide the hangar gates and strolled onto the runway with a lazy swagger, expecting a green swirly portal to open any moment now.

Any moment now...

[Carbine]

Take supplies over they say, it'll be a nice trip out they say, Patch will be coming along isn't that nice?

Frag all this shit.

Carbine wasn't coming to be a good little Autobot, he didn’t volunteer for this job because it could possibly get him some kudo points with the leaders, he didn't even opt to come along because one of the ladies in the base were going to tag along! Nope. He wanted to go because he wanted to get a nice long hard look at that false Autobot's face again. Look him dead in those hollow yellow eyes and look at HOW they looked back into his own.

To make certain what he saw was legitimate.

Oh it couldn't be him; there is no way it was! I mean, what were the chances? And besides the body was all wrong... but that face, that cocky aft smug fragging little face was still the damn same, and no level of paint and age could change that absolutely solid fact. Those haunting eyes, that demon horned little bastard...

T̰̩ͅi̶̟̥̼̥m̷͓ẹ͕ ̴̗̱t͏o̻̬̺͖̜͠ p̤͘l̲̤̠͕̟͎̯a̦͉̱͞y͙̫͙̼̫̻͈ ͖n͏͔͓͔̰̞̦i̛͍͖̜̥̖̜c̻̘͍e̢͖͉̦̹

Carbine seemed happy to help on this little excursion, jumping to the task when volunteers were called for, showing up at the scheduled time to eagerly await Patch's arrival. He was pleasant as ever, a couple flirting comments to the young femme that may or may not have flew right over her helm, a greeting to Bulkhead who was manning the bridge, while he loaded up on the heavier supplies that were going to be hauled over.

There were three containers to transport. One was rather chunky, full of insulation foam and tools to help ward off the heat from the new base. While it was a larger container, it was deceptively lightweight, most of its contents hollow air even when a portion was spongy woven fibers that were compressed for travel. This is the box Carbine insisted Patch carry, while the other two were heavier even if one wasn’t quite as big.

The smaller of the two held some of Windshield's requested items. More likely than not books or shows, or who knows what it was... Carbine didn't really know, but it had to be something that added up a bit as he hefted the container to land on his hip under his left arm. The second was equally as heavy if not moreso, but he knew what it was. Some sort of basic air conditioning unit, as well as tarping and supplies needed to patch up some portions of the ceiling that may or may not be weatherproof. There may be other things, but Carbine didn't exactly get a big list on 'how we are going to improve a little shit-wits life'.

The second crate was hefted up to land on his shoulder so that it would support the brunt of the weight rather than pulling down on his arms. A few shifts to get everything balanced, a few flicks of the rotors on his back as he settled, and away he would go! Striding towards the newly opened portal with a quip and a happy go lucky attitude, allowing Patch to go through first before he sidestepped along after until through the portals end.

Right into a blazing hellfire of Arizona.

Primus it was as crappy here as it was Nevada.

Stepping forth from the green and teal portal at Patch's heel, Carbine's eyes squinted hard towards the sky, before the yellow projections landed down upon the black and white Autobot that stood across the way, seemingly waiting for them. Carbine didn't know if Windshield would recognize him at all, but Carbine sure recognized HIM, starting to walk forward with a casual stride, keeping a firm grip on the two cargo containers.

"We got your ̕re͝qu͏est̶s here Skippy... where d-do you want this?"

A friendly tone, some jittered static popped within. As he said this, his gaze would scan over past Windshield to look at the air hanger that was appointed to him. While it was hot out here, the hanger looked like it had seen better days, and it probably was scrungy on the interior and less than pleasant... there was a healthy dash of envy that he got effectively a HOUSE and a playground to drive around in, while Carbine himself was stuck in Optimus' little fortress in a mesa. It bubbled a bit under the scenes, but he cast it aside to focus on the matter at hand.

"What was your name again?"

Curiosity, his eyes narrowing slightly in a squint.

[Patch]

Patch was excited to check on Windshield again.

Though… Somewhat guarded, the young medic truly believed their newest autobot was a nice guy. She was proud of him for making the choice he’d made. And though he was, green as actual frag when it came to combat, he was apparently quite useful in the case of programing. (which, she felt, they very much needed at Omega base.)

Once she’d reported to the control room, Patch replied idly to Carbine’s usual friendly comments. Appreciative… to some extent, that he felt like being nice, though thoroughly distracted by the promise of checking in on her friend again. As the ex-cop loaded up the supplies, and got everything ready, the little medic squished in beside bulkhead, and ran a digit down along the lines of cybertronian letters and numbers to insure they were in fact bridging to the right spot. She even let Carbine fork over the lightest box, without… Too much argument. (Of course it didn’t hurt that it was also the largest, which, made her feel at least a little more capable.)

Prepared for it to be quite a bit heavier than it was, the femme squatted down, and straightened her back to heft it up. With her digits slipped beneath the bottom, she then brought it up to sit square in front of her chest. One servo around the front, one below. Her bright red medical kit mounted to her back, so she could look the mech over properly, and make sure the replacement wiring he’d been given was still holding up.

When that swirling portal of violent green and blue opened up, Patch happily accepted the invitation to go first. For once, on such a friendly mission, it was in fact plausible for the medic to do so; needless to say the adventure was one Patch welcomed with open arms.

The second her peddes touched down upon red earth, Patch found herself looking around- first at the new base, next it’s surroundings. Primus there were so many stars here! Unfamiliar stars, granted but beautiful nevertheless.

