[ti]Ep 3.5[/ti]A Temporary Solution [Nokta, Windshield]

[Megatron]

Episode 3.5 | Week 1 | Day 1 | Closed

The day has come and gone, the night had yet to begin—or it was young as some liked to say. Whereas many a human would be leaving their trivial work by now to while away the evening, this was only the beginning of a much grander duty for the Decepticons. With Megatron’s return came great changes, including an added stress on their production of Energon. However, the Warlord did not intend on simply taxing his miners and troopers. No, far be it from him to exert his will over the lower echelons alone. They would all have to do their part, pull their weight. That is what his speech was about. Trust and unity. So, who better to put to the test than one of their newer arrivals alongside the former double agent?

Indeed, both Nokta and Windshield were summoned, independently, for a singular mission. They were to arrive in Megatron’s quarters for the assignment, where they would be briefed on the details. Nokta was told frighteningly little via correspondence, and only enough to know that he would be the one in charge of this particular venture. The specifics were kept from him, no doubt with good reason.

It was time to see how he performed.

Megatron stood alone behind a long command table, which displayed a variety of data in red and purple hues, illuminating him in a spectacle of colors, bleeding into a soft magenta. Occasionally, he would move his digits across the surface to bring forth further readouts, controlling and managing this or that. Many often imagined him on the frontlines, gutting Autobots, but the Decepticons were in no position to wage an open conflict at the moment. With their ranks so crippled, much of the old warmonger's responsibility included management. Although, when the time came, he would certainly stand at the front of his forces, charging into battle, this was not the time. For now, the element of secrecy would have to do. In part, that is why he awaited the arrival of his underlings.

They were expected any moment now. Lateness was ill-advised.

((Note: Thread will move to another location appropriate to the designation following the introduction.))

[Nokta]

The scout had not recharged since the speech. There had simply been too much to process, both pertaining to what his Lord’s words spelled out for the nature of his station– as well as the very fate of the Decepticons itself. The cause he had returned to was not the same as the one he had left, that much was evident from the grim majesty of his leader’s words. That there may be forces within their ranks working against Lord Megatron’s will when they were so close to their grand victory over the fallacy that was Autobot kind? Hinges squealed in his mouth as sharp dentae gnashed together. Such delinquency filled him with rage.

Four million years of war had passed without ever laying optics on the mech he pledged his life to. Nokta remembered rushing through deliveries for the very chance to catch a glimpse of the gladiator– to no avail. What few rallies he’d been to on Cybertron were hosted by lowly recruitment agents, leaving Lord Megatron a distant figurehead, an ever-present icon of liberation, justice– of possibility for their kind.

Before long, this absence was grown accustomed to. In fact, it made all he was expected to do that much easier in the beginning. When he was fighting for some mysterious, unseen hierophant at the other end of the planet or the cosmos, responsibility over the actions he’d carried out– actions the younger mech could never have dreamt of before– could so easily be shirked, attributed to necessity. For Lord Megatron. For the cause.

Learning to lose himself had been like learning to ride a bike.

But after four million years of working in the shadow of the king, climbing his way through the ranks, and cheating death at every crossroads– it should have crossed his mind that at some point a meeting like this was inevitable. Still, nothing could prepare him for that message the day after Lord Megatron’s speech.

-REPORT TO LORD MEGATRON’S QUARTERS. ONE HOUR. DO NOT BE LATE.-

Alas, there he was, standing outside the gaping maw of Megatron’s domain. Never one to dawdle, there was no hesitation when the clock struck his lord’s hour of intent.

Only the sound of the warlord’s door opening could announce Nokta’s presence, were it loud enough. Low lighting obscured all in the entryway, the mech stilling all pressure in his vents as the door closed behind him. Like manifested from thin air, sanguine optics burned through the oppressive dark, swelling with brief, voyeuristic wonderment. Up close, Lord Megatron was exactly as he’d pictured him.

"Y-Your speech was extraordinary, Sir." Pressure released from his vents in a muted, awed exhale– Freudian slip. Crimson biolights fluttered back into the visual spectrum, the wraith stepping forward from the haven of shade the entryway had provided. Like excess ink dripping off a canvas, shadows receded to give the voice shape.

A momentary shutter of the optics. For perhaps the first time in his military career, Nokta had forgotten protocol. What a way to start.

