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

[Nokta]

"I’m so relieved you’re finally enjoying yourself."

Nokta watched as the mouthy hacker engaged the ground bridge and quickly made his exit from the room through it. The urge to snap something back in response was subdued by the lieutenant as he continued walking at a steady pace. The briefest of grins flirted with the corner of his mouth.

"I do think I will, little hacker," Nokta mumbled under his breath as soon as Windshield disappeared from sight.

The moment he stepped through the portal and landed on the beach, Nokta began scanning the horizon, searching for any sign of activity– human or otherwise. While the night was waning, it was still dark enough for either mech to remain easily blend into the darkness, given their chosen color schemes.

Nokta resumed accessing the various intel they had on the region to assess any blindspots that could be used both for and against them. Nearby traffic routes, military and civilian hot zones, and once more the general topography of the area. Thankfully, it seemed the area was fairly secluded, and there were not too many factors to account for while they planted Megatron’s device. At least, no factors at present. This could very quickly change with the sunrise, hence Nokta’s earlier decision to come here first.

"Y'know, I could've done this by myself. Can't really see what's your purpose,"

"Really now? Color me disappointed, here I thought Lord Megatron’s best agents did their homework before their assignments." Nokta didn’t even bother looking at Windshield as his eyes scanned the buildings scattered around the docks ahead– while his tone was flat, it was still effortlessly patronizing, to say the least. When finally his gaze landed back on Windshield, it was accompanied by a blank, unfeeling stare.

"Quite the bar you’ve set, hacker." The mech rasped, the perfect Kubrick stare frozen onto his countenance.

With no further warning, the mech transformed into his alt, the iconic noise of a transformation cog in action far more subdued for this onyx mech, hushed and wheezing, creating barely any sound at all. "We’ll hug the shoreline until we near our Lord’s coordinates. I’ll perform a perimeter sweep while you engage the surveillance device. Keep your treads where the tides will wash them away until then."

His alt’s battery gently hummed as water lapped up around his wheels, the vehicle creating no other sound besides this hum. His sensors could easily make out the terrain ahead without the use of his headlights, which he kept off to avoid drawing unwanted attention. As soon as he’d transformed, his processor began absently running background commands to determine the most efficient route to their objective, the ancient software even accounting for Windshield and the capabilities of his own alt-mode and frame type in charting the possible routes. Nokta would quiet these automatic processes for now, however. Seeing as Windshield was the one with the devices on hand, and still technically his ‘tour guide’, Nokta would allow him to take point.

[Windshield]

Windshield did not react to basically anything Nokta said for a good while. Instead, his optics started shifting back and forth between the distant harbor and one of the devices in his hand. Meanwhile, his fingers began to work at its surface, opening a small panel lined with buttons and dials. As he did so, no attention was given towards Nokta's words. Instead, he'd taken to turning the dials for a little while, ever so often squinting towards the shoreline as if to measure an unseen variable.

Then, he picked out something from the miasma of passive derision stemming from Nokta's mouth that seemingly warranted his focus. Only a sliver of it. A sideways glance in response and not much more.

"Quite the bar you’ve set, hacker."

"I wonder what gave you the impression that I care," he finally spoke, returning to fiddling with the delicate rod almost instantaneously. His voice was impassionate and distant, hollow. But more than anything else, it felt honest. More honest than whatever else he's said thus far. Even his coyness seemed more performative than this. Yes. These words came from the Spark—the Spark of someone who well and truly felt nothing could reach it.

Windshield quickly moved on, still adjusting the interface on the beacon until he seemed satisfied with it and closed the panel back up. A small click popped from behind his back, almost entirely drowned out by the sound of rushing waves. It was the opening to his subspace container, where he would proceed to stash the rods one by one.

Only then did he fully turn to the other mech while he explained their plan of approach. Windshield transformed in response to his transformation as well. The sound of his t-cog was undiluted and more in line with the standard than Nokta's, although his transformation could be seen as unorthodox by comparison, incorporating what appeared to be a rather athletic leap forward.

Not even a second later, his engine roared to life.