Young blue optics flicked to Carbine as he spoke the first few words. Jeeze, he sounded a little cranky. Or… Playful… Honestly unless Carbine was actively using the 'cop tone' he could be so hard to read sometimes. She listened to whatever instructions followed, then, paused, at what came next. Patch knew his name. His name was Windshield, but! She said nothing. For once, she said nothing. Simply watching with somewhat inquisitive optics. Allowing the other mech to speak for himself.

A couple steps in front of carbine, Patch took the rather awkward looking crate, and shifted it to cradle in a sideways sort of angle in front of her. Pressed against her chest, and down across her hip with one arm, in such a way it almost made her look like a load bearer what with how big it was. A facade of super-strength as she reached an arm straight out in front of her to try and shake the other mech’s servo.

“Hey man, how you doin’?” Her voice was low, steady, quiet and clearly directed at only Windshield. Laced with an easy sort of smirk, as -so long as the mech opted to play along- she gave him one good sturdy shake. “How’s the wiring? Still holdin’ up?”

[Windshield]

The wait was over. A green ripple through the fabric of reality swirled into existence before Windshield’s eyes. Finally something exciting! He waited, watched, and then they were there. Patch, holding a rather large crate, and Carbine in toe with the smaller contraband. It kinda looked like he made the medic haul the heavier box but that didn’t necessarily need to be the case, so Windshield kept any comments to himself for now.

Carbine, however, did not.

“Get it to the hangar. I’ll unpack it there,” the turncoat replied, pointing a thumb over his shoulder to the large structure behind him. He raised a brow at Carbine’s choice of words but didn’t flinch or react in a necessarily hostile way.

When asked about his name, he simply regarded Carbine with grumbling tone: “It’s Windshield.”

Strange, he figured that his name would be common knowledge now. Or if not, that the Prime would at least acquaint those who had seen him with the situation. As far as he knew, the ex-cop was one such individual.

Either Carbine played dumb, which was unlikely, or he had other motives. That was much likelier. Windshield could tell ulterior intent when he saw it. Few ever give him the credit for it, but the mech has spent a lot of time working for Decepticon Intelligence.

But Carbine’s antics aside, he noticed Patch, who had just approached him with the offer of a handshake. A gesture more common on Earth and less so seen on Cybertron. He happily accepted and shook the medic’s hand.

“I’m pretty okay and the stuff is holding up,” he shrugged in response, “That crate looks heavy. Want me to help?”

Windshield’s offer came as soon as he realized that the box’s dimensions were probably better suited for two bots rather than a single femme; especially one that was as small as him or Patch. While their size was often an advantage, it came with many cons as well. The little guy often had to do twice as much work to keep up with their bigger peers; a reality of Cybertronian living. It came naturally for a race so diverse in size and shape.

“Honestly, can’t believe you got Carbine to tag along. Or is this some sort of personal punishment? He doesn’t seem to like me much,” Windshield leaned in closer towards Patch to comment on the situation. He didn’t know how aware of the obvious tension she was, but he hoped that it was enough to realize that Carbine wasn’t out here thanks to the goodness of his philanthropic spark.

[Carbine]

A light thunk, a shift of the boxes, for now, despite having been told where to deliver the cargo, Carbine simply sat them on the ground at his feet, not about to go and turn his back to the little Decepticon. Really, he didn’t turn his back to ANYONE if he could help it, especially not someone he trusted so very little that nothing even showed up on the little trust-o-meter. He stacked the smaller crate of the more customized request items atop the larger container, lightly eeking the top one a bit to line up the edges and make it look tidy. Really, despite having asked, he had no real intention of doing what was requested of him, a fact plain as day that things weren't going to go to plan here today.

Oh, Carbine KNEW what its name was, he KNEW what it called itself...

A light drum of fingers, an amused hum, the black and white mech listened to what the Decepticon introduced himself, taking note that it was different than what it should have been. Not that he seriously BELIEVED this was HIM anymore, but... it was still fascinating to see such words spewed out of its face. The voice was different too, pitched a little bit skewed... ah well, it just made things more interesting.

Carbine fell quiet when Patch moved forward to take charge, asking about her patient's wiring probably from some injury. Boring conversation, hollow pleasantries, it was so obnoxious to the Ex-Cop, it all feeling so rigged and obligatory. Canned replies to force some kind of friendship that had no foundation to stand upon. Deep down, he knew it was just him, he knew it was his pure unbridled hatred and nothing truly so tainted Patch would have for force niceties... but he also knew it didn’t matter worth SHIT what logic said.

When he was mentioned, Carbine began to lope forward.

He was not a small mech, he was a frame meant to be able to overpower general sized individuals to arrest, and it showed as he started to close the distance that had been made between them. Carbine walked in calm loping steps, the circular wheel lightly tapping with a rubber bumper, before a click sounded of the triangular ped on the asphalt. He seemed to be watching his stride with care, meticulous, calm, arms slung to rest at his lower back. As he drew near, details upon his armor became more visible, rough dings and scrapes, dull patches in the inky black finish of his topcoat, accented by a woven gnarled weld line that had been painted over on his chest. He continued to approach, light glinting off the plastic casings of the non-activated lights, a dull haze of red emanating from luminous rings around his joints...

Soon, he was right up near the two, looking down at Windshield with yellow optics that held no sense of color dimension, just a flat panel of light, yet, somehow could almost be FELT staring down at him with a dagger's intensity.

"Mmm... yes... Well you remi̛n̶d ̷me o̶f ̢someone else I kn̢ow."