Optics reopened behind a stoic, soldierly mask. Peds clanked together, one servo falling to his side, the other rising into a salute as his slender frame grew rigid with adept form and poise. "Lord Megatron," he corrected himself, raspy voice flattened into a less lionizing tone, "Lieutenant Nokta, reporting for duty."

[Megatron]

Nokta had been summoned. Perhaps this carried a greater weight than he realized. Few outside of High Command are invited to speak directly—and covertly—with Megatron himself. The Warlord, of course, stood there, a shining example to simple-minded sycophants the galaxy over, same as the day he spoke in front of the entire Decepticon host. Megatron had hoped that someone who worked in intelligence and spywork would have a better handle on their emotions than the common lot. He was somewhat disappointed to be proven wrong with the very first words Nokta ever spoke in his presence. He did not let it show.

"I did not summon you to eulogize my words."

The Warlord's voice was harsh but calm—it had that rough texture he was known for, but not to an unusual degree. He did not seem annoyed. He even nodded briefly to acknowledge the other Decepticon. Then, he beckoned him over with a rough motion, vaguely to the left of the command table from his own perspective.

"Another will join us soon. He will be your assistant on a mission of critical import. You will be in command, but his experience on Earth exceeds yours, and so I advise you to respect his counsel."

Megatron knew that some wanted to play strictly by the rank. A healthy respect for the command structure was nothing bad, after all, but far too many stubborn Decepticons, unwilling to listen to their lesser peers, led them to doomed campaigns and great casualties. As Nokta's assignment would determine much in the coming weeks, such an element would not be permitted to hinder them in this case. After all, the shade was a recent arrival—a guide of sorts would serve him well.

He then put a claw to a digital button on the table's glossy surface. A globe of the planet Earth appeared at the center of the table before rising into a fully-shaped, three-dimensional projection.

It hummed softly, letting off a gentle light.

"This is a hostile world, teeming with Autobots and organics. The margin for error is slim."

The warning sounded across the room heavily, echoing back from the stony walls. Megatron stared Nokta in the optics, red locked with red, searching for a sign of understanding. Tell me you understand, soldier. Tell me you know what is being asked of you. He did not need to say these words, the commanding look was enough.

[Nokta]

It would be the last slip of the tongue he allowed himself to make in the face of his lord. The first, and the last. Thankfully, his leader had verbally kicked him so he did not have to do so himself. Experienced as he was, ups and downs were a staple of overall upwards momentum in any hierarchical system, especially when mech as relatively young as him were the ones climbing. Mistakes were meant to be learned from and fumigated from your existence so that they could not stall that momentum any further.

"Of course not, my liege." The scout responded promptly, sharp raspiness floating on dry air to meet the other mech’s audials.

Truly, he might have gone so far as to scoff in disbelief at his own lack of control, after countless millennia’s worth of cultivating such things. That is if he were in the presence of a mech that had the time or patience for such meaningless displays.

There were far more important things at hand.

As Nokta made his way to the command table he kept stoic and presentable, something that wouldn’t change for the duration of the rest of their meeting. Nokta bowed his head a fair amount out of respect just as soon as Megatron nodded to him– the physical manifestation of one’s station when greeting a figure of higher importance than yourself. All trained into his frame language from very early on– perhaps before even the Decepticons nabbed him.

It was true he hadn’t had much time to familiarize himself with the area of operations. Time had been spent recuperating physically and mentally from the events aboard the Infinitum. For a time, unable to begin working to the fullest lengths of his abilities, combing through what intelligence he’d been granted access to, not to mention establishing working relationships with all the mecha he’d likely need to call upon for future aid. Whoever Megatron had assigned to him as a go-between for this mission would be a welcome asset to speed things along.

Then, crimson optics flitted up to take in the sight of the hologram of Earth rising above the table, his dark frame promptly bathed in its sudden light.

"...the margin for error is slim."

Now, the warlord was speaking his language.

A flourishing of excited ambition raced through the younger mech as he turned to face Megatron, similarly red optics drilling into him. Nokta knew that look. His optics flared with energy as a silent demand was made by his commander. Faint, nigh undetectable as most things were with this mech. But present all the same. He was newly full of a burning hunger.

A hunger to demonstrate his skills to his lord. A hunger to prove himself. A hunger for a challenge. These were all hearty meals to a young lieutenant.

But what he starved for?

Violent, bloody reprisal.

"I am your blade, my lord," spoken with a single calm nod, "whatever is asked of me will be done." Followed by firm conviction. A deathly calm followed the mech's words, despite the violence swimming in his optics betraying that stillness in its entirety.