He briefly scanned the shoreline while idling, noting the ebb and flow of the waves over the sandy beach. The firmer flat ground further back from the water seemed much more friendly to him. After all, he did have a rather lowly-positioned undercarriage compared to his comrade.

"My alt-mode is unsuitable for dissoluble terrain," he explained, "You can follow the shoreline if you want but I'm not getting my wheels wet."

Truly, he did not seem to care much for Nokta's commands, especially when they weren't conducive to a successful mission. Having thus decided, he switched gears and drove off towards the environment which suited him better, kicking up a veritable pile of sand in so doing. He had half the mind to do it in Nokta's (proverbial) face but decided against it.

[Megatron]

The beach ahead stretched onwards and onwards. It was the horizon, it was the mountains in the back, it was the harbor framed by both. It was the birds high up in the sky and it was the dry wind blowing. This environment was nothing but beach incarnate. A calm environment that hid treacherous paths.

Three paths that they could take.

One Windshield already took.

The sand leading towards the harbor was smooth but unwieldy. It offered little cover and no promise of safety. But it was the most direct. The fastest. A risk that could be worth it.

The second path led through the rocks further away from the shore. A mile to the harbor would become two miles of twists and turns. A flat ramp led up to larger outcrops which could cover the Decepticons’ approach easily. Although it was a winding and treacherous path, it was flat and solid also.

Another risk, but one that could make them ghosts. This was Windshield’s choice. He was confident that his speed and skill would make up for the length. Would Nokta follow?

The third path led through a flat mesa above the rocky terrain. They could be spotted there easily, should anyone look, but it was the safest terrain they could traverse. No slower on the wheels than the shoreline and not unsafe in the same way the previous two were. A narrow mountain path led to the mesa through the rocks.

In the distance, the harbor stood tall. A fixed point comprised of concrete walls and buildings, of long docks fit for a freighter. Cranes loomed above the whole affair, vast arms reaching to nowhere. Nothing else could be seen from where they began. Perhaps more of the harbor would reveal itself along the way.

[Nokta]

A momentary glance was given at Windshield’s alt after the hacker’s proclamation, perhaps to determine for himself the validity of his statement that he would not be capable of what Nokta asked. Figuring that it was not far out of the realm of reality that some recon agents would not be as similarly outfitted as he himself was in the way of alt-mode, Nokta did not protest when Windshield tore off down the beach.

"Then tread lightly," Nokta responded promptly, before switching over to his comm link as Windshield moved away from the shoreline.

Unlike his earlier outburst back at base, Nokta was not now so unreasonable as to force his comrade to tread where the environment would negatively affect him. And besides, now that they were in the area of operations, Nokta’s attention was fully on the task at hand, and carrying it out as efficiently as their current conditions would allow. If he had to acquiesce to a difference in alt modes, he would.

::I won’t insult Lord Megatron by assuming he assigned me with someone who has no concept of subtlety.:: And then came the biting addition to his command, never one to shy away from brutal honesty. He’d been burned by too many loose cannons in the past– enough to know he had zero patience for cowboys. Whether Windshield was one of those or not was yet to be seen. But after the meeting with Megatron, the hacker was not off to a great start in Nokta’s optics– just as Nokta knew he likely was not off to a great start in his leader’s optics.

All the more reason to pull off a successful mission with no setbacks.

In deciding his next steps, Nokta referred to the region topology once more as he continued driving– weighing the options. While he could have had no issue continuing on the path that was concealing his tire treads and what little sound his battery made already, he knew enough to know that the most obvious path was rarely the safest. The shoreline could be rigged with any number of traps that could be seen from their destination if he were to set one off– and while he considered himself adept at spotting out such things, he was still a stranger to this planet, and would rather not risk something that could potentially be so catastrophic.

In any other environment Nokta might have also chosen the higher, flatter ground to tread, comfortable in knowing he still had the cover of night– but the threat of dirt being kicked into the air alerting enemies to his coming presence was too variable in this arid region they found themselves in. Staying close to the rocks would mitigate that threat, and Nokta would have no issue navigating the path at high speeds given his all-terrain vehicle mode.