Cold words, so very unlike the Carbine Patch was aware of out on the Nevada fields. No pleasant cop, no friendly Autobot, just this devoid restrained statement. To pair with this, his rotors seemed to flick slightly, a small twitch of a motion as a guttural growl hissed out from behind him. The sound could have possibly been blamed on Carbine himself, an attempt to seem 'ferocious' or angry, some kind of threatening notion to snarl at Windshield... but it was so beyond what a typical mech could do. It truly sounded animalistic, borderline feral, a dulled chatter of teeth and a huff of air slipping through vents after before a more subdued grumble snaked out from the armor paneling that hunched up from his back like some sort of triangular backpack.

"You look V̸͕̙̭ͅE̼̖͡RY mu͘ch ̴li̷ke̵ t̸hem..."

[Patch]

“I’m good.” Patch replied to the offer of assistance with a slow blink and a nod. “Thanks though.” A grin, and a quite overconfident tone. As though this was something Patch heard, a lot, and denied, a lot and was perfectly used to by now. Not that she didn’t appreciate the offer, it was just… She was a medic for Primus sake! She moved people sometimes twice her size! ((When she was far enough into overdrive, at least)) Unfortunately, Carbine had taken up what tiny allotment of patience Patch had for pity ‘chivalry’ back at the silo already.

And, that’s where things went sour...

Okay. So Carbine was being a glitch. Everyone had days like that, But Windshield’s comment really hadn't been particularly helpful either. “Well-” She tried to respond, in attempt to defuse the situation, though the word was cut-off by Carbine’s movement. Her attention suddenly all behind her, as a wave of intimidation washed up and over her shoulders, and silenced her. As the large mech approached, she quietly lowered, and set the box down at her right hand side, then slowly rose again.

So that’s how it was gonna be.

White, scared, scuffed up plating smoothly shifted just a little closer to her body. A calm whuff of air out the vents at her back. A simple release as she hunkered down, and settled into the discomfort. Embracing the suck, and accepting the fact that there was in fact going to be some tension here.

She took a step.

Just one little step to the side. Calm, steady field, as peddes shifted farther apart, to her left, in the direction of the gap between Windshield and Carbine. A little bob of her chin to the side, optics to nothing, in line with her helm. Her back now flush with the largest dark form, optics still in the distance, though now, either mech could be easily found in her peripheral. And by all indications? Those muttered words rolled right away from her like water off a fresh waxed hood.

Patch was standing between them.
She was making it clear, that she was standing between them.

Blue optics remained half lidded at her side, as she listened to him speak, and said nothing. Did nothing. Simply letting the words, and the posture, and the tension in his voice settle deep into her chest. Unsurprised. Unperturbed. Everyone had a dark side after all -at this point, at least- and the mech of which the ex-cop spoke, was in fact an Ex-Decepticon. The young femme believed Carbine had a right to be angry. He had every right. He did not, however, possess the right to abuse his strength, his size… To achieve nothing.

“Carbine, would’ya mind moving those crates into the hanger?” Perfectly conversational, and spoken before any other words could be interjected. Clashing fiercely with her now, semi-readied stance, which clashed with the low, warm hum her EM field had since become. A smooth shutter of her optics, and a gentle, monotonous mutter, as her gaze turned lightly over her shoulder to the largest mech.

“I need to see to my patient.”

A gentle reminder that Patch did in fact, possess authority in this particular circumstance. Over Carbine? No. Over Windshield? FRAG yes, he was actively her responsibility, and Primus be damned if she was gonna let anything happen to him now. The young medic was only just beginning to feel she was gaining respect around Omega Base. She sure as hell wasn’t gonna lose that ‘because Carbine was feeling pissy.’

This was the ex-cop’s chance to back away, and let the young femme work, and let this thing be easy. If either mech were to make a move toward the other, Patch would put up a -granted, a rather small- servo, and attempt to make it clear she wanted them both to stay at least this far apart. Hovering above, at first, then making sturdy contact with her arm if they continued. Going so far as to gradually press her bodyweight into them, and giving them a swift, rather nasty mom-glare.

Hopefully such restrained measures would be enough… Patch didn’t want this to get ugly. She never wanted it to get ugly... But if provoked?

Well… Hopefully they wouldn't have to find out what came next...

[Windshield]

Things got a bit messy. Now, Windshield had one bot looming over him and the other trying to diffuse the situation by standing between them; quite literally. This was not an unfamiliar scenario. It had happened before back in the desert.

Carbine acted not unlike Whirl.

Did he also spend time in Garrus? Well, he looked like a cop. Maybe he was a sentry in the prison? Or perhaps things turned mighty sour and he was an inmate. That was such a juicy possibility and honestly sounded too good to be true. However, it would explain why Windshield’s uncanny resemblance to one of the wardens pissed him off.

But Windshield was also damn good at playing it cool, at least when he needed to. With a light shrug, he stared back into the empty, yellow optics.

“I get that a lot. The face is a pretty common model,” he said with such a casual tone that you could almost believe he was completely clueless on the matter. Of course, that was all just surface level. The face was not a run-of-the-mill mesh at all. No, it was special and specific to that little shite who kept Windshield under lock and key for years.

But then he wondered if Carbine saw through the lie. And if so, would he lash out or stand back and observe? Either way, he expected the bot to keep prodding for as long as he’d be there. Well, bring it on, cop. Windshield knew how to handle this...or at least he hoped he did.

Luckily, Patch totally did. And after her request, Windshield simply nodded along. He knew the patient stuff was just a convenient excuse to remove Carbine from the picture. But hey, if it works, it works.

“Unless there is something else you wanted?” The tone was filled with undue bitterness. Windshield was clearly not happy with Carbine sticking his nose where it didn't belong and the question was, by all accounts, completely rhetorical. He then crossed his arms, still peering optic to optic. Hollow yellow on one side, impish orange on the other.