But words were often fleeting, actions were what really defined a mech. That was why Nokta knew passing slip-ups in conversation could be overlooked when, at the end of the day, he’d returned home successful to his masters.

And he would return successful, by Primus, he would.

[Windshield]

He entered the room, smiling. He was always smiling. His steps were light and gentle, unbothered, carefree. Work yourself to the bone, never cry, never let it show, smile, and act like nothing is eating you up inside. You are a Decepticon. There is no room for weakness, no reprieve from your grim work. At times like these, such words kept Windshield sane, or somewhere close to it, he thought. As he approached the table, he bowed courteously to the Decepticon Lord, a humble servant in a humble abode. He was so much more under different circumstances, but not here, not now.

"My liege!" He exclaimed delightfully, "It is an honor to serve as Nokta's guide here on Earth."

It was not an honor. It was not delightful, not like his voice—not like his words. He lied through his teeth. He took a position by the other Decepticon's side. He would not know. He would never know that all of this was a game of pretense. Happiness feigned so masterfully even as his Spark rotted and choked on feelings of guilt he discarded oh-so-long ago. Yet they came back from somewhere and interfered with what should have been the moment of his life. He earned his keep, his place at the table—and felt nothing of the accomplishment.

No, he could not think of it now. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning into it with his weight. That was improper. He knew. But Megatron said nothing, did nothing, other than gaze at him a good moment longer than was healthy. He should be more reverent, like the model agent beside him. He would be on a good day. He was not today.

He let the briefing continue, saying nothing, smiling. He was always smiling.

[Megatron]

The second Decepticon was much different from the first, although they shared occupations in many respects. One revered him. The other dismissed him. Both were overstepping their boundaries. Both left a poor first impression on their leader. But he would not hold it against them yet. Not until they failed or succeeded in their assignment. Effort and results were a better proof of loyalty than words. Starscream stood testament to the fact, and he did not stand alone. Although such an approach has proven damning at times, it has elevated the Decepticons at others. In the end, they were all Megatron's assets, whether they did so with a flair for self-importance or a flair for subservient loyalty.

It was time to proceed.

"Very well," the old Warlord addressed both, but markedly more so Nokta over Windshield, "I will keep this short."

Putting a finger to the globe, Megatron spun the celestial body at his fingertips as if he were the sole owner of all things on it. His claws moved and marked three different locations, each on a different continent. The first was in North America, along the East Coast in Florida. The second was in Europe, off the coast of Spain. The last was in Africa, where the Red Sea met the Indian Ocean.

"These marks signify the location of three supply depots that are of strategic importance to the Decepticon cause."

He then put his index finger toward one such mark and enhanced the imagery of its location with his thumb.

"The contents need not interest you, only that your lives hinge on the following directive: Map these areas, and assess their routines. You will deploy surveillance equipment to collect this data over the long term."

Waving a hand over the mirage, Megatron dismissed it at once. Then, he extended that same hand to the side of the table and reached into a small compartment under the display. There was a soft click, and three short, metallic rods spilled into his grasp. He took a few determined steps along the length of the table until he stood face-to-face with Nokta, now towering many meters above him.

He extended the equipment to him.

"Your assistant will calibrate these. I expect you to report back within four Earth hours at the highest. Then we shall talk further. If you fail at this simple task, do not return. You will be killed."

The words rang heavy. Megatron let them fester for a long while, then eased the grasp on the rods for Nokta to grab and examine. They looked unremarkable for the most part, almost like an improvised simulacrum of the more complex Decepticon technologies they had on the Nemesis or back home on Cybertron. Their interface seemed obscure at best, a small screen with a few wires spiraling around the outer shell. They would have to suffice. Three rods for three locations. Their orders were clear.

Yet what neither Nokta nor Windshield knew was that a fourth rod awaited them once they return.

[Nokta]

Windshield entered the room with a charming lilt and an all-too-familiar smile plastered across his faceplates. In ages past, Nokta’s fellow couriers were forced to wear the same look of joyous abandon every time they met with a distinguished client– himself included. The memory of such a thing threatened to make him grow sick– so Nokta simply gave his fellow mech the nod of acknowledgement he was due and turned his focus back to Megatron and the map, no signs of outward apprehension showing just yet. In fact, if there were any surprise at all by the revelation that Windshield was to be his partner on this foray, it went unseen.