Thus he decided to follow Windshield, staying just close enough to the mech to keep him in sight– and far enough away so as to not make two targets one. Were any kind of explosive attack planned, it would not fell them both in one barrage. Was the likelihood of something like this high? Nokta did not know. But he’d rather have a contingency and not need it than be caught without one and need one.

He would not speak for some time as they drove, staying attentive on his 6:00 as he still mostly held up the rear behind Windshield, and keeping in mind of his usual blind spots. Besides that, he was merely focused on the current objective: getting to where they needed to be.

[Windshield]

::You really think highly of him, don't you?:: Windshield asked Nokta verbatim as they set off to traverse the winding terrain together. The path *was* vehicle-friendly enough, but sharp turns and angles continued throughout. The winding serpentines could catch even an experienced driver unawares. They were *not* intended for sports cars. Civilians likely traveled through here—carefully—to the beach from the mesa above and the harbor in the distance…

…A harbor that was still *way* off from their current position. For the next few minutes, they would only have each other for company. Windshield kept an eye out on the road ahead and to the leveled horizon above to ensure it stayed that way. Unwelcome visitors would be spotted. His senses were not shoddy and he knew as much of recon as he did of technology.

Being a Decepticon operative took both—and an *immense* toll on one's mind, of which he would not speak. But his tone did *some* of the speaking for him—whether it was the truth or not. His voice remained mild-tempered throughout, and only came across as only marginally curious. He did not resent Nokta, he merely *disliked* him—and more than anything, his voice suggested that the level of admiration the sable mech felt towards Megatron seemed unusual to him.

It *staggered* him. He would not let him know this.

Answering the question at face value would be the most reasonable course of action... If such charity can be spared for a 'Con like Windshield. Perhaps he had an ulterior motive in asking it, perhaps not. He would not tell. Only the waves, the seagulls, and the distant noises of the harbor spoke *now*.

[Nokta]

He continued on driving silently for a few moments, even as Windshield spoke back to him over their comms, content to keep reviewing the mission report and focus on that as opposed to letting himself get caught up in distracting small talk so easily.

Satisfied with his review, finally he shifted his ‘gaze’ to the back of Windshield’s treads up ahead, and spoke. ::At least as highly as one whose fuel tanks remain full by his grace should.:: His tone had changed. It wasn’t a biting comeback, sneer, or snarky rebuttal. It was calm but pointed. And it challenged the unspoken judgment in Windshield’s words. Because Windshield was right. Nokta did think highly of their leader. And anyone who did not was in dire need of a reality check from whatever rose-tinted fantasy world they believed they were living in.

For anyone to refuse to see what Lord Megatron had lifted them from– what he had been providing for them, not even just in terms of simply feeding the masses with fuel now so scarce for their kind– was folly. Arrogant folly. A delusion that had no place in the Decepticon army, as far as Nokta was concerned.

Cybertron was gone, for now. The Nemesis was gone, for now. But the Decepticons were not. By Megatron’s hand, they were not.

And they never would be, not as long as there was a spark beating in that mech’s chest.

Of course he thought highly of the mech that had been keeping them all– and by extension the war machine– alive this long. He was his–

Lord Megatron was their savior.

And that was so effortlessly simple to him that anyone who thought otherwise was better off dead in a ditch. Because at that point, why even fight? What is the point if you cannot even bring yourself to accept that much, for the leader of the cause you serve?

So Nokta was downplaying his admiration, but not lying either. Merely wording his answer to challenge or ‘correct’ as he had done with so many other subordinates in the past. A blanket statement that didn’t reveal any personal opinion one way or the other.

He did not care to tell Windshield any other reasons he might have for ‘thinking highly’ of Lord Megatron, because he knew Windshield would not care. And nor should he, really. There were on a sensitive mission. That was the priority.

[Windshield]

"There are many Decepticons who don't share in your enthusiasm. I used to think that I owe him everything, too."

But I *don't* anymore -- or perhaps "everything" is not all it's cracked up to be?