Just in case, Windshield adjusted his posture a little bit to seem more unapproachable. His torso rocked back and his pedes spread into a wider stance, quite possibly in an attempt to discourage Carbine by looking intimidating as well. The only problem was that Windshield was not threatening at all. As far as present circumstances were concerned at any rate.

Oh, he could be quite scary in other ways, alright. But it was in Windshield’s best interest to move away from that life; a Decepticon life. In this little thing, he towered above Carbine, or at least he could justify it in his little head that he did. While one was dead-set on being a terrible person, the other was making an effort to be the best version of themselves.

Carbine had precious little to show for his behavior and Windshield had yet to see him express other feelings besides nosey curiosity or poor attempts at intimidation.
He wondered just how far the ex-cop was willing to take this—and how much Patch's say held Carbine on a leash...or if there even was a leash to begin with.

[Carbine]

Oh how adorable.

Yellow eyes angled to the side as Patch stepped forth, trying to get between them, trying to act like she could stop him. While sure, she could be a huge roadblock... as she was not as light as perceived so he couldn’t just grab her upper arms and hock her off to the side like tinfoil... she could pose a very real issue! But, it was all somewhat negated when you brought in the data that she would need to restrain two. While Carbine would be hard pressed to try to backhand her aside and could be stalled, it was probably not wise to try to grab hold of a canine that was flung into rage induced frenzy.

When Patch spoke, Carbine eased his upper torso away a small amount, shifting his stance as shoulders rolled back onto this pivots some to shake out the joints. It was not an action birthed of passivity however, he was not backing down, and this was shown with the low rumble of a chuckle that snaked out from deep in his chest. While he had no face, no mouth to be spoken of to show any kind of emotion, a malicious sort of grin could almost be heard in that subdued laugh, a cocky arrogant smirk that would have teeth bared open.

Carbine didn't approach further, Patch doing what she wanted, but he also didn’t completely back down and walk away.

"Oh I͜ ̛d̨o͝n͠'t kn̶ow so much about th-that..."

A rumbled purr in response to Windshield's words, not at all buying into his little lie. Carbine had been around the block more than a few times. He crossed paths with countless Cybertronian in his work, patrols, and less than legal extracurricular activities. With his kind of experience, you could start to pick out the sorts of traits familiar to batch builds. Of course, the individual's profession said a lot about it too, those who were made from a repeat mold more likely than not substantially lower than others, unless it was a service job. It wasn't a concrete rule, but he felt confident.

Carbine was a batch build, he looked borderline identical to his peers in his particular group, but in his case it helped with replacements parts that they burned through on a semi-regular basis.

Windshield sure as FUCK wasn't a batch build.

"I bèl͢i̛eve you͡ know̡ ͟E̕XACTLY wha͝t I͡ m͝ean."

A glitched crackle, a static laden set of words. Carbine's voice jittered and bobbed some, it not really possible to completely mask it aside due to the restrained rage that bubbled deep in his spark. In addition, the growling seemed to continue, even going on while he spoke. There was a shift at his back, a puff of armor that seemed to want to pull free and move, but it was held at bay for now, the panels deflating in tandem with a rumbled snarl.

"So how did you ͘do͞ ͟it̵ ̀W̢inds̶hield? D-did you manage to̡ ̶l͘ay͝ ́t̸he ̧la͝st̸ b̡low? Did you get to watch th-th-the color drain away un͞ti̴l̷ you p̀um̧ped the ca͡d̡av̛e̡r full of Energon and electr̨i͟çit̛y͏ ͟t̷o ̧cla͝įm̀ ̴t͘he͟ ͠m̀ost venomous of revenge?"

Some envy snaked in here, the top edge of the optic projections curving up in an implied raise of brows.

"Or will yo̡u ju̢st ́lie; claim you f-f-found it, that you need͝ed ͜it ͏to hid͡e who you were before the͢ ͜W̸ar frothed from̶ the͢ ͏p̧l̕a̕net̛ ͜lik̴e a festering wound."

He made certain to throw in that last bit for Patch's benefit. This had nothing to do with the War, it had nothing to do with the fact this little black and white grease stain was a Decepticon. Sure, that didn't help, but that more meant Windshield should be watched closer and not trusted, not verbally cornered like he was here. In a way, Carbine almost ALMOST didn't care he was a 'Con before.

"Don't ̶be ̨s͢hy."

[Patch]

Windshield, you little fragger. You just HAD to ask...

The instant Patch got a hold of what Carbine’s reaction would be, her field, went, flat. Dead optics, above freckled cheeks easing over her shoulder to CHALLENGE him with every ounce of ‘this is not fucking funny’ she carried within that little being of her’s. Glowing blue bombs beneath the cover her helm created when it angled down. Inducing ever farther the notion of ‘angry eyes’ as her jaw set hard, and her intake pursed up into a drawl little sneer.

This was not the direction this was supposed to go.

The aggression, the fear was building up. Attack protocols were threatening to kick in. But… Then Carbine started going off about -what Patch could only assume was- some guy’s corpse... The realization slowly struck her...

There was something else going on here...

Carbine fragging knew this mech. At least he thought he did, and by all indications? Windshield-… Well honestly Patch couldn’t tell if Windshield knew him or not. The smaller mech wasn’t acting with seething hatred toward the larger, nor was he attempting to weasel in, and harm him emotionally, as Patch expected to be the case with a former combatant.

‘Hide who you were?’ What the frag was Carbine-

...Oh…

Oh no...

This little bastard wasn’t THAT ballsy...