As the similarly built mech joined them, daring to lean oh-so-casually atop the table beside them, a single twitch of the optic would escape the onyx agent’s apathetic mask– gone just as soon as it had appeared. Little consideration would be given to the mech’s presence until Lord Megatron finished briefing them.

The holographic globe spinning in the palm of his leader’s hand drew his attention, watching as Megatron indicated the locations that would need to be scouted. Nokta watched and listened, silently taking note of each region, predictive algorithms in the mech’s processor already accounting for the kinds of terrain they’d encounter at each depot– as well as metrics for the general human populace in each area. Topographical maps would be downloaded while they were en route so the lieutenant could plan he and Windshield’s directions of approach around the targets more precisely.

The lieutenant did all of this and listened to his leader’s orders with little trouble, raising a servo to take the equipment that was offered to him by Megatron– only to find the warlord’s grip had not yet loosened. This jolted him out of his mental preparations enough to listen fully to the gladiator’s next words.

"If you fail at this simple task, do not return. You will be killed."

Despite the very likely real threat leveled against him, Nokta did well to let the words roll off of him. He wouldn’t allow it to get to his head. He knew the score, knew what the punishment for failure was in times like these. If you could not pull your weight you were the weight– Primus well knew he’d had to relieve his own fair share of dead weight serving under him in the past. Utilitarianism was a staple of Decepticon ethos, and this lieutenant was far from immune to such ideals.

The scout would provide a single nod in response to his leader’s heavy words. As Megatron allowed him to take the rods, a level of consideration was given to them– but his mind was elsewhere.

Nokta glanced over to Windshield. It had been a long time since the life of another mech was placed in his care in such a way. Enough time had passed now since the brutal loss of his squadron back on Cybertron, any passing guilt he felt had been compartmentalized into total silence or absconded with completely. He was ready for this– ready to lead soldiers once more. He could have easily died on that tomb of a ship, died at any point during the war, or died even in the initial bombings that leveled Nova Cronum four million years ago. But he didn’t, and there we no aspirations to do so now. He would die when he had nothing left to give to the cause, not a moment sooner.

With one arm still resting behind his back, the lieutenant handed the rods off to Windshield– if he was smart, he’d do what he could to begin understanding exactly what it was they were working with from the moment he took them. That was why he was here after all.

"Then, if there’s nothing else, we’d best be on our way Sir." The lieutenant spoke calmly, presently, "You’ve given us much of your time already." He stood at attention, awaiting any final possible orders or notes from his leader. There were no gaps in his composure now, no hesitancy, nor weariness. In his mind, this was all he was, all he would remain as long as there was still energon to flow through him.

[Megatron]

Megatron gave no indication of dismissal, not initially, at least. He moved back to his side of the table and began to ponder something half-related on one of the readouts upon its glass surface. Then, he commanded plainly: "Once you depart, you will tell no one of this mission. Should you encounter any complications, you will contact me directly."

He paused significantly, placing a hand on the pondered readouts. His brow lowered.

"Now begone."

And that was all the Warlord would say, dismissing the two implements with nary a goodbye. There was a rush of impatience in his voice, which in itself was somewhat curt in intonation. Perhaps something more important came to his attention in those moments and he could not spare the time on further formalities, or Megatron simply had more plans to put into motion—something that needed not concern the eyes of his agents.

They had their mission, they had their orders. It was time to leave... The sooner, the better.

[Windshield]

The purple mech let his gracious Lord and his fellow agent discuss the plan, keeping to himself for the most part. Although the discussion itself was rather brief and mostly one-sided, not to mention cut short by Megatron's prompt dismissal, there was much to glean from the little information spared.

As he idly tapped his hands against the side of the table, still quite fully leaned against it, Windshield made a few basic assumptions. Firstly, this was time sensitive for whatever reason. Nobody in their right mind would restrict recon to such a short duration unless they had to rush it. Oh, well. He would do his best either way. Such was their way, was it not? Get in, do your job, get out. Don't ask questions. Shake hands, and nod your head. Just like they taught you.

The second assumption was that Megatron had reason to conceal this mission from other Decepticons. Being under non-disclosure orders was nothing unusual either, but usually, at least other high-ranking officers could know. And yet? Megatron stressed that no one should be told. Not Starscream, not Soundwave, not anybody else. Perhaps they knew already, or perhaps this was something beyond the scope of their duties.