This part went unsaid. It would never ever be said in plain language, but it needn't have been. Truthfully, there were no words to even describe how he felt about Megatron. Of course, Nokta could think and presume whatever he wanted about Windshield. He may not have had Nokta's certainty or his respect, but he was no less a Decepticon than him. He'd made his sacrifices and paid his dues, and left a path of skulls and bones in his wake as any Decepticon worth his salt ought. He was every bit the loyalist, the dutiful servant.

But it didn't make him *happy*.

This realization prompted a knee-jerk reaction. An instinctual defense against the genuine. A barrier of the soul and the mind:

A *joke*. Here it comes.

"But hey, I can't complain, can I? Megatron lets me lie, steal, and cheat. That's almost as good as the Energon I get for doing it."

There was nothing genuine in any of those words...or was there? He sounded *enthusiastic* about the prospect of lying. Yes, he was a dirty, little liar. A thief of the word. He *loved* doing it. To gain something. To protect himself.

To see what it'd do to others.

*That* was ugly, and it was also the truth. Why, he was lying just now. And earlier. And before that, too. He would lie again tomorrow, and the day after that, and so-on-so-forth until the day it killed him. He lied to his enemies. He lied to his allies. But most importantly, he lied to himself. On and on it went until he had become more lies than the truth. There was no Windshield, only abstractions that befitted the moment. A seeker of redemption. A cruel manipulator. A treacherous friend. A loyal Decepticon. An irreverent underling. He was no more one than the other.

[Megatron]

Beyond the next turn, the harbor loomed ominously. Tall, cement blocks shielded the bay from the outside world. They were fabricated by a building company half the world away and belonged to it even here. Two concrete monoliths framed a weathered guard booth. The man inside was old and tired. He wiped his sweaty, dark sepia brow with an old handkerchief. The turtles on its pattern had long since lost their vibrant green color, fading into a gray muck. Above him, a fluorescent yellow sign read in English, Arabic, and Somali: *ENTRANCE 6*. A metal, red-and-white industrial gate barred entrance 6. Two armed guards were chatting it up, smoking just beyond the gate. A collection of cigarette butts pooled at their feet. They'd been here *all night*. High above them, a pair of giant cranes presided over the whole affair of containers, metal and cement like vast, predatory birds. They were inactive now, howling with the passing wind.

A lone sloop, inhabited by a woman in green, occupied the nearest and smallest wing of the harbor. *This* was the pinky finger. Four more piers, large and imposing, stretched out into the gulf to complete a greedy hand. At the farthest finger, the thumb, a half-empty cargo ship occupied the entire length.

This all existed irrespective of the two Cybertronians and their meager, personal thoughts. Life inside the harbor continued at a slow, nocturnal pace. The wind and the industrial hum shrouded the roar of their engines this far. It would not do so much longer.

The old man in the guard booth reached for a magazine with his calloused hands, and began to read.

[Nokta]

There are many Decepticons who don't share in your enthusiasm.

::And they are weaker for that.:: No hesitation.

Since the rally, the idea that there were some in their midst who harbored plots against the cause had weeded itself further, nagging at the back of his mind. Gripping as being in that crowd was– witness for the first time to the true majesty of his leader’s governance over them all in the form of that masterful oral address– it had been a wake-up call.

There were no Decepticons without Megatron. The Decepticons were Megatron. To decry him was to decry Decepticonism. And yet still, he was led to believe some did not understand that.

If you were in any way against Megatron, then you were scarcely better than an Autobot. That there were those amongst their own ranks who would place such a defiling mark upon themselves, insulting all that the cause stood for by thinking these things and still calling themselves ‘Decepticons’ did not just disappoint him–

It made his energon boil.

Maybe it was the nature of his arrival to Earth, his weakened state, all that had happened aboard the Infinitum before and after. One stroke of bad luck after another leading to a rise in his overall agitation with the state of things– and then finally arriving to the scrap heap that was Blackridge, finding the Nemesis gone, his memories gone, Megatron gone. Everything wrong, wrong, wrong.

And then that one night of bliss amongst it all had sent all those worries so, so far away.

So fleeting, and yet in those short moments all of that work was validated. It had been for something. Megatron’s reassuring words were everything he’d been needing to hear after centuries of hell followed by one, long, anticlimactic week. A joyous serenade from the figurehead that had been the one constant in his life for so long– only to learn from him that there were some that were not as grateful as he. No, in fact, not only were there threats from Autobots, but now potential threats from within?