Patch knew Windshield had been an empurata victim. At the very least she had an inkling. She’d seen the scars, she knew about his optic replacement. It was clear, physiologically that at the very least he’d had something similar occur within his life. Given his history as a Decepticon? The odds were even greater -in Patch’s mind, at least. If it was, she wouldn’t have blamed him. That would be some good fragging incentive to try and uproot the Senate, and if Windshield had been stupid enough to believe those old Con’ bullshit bombs she’d learned about in history class? He very well may have believed that’s what he had been doing in turning against the Autobots.

But that didn’t account for what Carbine had said… Desecration, preservation ‘venomous revenge?’

...Was Windshield wearing another fragger’s FACE?!

What the hell?! That was twisted as SHIT!! Carbine had to be glitching, he had to be! Not that Patch didn’t believe that someone would, it was just… Well…

...Actually... Patch really didn’t have a reason to believe that Windshield wouldn’t.

She barely knew him after all. And yes, she always liked to give people the benefit of the doubt, but… Now that the idea was there… Now that it was planted in her helm, it only grew… Carbine HAD been a cop before the war… What if this mech had been a murderer? What if the face he was wearing right now had belonged to someone Carbine was meant to protect? What if it had belonged to someone he knew?

Her emotional state, didn’t change... terribly. They were all psychos, at this point after all, she couldn’t blame him for that… Nor was she mad at herself for being as nice to him as she had been…

Best not be too hasty… Quietly, she turned on him. The transition slow, and smooth, as her chest lightly angled back to look at him, and her helm cocked up at a sort-of-an-angle to counter it. Not shifting her peddes, though turning her attention full to the Con’ now, instead of keeping it on Carbine. The young femme’s expression was very different than it had been before. Hard optics filled with betrayal to be frank. Ridges down, and intake loosely open in a ‘oh you better be fraggin’ me right now’ sort of way. Her field still a low, close, quiet hum, though now just a little more… Unstable...

“What’s he talkin’ about, Windshield?” A low drone of a phrase, through a dead-pan expression. Making no attempt to hide her disappointment, nor her wariness. Patch was willing to forgive a hell of a lot, but 'desecration for the fun of it' just so happened to be a pretty big no-no on her list.

[Windshield]

So this is how it's gonna be…

They just couldn’t play nice. It could’ve been a good, quiet night. But no, Carbine had to come and RUIN IT ALL! Wonderful, just splendid! Oh boy, was this gonna be something! Because of course, things would go wrong now. Now when Windshield was finally getting out of that nasty, fragged Decepticon mentality, there had to be someone to remind him of the past. There always was.

No, no, no. This was not going to end in a disaster.

The ex-Con couldn’t allow himself to relapse back into his old mindset. Oh yes, it would be very easy to play dirty now. All he’d have to do was to turn on the cameras, add a little fuel to the fire and let Carbine have his fun. And of course, he could also support the act with some theatrics for the benefit of whatever viewer would see the recordings.

But he wasn’t that kind of person anymore. He was trying to be better—and Carbine was making it very, very hard.

His frame tensed up, pistons screeching to a halt, pent-up hydraulics quivering in their stiff positions. Now was the time for Windshield to try a new thing. A thing he had only recently learned from Optimus Prime...Not like Carbine gave him much choice.

Honesty.

“Okay, so, I know this might sound baaad, Patch, but…” He chuckled in a tone-deaf response to the situation.

“This sorta, kinda isn’t my face. Well, at least it wasn’t.”

Windshield’s words were quivering, voice cracking and bobbing between hushed whispers and high-pitched tones while accompanied by exaggerated movement of his arms around his head. These were the sounds and mannerisms of somebody who was about to admit to their part in some really nasty business.

“Are you—maybe—familiar with Garrus-1?” he tested the waters. And when his confidence grew a little bit, enough to speak another sentence, he also continued.

“So, I did some bad things and ended up in a bad place, and well, then the Cons rescued me from my ward, and now I’m not implying I had him killed, but there was this warden that died, and I kinda needed a new face so I asked the boys to...you know...chop!”

He shrugged, sliding a hand over his neck as to imply precisely the kind of motion that was enacted on the warden with a bladed weapon. Though, if one were a keen observer, they could see that the idea of chopping heads off made Windshield squeamish, as was apparent from his visibly disgusted cringe.

Then he just kinda stood there, waiting to see what happened.

“Oh, I didn’t murder anybody if that’s what this is all about!” He let out to reassure at least one of the Autobots. He knew it probably would not bring Carbine any comfort, knowing that Windshield got the last laugh in the face of their captor, but perhaps this would alleviate some of the worry Patch had.

"...Not anybody who didn't deserve it, at least."

This was not helping his case. At all.

[Carbine]

Oh how the tides have turned.

Watching Patch's realization shift, watching her gradually angle herself from focusing on him, to now directing her incredulous thoughts to Windshield... it was oh so beautiful. The sweetest of feelings that Carbine ate up like the most refined sipping Energon. Validation, success, negating any aggression that was otherwise going to be lobbed at him... Oh, it was not CARBINE who was in the wrong! It was Windshield! The Decepticon was SUCH a monster! Something that was worthwhile to look down upon with disdain and disgust like the petulant little worm he was.

Carbine fell silent at this, watching as Patch asked the other mech what was going on, before the faintest white pinpricks of optics shifted up to stare Windshield down forcibly. Watching him squirm, watching emotions play out as his little processor tried to catch up. Carbine didn't know the exact thoughts the Ex-Con was trying to work through of course, but he could practically sense the gears churning away in that fragger's helm to weave and form a convincing lie to get Patch back onto his side. Try to turn her against him.