Could this mission have a personal bent, Windshield wondered. Surely their great and glorious leader would not waste precious resources and personnel on something so meddling? He could not tell nor was he about to start guessing. Such thoughts bordered on treason.

And so, instead, he kept pretending as if he had only been marginally paying attention until the very point they've been told to make themselves scarce. Once he heard that, Windshield propped himself up straight from the table and sauntered over the door, beckoning the good and obedient Nokta along.

"We'll do our best, my lord!" He feigned enthusiasm for the routine mission, and then turned to Nokta.

"Come on. You're gonna love Earth."

That last bit was marginally less fake. Windshield did like Earth and hoped Nokta would too. But even then, both statements were virtually indistinguishable from one another in tone, expression, or body language. Lying to others was easy when you were already lying to yourself, after all. The mech didn't think too hard about that little fact and instead started to make his way toward the main room.

[Nokta]

"By your command, sir." The mech replied in agreed understanding. He threw his arm up once more, saluted his leader, and then spun on his heel, walking with the swiftness of someone instilled with fresh purpose.

The time sensitive nature of the mission was of little concern to a mech who’d always known haste in his line of work. But haste should never be equated to sloppiness– he would not go into this mission underprepared. Nokta produced a datapad from his subspace, beginning a download of the topography maps from each region mentioned. They had four hours– and three locations to establish a perimeter in so that the rods could be properly deployed. That gave them roughly 80 minutes to perform each task, and the clock was already ticking.

The hacker continued to spout enthusiasm as they departed their leader, though the lieutenant didn’t much seem to show any more excitement about the planet than Megatron himself had. Love was a strong verb, even used in jest or derision. The priority was the mission, the nature of the planet not carrying any more weight in his mind than the obstacles it might present during their work.

The lieutenant joined Windshield, and as soon as the door to Megatron’s quarters closed behind them he spoke. "Assume we are being timed from the nanosecond we left his sight." Optics remained glued to his datapad as he walked with purpose, analyzing the regions as they were presented, beginning to determine where they would be heading first.

"Do not rush your work if it will compromise the mission, but it would be ideal for the both of us to return here successful well before time is up." From this statement it was made clear that Nokta was already setting a high bar, followed up immediately by his next sentence. "Can the machinery be properly calibrated while outside of the location they are intended for?" The mech asked the techxpert, his raspy voice clear in tone. He would not pretend to have any level of tech skills outside of the very basic and routine knowledge required by his station, but understanding the kind of technology they were working with would make this mission go all the more smoother for the pair of them.

To this mech, Nokta would not be a friend, nor a companion in any more sense than was needed to complete the task that was given. Windshield was a guide who, for the time being, had a measure of knowledge that Nokta did not regarding the nature of the planet that had become their area of operations.

Nokta was going to do his job. And he would hold Windshield to the same grueling standard he would hold any other one of his scouts or soldiers to, even if this arrangement need only be temporary.

[Windshield]

"Well, aren't you just a bag of fun, Nokta," Windshield fussed at the mech's cold tone and demeanor. He shook his head and shrugged lightly, dismissing the dour attitude. There were plenty more Decepticons like Nokta. Boring, bitter, sour. He did not much care for them. Colleagues on a good day, bothersome bores on the bad ones. And yet, as they continued towards the control room, Windshield further supposed that he was one too, somewhere under the layers of irony and false laughter. They were different, the two mechs, but not as much as he pretended to be.

Of course, even as he sauntered laxly throughout the cavernous hallways leading them up towards the more open spaces, where they could utilize the Decepticon SpaceBridge for transport, Windshield did deign to answer his comrade's question: "Don't think so. They'll have to be calibrated on the spot. Shouldn't take long once we get there."

Something was off about his voice now. It was not exactly bitter, but not exactly friendly. Teetering on the edge of what was polite, almost inquisitive in some ways, but disconcerting in either case.

Windshield threw his head back and then tilted it awkwardly at his companion.

"Speaking of..." He looked at him with a dead-eyed stare, "Where are we gonna drop one off first?"

Of course, the hacker memorized the coordinates himself, but he supposed he'd let the one bot who was theoretically in charge handle the decision-making and Bridge operation. It wasn't his place to make those calls, even if he had frighteningly little respect for what was and wasn't his place—less these days than ever.