It all came crashing down.

It’s what had led to him slipping up in Megatron’s chambers like that. An entire night spent restless, unable to cope with the idea that there were some who, despite how far they’d come, would seek to tear everything down from the inside. Bastards!

That morning, some solace was found in an opportunity to speak with his Lord privately. Him, of all the mecha on base, Nokta would have an audience with their leader the morning after his grand address. He let eagerness get the better of him. All he’d wanted was to preserve something of the serendipity he’d experienced the night prior, by expressing just how much his leader’s words had affected him after such an exhausting journey. But instead, he'd embarrassed himself by spouting nonsense like some kind of babbling sparkling and not a lieutenant of rank. Pathetic.

His disbelief with himself was what had let Windshield manage to get under his plates so easily.

It was the anger, coming back again to rear its ugly head, forking his veins, a burning threat that had been looming for some time now. Anger that had rendered him rudderless for so long, and once threatened to destroy him completely. But back then, he’d had a captain to pull him away from self-sabotage. A mech that understood him completely– someone he could lean on, to lessen the pain. Who could offer advice, a sense of direction, and some semblance of comfort without pitying him outright. Someone that made him stronger than he'd been. Than he was. 

With Ikhor gone, Nokta did not know how he was going to manage it. Desperately he needed a mentor, someone to help him stay the course. Walk the path as every good soldier did, and not stray from it because that constant pain and rage told him to go out and slaughter every traitor and Autobot he could find and damn the consequences.

What would Ikhor have told him at a time like this?

Take a step back. Center yourself. Focus. Or would he have been more direct, chastising?

Screw your damn helm on straight, soldier. Remember you’re here to fight an enemy, not indulge your grief.

Either way, Nokta needed that voice guiding him now more than ever. Because he was so angry it was becoming hard to even think straight some days, and he did not know where to put the energy when he wasn’t on mission. For that reason alone there was rarely an idle moment he could feasibly stand--and forget recharging.

But he knew that voice wouldn’t speak. Never again would it speak. Ever.

Nokta vented a long exhale. Now was not the time for any of this. 'Time' was of the essence.

::I am well aware of the bottom feeders amongst our ranks. Visionless as they are, they have their place in all of this. Just as we do.:: Nokta continued off that point, his voice disproportionately calm despite the war that had been waging itself within him.

If Megatron had need for such weak-minded mecha, then he’d just have to entertain them, for now. The lost could be swayed in time. And if not? Purged. Excised, as all malignancies should be.

Ahead was the harbor as they rounded those last few turns. In the darkened early morning hours things were moving slow, there was not much activity about. This was to their advantage. Humans in all their infinitely minute importance were to be avoided, even if it would be piss easy to wipe them out in a full frontal assault. Megatron had stressed the need for stealth, and so they would remain under the radar. No traces of their presence, save for whatever device it was Windshield was to set up at the site.

Nokta didn’t know how the device worked, but that wasn’t why he was here. He only hoped Windshield was smart enough to set it up somewhere the humans wouldn’t easily stumble across it, if ‘setting it up’ was even called for.

[Windshield]

As they came into view of the harbor, Windshield gradually slowed down. — Slower, slower... halt; The rumble of his engine ceased and a new sound briefly stole its place to play a bit part — a soft metallic clatter; the transformation of wheels and metal pulleys and mesh sheets. — Before it was over, where once sat an idling automobile now stood a humanoid, his deep purple coat fading into the ambient shadow-light of the early morning. His apricot optics stared back at a dark companion, two gems bathed in a gentle blackness. This one did not burn with secretive fury or indignation like the other; He did not smell of soulful brimstone. Those felines eyes had no hellfire in them. — They had nothing at all, anymore. Not for a long time, not for this one.

His annoyances were invented by the mind but not felt in the soul, which remained remote. Whatever qualms he had were ultimately but the processor scrambling for a tangible purchase — and failing once again at its task. He did not seem perturbed by this, that he couldn't feel the annoyance he had constructed so painstakingly for his companion.