But Carbine wasn't going to lose her now that he dug his claws in.

The bottom edge of Carbine's optics crooked up some as Windshield began to speak, paired with the already present lowering of the top with a scowl. It seemed the other Cybertronian was going to play into the sympathy game, try to cultivate a convincing sob story. It was a wonderful trick really! Carbine relied upon it a great deal when he had to manipulate others into siding with him. But... as clever as it may be, Carbine was listening to every word with a razors edge, waiting to slice it apart and point out the flaws in his story.

When the story seemed to conclude, Carbine moved. He didn’t try to step around Patch, he didn’t try to make it so that she no longer blocked his advance. Instead, he took advantage of the fact that she was looking at Windshield, stooping down enough that he would lightly place his hands upon her shoulder. Should permitted, he would keep her angled at the Ex-Con, but she could easily break free should she not approve. Whether he still had a handhold or not, he would lower his helm closer to hers in the crook over her pauldron, to make it so his view was more in line with hers, and to make sure his words were well heard.

"Mmm yes... th-there were many̡ d̀eat͞hs w͡he͏n ̛Garrus was liberated... so many guards k͞i͞lled̡, ̀sǫ many convicts felled, yet Windshield here, A̴̯̙̮ͅS̢͖K͖̤͇͢E͎̟̥͙̮D̵ 'the boys' to target the Warden."

His words were spoken eerily calm, painting the picture, repeating parts of what Windshield had said to emphasize the details Carbine wanted highlighted. He would continue, rolling right into his next statement to let himself get through what he wanted to say.

"He must be awf̨u͏l̸ly͜ twiste͟d, for him t-t-to want to look into̵ ́t͜he̢ ̛face of the mech who tortured him every time hè ͟h̷a͏s̷ t̨o loo͢k in a mirror."

A soft 'tsk' of disapproval sounded, Carbine's frame easing gradually back upright, optics still fiercely locked onto the false mech.

"Past crimes can ̢be ͢ęxpu̶nged, m-m-urder can be excused, in are ͜kz̷ztt ́we war of cours̶e, ͜bút ţh͝at... oh... that..."

He trailed off with a low pur of words.

"That is some next ́léve͢l̸ st̸uf͟f."

[Patch]

She turned her helm sideways some at the mention of Garrus. Faceplate still hard as inconel, as she gave Windshield a side-optic, though listening carefully nevertheless. Oh, Patch knew plenty of Garrus one. She must have heard hundreds of stories about, or involving that wretched place from ex-cops and ex-criminals alike back on the frontlines. For this reason? Her perspective was likely rather skewed of the place. Offset slightly by hear-say and exaggeration from those who -at the time- she really had believed.

From what she knew, it was a terrible terrible place, from which the hell of war was considered a relief. A place that changed you. Broke you, ON PURPOSE, for scrap you couldn’t do one thing to change!

'...chop!'

Patch visibly cringed at this. Startled and disgusted in equal measures by the volume of the word, and the bluntness of it’s delivery… Though by all indications were Windshield was then made uncomfortable, Patch was not. Horrifyingly desensitized by what she’d seen, and been made to do.

Okay… Okay. He’d been honest. That was good. She could take this much.

'Oh, I didn’t murder anybody if that’s what this is all about!'

Patch’s gaze flew straight back to Windshield’s, a wide-optic’d unsteadiness as her field suddenly surged with mixed emotion. Her proverbial spines prickling up as her plating went suddenly flush to her frame. An old-aft knee jerk reaction nipped her right in the spark at those words. An old-aft knee jerk response stopping right at the tip of her tongue.

‘That means you haven't done jack SHIT.’

Pain, fear, ugly emotions disguised and buried in a sudden heap of rage. It all swirled around, and mixed up, and burned in the bottom of her voice-box. Jealousy that he’d gone this long without getting his servos dirty. Agony at knowing so few could say that at this point.

Agony that Patch, couldn’t say that, at this point.

Servos. Two large hands upon her shoulders. Carbine’s hands. A sudden surge of discomfort in her field, though she didn’t pull away. A helm beside her audial. Old instincts kicking in. The young femme focused directly in front of her. She set her jaw. Servos at her sides as she straightened a little, and curled her digits in. She was at attention. A warm guff of air- no- a hot guff of air brushed out onto, and across Carbine’s chest, from the vents on her back.

Once released, her optics simply flicked down.
That was the only movement in her whole damn frame.


“...That’s enough.”


Just two words. Hollow. Hauntingly steady and directed at the ground.

“We’re done.”

Her gaze turned lightly up to Windshield. The movement unnaturally smooth. A flagrant fragility to her current calm. Pain, fear, hurt behind glowing blue optics, and calm freckled cheeks. Voice still low, and monotoned.

Her helm then dropped. She started nodding. Slowly. Smoothly, and gradually growing faster. She rolled her glossa in her cheek. She raised a servo to rub a thumb across her lips. Optic ridges rising as she spoke. An invent- “Go find a place to lie down. Right now. I’m gonna look you over.”

Either mech may have recognised it, given their histories. The look in her optic, the tone in her voice… Patch… Wanted, to hit someone now. She wanted to, and she was getting ready to. She wasn’t going to, that wasn’t, ‘professional’. It wasn’t RIGHT, to do that, now…

But it would likely be unwise… To test that professionalism, in this moment.

[Windshield]

Windshield sunk lower and lower with every word the two bots spat out. Sarcastic commentary and painfully obvious manipulation on one side; fury, rage, disgust, and sorrow on the other. He was cornered. He felt helpless. It was so, so much like G1.