He remained quiet then, not disturbing Nokta until he answered. Still, something was unsettling about the way his behavior just switched as soon as the other Decepticon displayed disregard for pleasantry. It was like flipping a switch. From a delightfully jovial, if somewhat trifling person, to someone who could and would do all the things a Decepticon needed to do—even if he was none too thrilled about it.

Perhaps Windshield gave up on pretending now that they were out of Megatron's line of sight—or he simply put on another mask that would be better suited to the situation.

[Nokta]

"Well, aren't you just a bag of fun, Nokta,"

Something about those words seemed to irk Nokta more than they really should have. Despite his attempts to mitigate the effect they had on him, he found his attention slowly becoming torn away from the datapad in his hand, glaring daggers into the back of Windshield’s helm. As Windshield continued to talk, Nokta’s energon began to boil. The hacker continued speaking as if he hadn’t been utterly embarrassing himself for the entire briefing. As if his nonchalance were some standard everyone should be expected to endure– even Megatron himself.

Closing the gap between himself and the mech who strolled ahead, Nokta took a few quiet steps forward and in one violent movement sent his fist flying hardly further than a digit’s breadth in front of Windshield’s faceplates. He hit his mark, the rocky surface of the wall beside his head crunching under the force of the metal fist impacting it. His arm now stood as a barrier to the hacker, with Nokta turned to face him directly.

"You will refer to me as 'Lieutenant,' 'Sir,' or 'Lieutenant Nokta.'" The scout’s words bit harsh as they bore down onto the other mech, his crimson optics burning with an intent Windshield had yet to see. He would allow an impossibly long beat of uncomfortable silence to linger before he spoke again.

"Consider this your only warning."

The mech appeared to stare Windshield down for another moment, his optics darting between the hacker’s optics as if debating or searching for something. The lieutenant leaned in uncomfortably close for most, lowering his voice to a narrow, purposeful rasp. "You should be ashamed of how you carried yourself in there, in front of Him. Disgraceful." He practically spat that last word, unlike his initial reprimand, there was a different inflection in his voice now. This wasn’t just protocol. This was stoicism and apathy being peeled away enough to reveal a terrifying, outright fanaticism whose raging flames typically remained hidden beneath the otherwise unsuspecting surface.

Of course, Windshield couldn’t have known this, not having been there for Nokta’s initial slip-up, but those words were just as much directed at himself as they were to the hacker. Though this fact hardly revealed itself in his tone, which at the moment held nothing but disgust for Windshield’s blatant disregard for protocol.

Nokta tore his fist out of the wall, where a servo-sized hole took its place. Pebbled rocky composite trailed his fist on the way out, spilling out of the hole that had formed. If this were the Nemesis, it would have certainly been an eyesore indeed, but they were in a pit dozens of meters below the surface with not a hint of tasteful interior design to be found. One might even argue it was an improvement to the bland, craggy tunnel wall.

With his point made, he turned around, resuming his course toward the spacebridge with a rigid, effortless posture visible in every step. Just like that, anything out of the ordinary had been sealed up under a fresh, soldierly facade. "Dawn rises over the Gulf of Aden in less than one hour. Move, while we still have the cover of night." And thus, his first order was given to Windshield. They would be going to Africa first.

[Windshield]

Windshield watched, incredulous, as a hand came flying straight in front of his face. Then, he listened, still incredulous, as Nokta went on and on about his oh-so-disgraceful conduct. It was a little cute, really. Windshield still remembered the days when he was like him. Full of spit and fire, hunting down traitors within and threats without, worshiping Megatron's every step and kissing the ground where the titan walked. But he also damn nearly forgot just how infectious this kind of mentality was—and how all too dominant it was among those working in Intelligence. AND how annoying it was when that kind of energy was directed at him.

No matter.

It was time Nokta learned how things worked here on Earth and that whatever they taught him in Decepticon School was not all there was to being one. Having grown quite tired of getting pushed around at this particular moment, Windshield found it within himself to talk back.

"Well, look who is slowing us down now. Good going, Lieutenant."

Although his words were most certainly the height of insulting, they were spoken with an air of boredom and impatience rather than outright mockery or derision. If Nokta was going to make a fuss about formalities, he could go whine to Megatron when they were done with it and see how much the old warhound cared then. Not now when they still had work to do. That is at least what Windshield thought mere seconds before he decided to deftly side-step the gravely-voiced mech, and promptly bolted off towards the control room, most likely to operate the bridge controls by himself.