Nowhere to go, nobody to turn to. Was this what being an Autobot meant? It felt ugly and harrowing. The Decepticons had no love lost for Windshield, but at least nobody gave a scrap about who he was or what he had done. Being held accountable for past mistakes—related to Garrus of all things—crushed his spark and suffocated his circuits.

He wasn’t like Optimus, he wasn’t like Ratchet, and he wasn’t like Starscream. He didn’t have the ability to step back, digress, and soldier on with his goals. Here and now, he was locked in the moment. The bigger picture disappeared, and the path to redemption seemed long, distant, and unachievable.

And it was in this limbo that Windshield snapped.

“At least I have a face, you coward!” He berated Carbine. Consequences went right out of the window. He couldn’t care less right this instant. Then he flicked his wrists, a habit he had taken to in ages past to spring his daggers into action. A sharp, metallic fling. Two compartments opened, and two sharp weapons slid into his hands. These were not the tools of a bot who had never murdered anybody.

“All you do is hide behind that blank stare!”

Windshield growled, his body tensed up, vents closed, and pedes entrenched themselves firmly in their place. His hydraulics and pistons hissed in a nasty, angry tone as the bot leaned forward. Optics narrowed, face devoid of mercy, he was ready to get physical.

Then, two empty words pierced the tension.

His eyebrows lowered, his jaw clenched and his chin jutted forward. It was a moment of deliberation. Finally, he took the angle needed to realize what the frag he was doing. And the moment he did, Windshield flinched back. His wrists cracked like a whip and the daggers retracted; his posture loosened.

“Call for a Groundbridge. I want him gone.”

Windshield put a palm to his face in utter disbelief of what had just transpired. He turned his head upwards and stared blankly at the starry sky for a good few seconds before turning back to Patch and Carbine.

“Now.”

He crossed his arms and narrowed his optics at—what to him was—a creepy lunatic. He now hated that blank slate. Not only because Carbine managed to push all the right buttons, but also because he was a danger to Windshield’s one true desire. Becoming an Autobot, a better person than he was when he claimed this face.

A quick tilt towards Patch. She gave him simple instructions, worded plainly, almost like orders. He could roll with that. It was structure, it was...not Carbine pulling and tugging at strings that never should’ve been found in the first place.

“Right...The checkup,” he dejectedly scoffed, turning his back on the two in order to enter the large hangar. He waltzed in with a lazy saunter, beckoning Patch over with a lifted hand unless Carbine decided it was a good idea to keep on going and escalating this into an even bigger mess. Primus knew that the three of them needed some alone time, but somehow, Windshield had doubts the large mech would oblige.

[Carbine]

Ohh Patch was angry!

While Carbine liked to imagine her seething anger was making Windshield uncomfortable, to Carbine it was straight up silent music that hummed through the air in lulling waves. The bristling rage prickling within her field, the angry puffs that hissed out between vents... Her frame was so incredibly ridged, locked up in a strained stance to keep her thoughts from flowing into regrettable action... Oh yes, It was so easy to tell, especially at such a close distance between them where beneath his touch her plating almost burned with compressed ire.

Carbine only relished this for a moment. Even if she was angry at him as well, he knew he could mend such bridges, he did not fear what was to come. But Windshield? Oh... Carbine would bet that every time she looked upon him she would now see his face for what it was. A stolen face birthed of vengeance and malice, a twisted soul who could look into the eyes of their killer in the mirror, and happily claim it as their own. Alas, he could not leach such pleasant thoughts forever, for once he finished with his words he eased back upright with a roll of his shoulders settling back into place.

He watched Patch calmly then, rotors flicking ever so slightly, a light twitch in the stillness that followed as she tried to piece together her response. And oh, what a response it was. Cutting, sharp, her bubbly personality leached out of it and drained dry. She was troubled, she was upset, cutting back to protocol and her mental checklist of things she HAD to do to be able to leave this air strip. Undoubtedly it was a defense maneuver, to keep herself from now venturing across a line that could not be returned.

Then Windshield spoke.

A barked laugh ripped into the air at Windshield's insult, loud and abrupt, the type of laugh that straight up sucker punched the owner. It was so sharp it was apparent Carbine had barely a second to process, the reaction straight up natural and jarring despite the tension that was swirling through the air. It just... it just was so FUNNY to him! And it happened before he could even think to throttle it. The humor was even so abrupt the snarls stopped from his back, confusion following.

"Oh͠ ̧ẁow!"

A mused chuckle, Carbine's right hand rising to run his pointer underneath an 'eye' as if he were wiping away a tear of laughter. He glanced at the weapons that were produced, but didn't seem to care or even feel threatened. It was a lie. While his stance was casual and he didn’t even brace for a possible confrontation, Carbine watched the weapons closely. If he had to, he could try to engage his Riot Armor if push came to shove, which should protect his joints and throat from the front, but... Those were not fun things to face it looked like and that was unpleasant. It would be worth it though to let the Decepticon make the first strike in front of their little Medic.

"I wasn't ̡awar͝e we w-were going to start first day ̴p̨rison style i͞n̨sulţş."

Carbine flicked his wrist out then towards Windshield, brushing aside his insult and the request for a Ground Bridge as he hefted an exhale to shake the laughter from his system.

"No n-need; I go̷t ͢t͘o ̕f͞inish my delivery."

He purred this out conversationally, a painful juxtaposition compared to what was happening before. Whatever the case, when Windshield started to retreat back into the hanger, Carbine spoke to Patch while she remained, his voice dropping down some to a more somber overtone. At the distance and lower voice, unless Windshield had exceptional hearing, he should ideally not hear specific words.

"I'm sorry ͜P͟a̕t̸ch, it must͟ ̸b̢e ̡m̸y cop p-protocols..."