As incorrigible as Windshield was, and as little value as Nokta's threats held to him, he still wanted to see the job done. Despite his personality and crass sense of humor, Windshield had no interest in failing at his assigned task, and strongly hoped that Nokta saw things the same way in this one single regard.

Either way, he would not wait for Nokta overlong to catch up. For Windshield? This could have easily been a one-bot job and he didn't need the chain of command dragging him down out in the field.

[Nokta]

Nokta watched, optics wide with great, rageful fire as the other mech spoke, soon after slipping past him in a jog towards the control room– looking no different than a youngspark chasing away from their responsibilities. A child. Yes, that was right.

Windshield was a child.

And Nokta’s constitution was being tested by being forced to work with a mech who had no respect for the line of command whatsoever. That was why they were both here.

The lieutenant could tell there was far more on the other agent’s mind that he was either too terrified or too simple to voice right away. A long, deep chuckle whose quality was that of molten, audial-shredding sin would trail after Windshield as he traipsed down the hall.

No matter.

"Very well, Hacker." Nokta rasped, barely suppressing another bout of cruel laughter as he continued walking at a steady pace. His voice was calm as he addressed the other mech, referring to him by his specialization, the role he was meant to fill in the army he was sworn to, hardly caring to refer to him by his designation at this point.

As Nokta walked into the control room, not nearly as far behind Windshield as the hacker likely hoped, his demeanor was that of calm expectancy, far removed from the strange outburst that had just overtaken him in the hallway. If Windshield wanted to be a mewling little spitfire, the least he could do was show some real worth.

Primus help him if he couldn’t meet simple expectations.

He came to a stop just before the ground bridge’s opening. "By all means, show me some haste." This time, the undertones of mocking amusement came through as Nokta splayed a slender servo out, his digits flexing like tiny needles as they motioned to the ground bridge, waiting patiently.

Whatever delusions of petty flair, of fleeting individuality this mech clung to, to make him such a poor listener– he didn’t care. Nokta would only rejoice in watching until they were either crushed out of him so that he may be warped into something a little less mouthy, or until Windshield was finally offlined when the former didn’t bear fruit.

Nokta might have slipped back there, but Windshield looked ready to tumble.

[Windshield]

"I'm so relieved you're finally enjoying yourself," Windshield mouthed off yet again as his own clawed digits pressed upon the SpaceBridge controls. He used them with elegance but no needless flourish. Being in contact with machinery, computers, data. It was all second nature. He needed no datapad to memorize Megatron's desired coordinates, no sight to press the right keys for the proper values.

Even though it may have looked like the hacker paid little attention to the briefing, he actually had a rather complete recollection of all relevant information. Windshield was simply being Windshield about it, and though Nokta may have perceived it as simple stubborn childishness or willful defiance, it was something far greater and equally as dangerous. An event horizon the other mech could not perceive, lacking all relevant background as he was.

Before either of them knew it, the destination was set.

And on the topic of event horizons, but a few seconds after Windshield keyed in the coordinates, the seafoam green hue of a SpaceBridge tore through the fabric of reality, inviting the two Decepticons in. From here to there. Steens Mountain to the Gulf of Aden. Blackridge to their target location.

It was a warehouse of sorts on the shore of Yemen. Surrounded by a swath of beachline and framed by a mountain range, it consisted of a few humble, low-rise buildings surrounded by an indomitable maze of shipping containers. An appropriate dock fed into the structures where no ships were docked as of now. Humans often warred over locations such as these and so they were often on high alert, but Megatron knew how to choose his marks, so they had the element of surprise in this instance.

Windshield gladly hopped through the portal so that he could feel what it was like being half the planet away from Nokta for the briefest of moments. He stretched upon arrival, taking in the nightly salt-sweet breeze because he knew this shallow, feigned happiness would be extremely short-lived. In fact, Nokta would probably start breathing down his neck the moment he so much as turned around to face the portal again.

Windshield stepped forward a little the moment he registered Nokta's inevitable presence. He did not even turn back to regard him, instead looking towards the dock which was still a good mile off from their location on the beach. After that, he pressed the side of his head and activated his night vision glasses to get a better look at what they were working with.

"Y'know, I could've done this by myself. Can't really see what's your purpose," he pondered absently while doing recon, pressing an index finger to his chin, tapping it lightly. Perhaps it was a very rude, indirect invitation for Nokta to share a bit about his own expertise, seeing as he was clearly not here to handle technology.