Frustrated, sincere, disgusted at himself for twisting this entire situation into such a grotesque mockery of the check-in it was meant to be.

A low grumble of irritation huffed from his back.

"The Warden was suçh à v̛ilę m̧ech, an abhorrent TH-THING, but even̛ śo͏... to see his cor̡ps͢e̴ ͝dèfi͞led and toted a-a-round as trophy... It unsettled me."

Carbine's voice sounded truly somber then, saddened in a way, yellow projections angling over to look at where the mech once was after a slow shake of the helm. After this glance, he would angle away some, keeping the corner of his vision on Patch while moving towards the cargo containers. Once there, the black and white mech grasped onto the heavier crate, and hefted it back up to land on his hip with a thud. He knew now with the added distance he put between himself and Windshield, the Decepticon would surely not hear these next words.

"I ge͜t ̧confr̶ǫn̛t͝a͏t͞įonal to hide my fear..."

[Patch]

Patch didn’t know who to believe, she didn’t know who to trust. She didn’t know who she was supposed to side with, she hardly knew how to do her job anymore! Normally, this would be where she shut up, saluted, and waited for orders, but THAT was not an option right now. And right here, right now, with no CO, Patch only really knew one thing for certain.

She was mad at BOTH of them…

She could do nothing but stare, in UTTER SHOCK that WINDSHIELD of all FRAGGING people was trying to GIVE HER COMMANDS right now! TELLING HER, to order a groundbridge. Not requesting, not asking. TELLING. Round blue optics widened. Her jaw, literally dropped as he not only told her to what to do; but punctuated the ‘order’ with a fragging DEMAND. This little ex-con'-CON wasn’t in ANY fragging position to tell ANYONE what to do!! ESPECIALLY not PATCH! She was actively in charge of him!

And Carbine -dear sweet fragging Carbine- apparently hadn’t gotten the message that his presence hadn’t been welcome beside her. (She’d straightened up, she’d stiffened, she’d puffed out her chest.) But for the first time? Clear as day? Patch HAD. She’d, felt, uncomfortable with that large mech’s servos on her shoulders. And now that she’d actually acknowledged that? By some act of fucking magic she could HEAR the bullshit in his voice! He, was, playing her! Whether he had been this whole time? Patch genuinely didn’t know. But right here? Right now, in this moment? As he started going on about ‘cop codes’ and confrontation and how HORRIBLE the other guy was...

Patch, recognised that she was being manipulated.
And she did not fragging care for it…

She could do nothing but stand there. Left alone between where the two mechs had parted. Technically speaking? They’d done exactly what she wanted. They’d moved apart, they’d left each other alone… But the way they’d done it. It irked her. She felt disrespected by both of them! And though that was a price she should have been willing to pay… In this moment, Patch decided to make a poor decision.

“Bull. SHIT!!” She swore at Carbine. The initial word soft, quiet. The latter a growling spit, practically screeched into the air. Straight from her engine. Ringing out across the tarmac. Chest down, chin up, blue optics flashing, and by PRIMUS it felt good to get it out of her system.

“You’re not fucking SCARED!!” Surprised, exhausted. There was almost a helplessness in her optics as she stared the ex-cop down. Expecting so much better. Expecting so much more as her faceplate contorted in utter disgust, and her optics continued to flare. Servos flying up as she shouted. “You’re not even fucking ANGRY!!”

The little femme turned her index-finger up toward her own face. Jutting it out toward herself from the center of her chest. “THIS is what ANGRY looks like, Carbine!! You REALLY THINK I’m gonna just believe that you’re the good guy in this situation!? Are you FRAGGING me? I’m not an idiot! I know what you’re trying to do! You are instigating, and it is not okay!” Without giving any decent amount of time to respond, the femme then REELED on her heel and jut her digit out toward the other fucker in the hanger.

“And YOU!” a low, guttural pop. Shouted very much loud enough to get the mech’s attention from a distance. “I don’t know who the fuck to be mad at right now, but I’M sure as HELL not happy with you!!”

Patch thought for an instant, floundering for what to honestly say that Carbine couldn’t immediately turn around on him. “You... are making an EFFORT.” She snapped. Ticking the words of on her digits as she went. “You, are, trying! That is GOOD!" The amount of aggression behind these words was… A little out of place, to be honest. Good things, compliments even, spoken through a pissed off expression in a guttural… Mean-aft tone, to be frank. She couldn't even acknowledge what she'd just learned about the mech right now. It was just too much. She still needed to be able to look at him.

But then she shifted. Her voice went lower. Her helm cocked down and her chest went forward as her digit pointed down at the ground between her peddes. A snarl twisting across her freckled features, as a glint of light caught off the scar through her optic ridge. “But you do not, have the authority to give ME orders. PERIOD. Under any circumstances, am I clear!?”

Patch trusted that if she came home fragged up? Someone was going to conjure a shit-storm. Windshield seemed smart enough not to place his bets against that. And Carbine? Well, as much as it pained Patch to admit it to herself, she KNEW he was on thin ice. Even if worse came to worst? IF things DID start getting dirty, Patch TRULY BELIEVED, the worst that would happen to her, was a lecture, then MAYBE a not-so-gentle fixing of whatever the two managed to break. Extra duties, polishing slabs, maybe even bottle-washing; for a month, AT MOST.

CARBINE, however? And the fragging EX-CON’? Would be in some deep, SHIT.

So she stood there, and she stared them down. Playing chicken, and CONTENT, with the potential consequences. ABSOLUTELY ready for this thing to get ugly if that was the choice they decided to make.