The other one spoke of structures and places, this one thought of chaos and formless vectors whilst tinkering with the most structured things of all — an electronic rod no bigger than his own forearm. Pressing a button, the rod ejected a clawed tripod from its base, its fingers spreading like a newborn calf. It was a delicate device reminiscent of an organic insect bound in metal; Such fine were its workings. His fingers danced upon the surface, his eyes tracking every fine adjustment, still silent, still distant. — Where were the jokes now? The crude laughter? The insidious smile?

They did not matter. Not here at the crossroads, not to the old man in the cabin with his turtle-patterned handkerchief or the smoking guards taking their last drag before the night shift was over. Not to Megatron, who sat alone in his chambers, underground, thousands of miles away, a million years ago — waiting.

He isolated his mind on the task and finally answered: "Yes, we do. — Specifically, we will need to anchor this to a high point." He pointed his sight towards the distant machine: a crane; It loomed above the harbor. — A silent judge or a silent crucible.

[Nokta]

Once more the horizon was scanned as the harbor came into view, scanners in the processor automatically allocating resources to account for the best taken routes to get their delivery to the ‘drop-off’ in an efficient and timely manner. As always, they were ignored by the ex-courier, instead choosing to scan manually for any potential threats in play. MECH, Autobots, rogues, as far as he knew, any or all could be expected on a planet whose battlefield was as unpredictable as Earth.

He remained in alt until he was significantly satisfied that there were no obstacles left from here to there. Once more the shade changed his shape, a numb vacancy of a transformation sequence sounding out like a hoarse whisper beside his companion. Nokta stood to his full height, his frame a black mass broken up just like all the other rocks and shrubbery in this arid desert. Even at a short distance, he’d look like nothing more than a somber, dying tree in the early morning darkness.

Windshield spoke, and the wraith tracked his vision to align with the hacker’s, staring at the crane which held dominion over the whole of the harbor. "Hm," the mech merely responded, trapped in his own thoughts for the time being as dozens of different scenarios of how and how not to do such a thing played through his mind, before finally he turned to the other mech.

"And how do you suppose ‘we’ do that?"

Caring once for his opinion, it would seem.

[Windshield]

"I don't suppose 'we' do anything. — I've been watching you, dear Lieutenant," he replied verbatim, adjusting the final details. In a moment, he put the rod next to his face and pointed his sight in the direction of that distant, howling crane. He closed one eye and tilted the device ever so slightly.

"And I've been listening too. You're real quiet. — I mean, so am I when I want to, but there's something more to you, isn't there? — You barely make a sound when you transform, you practically haven't made an intake all night, and the way you ambushed me and Cintra on that lovely coffin of a ship... Good stuff."

He sublimed the terminal compliment into a whispered nothing, as if though it were a thought idly spoken. It soon dissolved on the salty wind whilst he fiddled with the device one final time. One had to wonder: Were such fine adjustments truly necessary — or were these simply the dying throes of a perfectionist on the verge of admitting to himself that his work cannot ever be perfected further? No one but Windshield would know. He let out a dissatisfied grunt and passed the node to Nokta at once, extending a clawed hand with an open palm. Delicate but firm movements, the methodical actions of an expert in his field. His manner spoke plainly: Do not break this. It is fragile.

"I say, why don't I stir a little trouble by the docks? — Just a little fire for just a little while — for you to slip by and climb your way up," he suggested pointedly, gently forwarding the device in his hand an inch further as if to suggest Nokta take it: A handshake by proxy, an agreement unsaid. What would he choose?

[Nokta]

Nokta would tilt his helm away from the docks to stare down at the mech beside him, a flat, unreadable look plastered to his faceplates as he regarded the hacker, who seemed to finally be putting the puzzle pieces together, so to speak.

“Almost as though there may have been a ‘purpose’ in sending me here all along,” He spoke, not caring to hide the patronizing tone in his voice as he called back to Windshield’s earlier remark about him not seeing the lieutenant’s purpose to be attending him on the mission.

He didn’t sound impressed, but it didn’t stop him from listening to and considering the other mech’s proposition. Sound enough. It wasn’t like Nokta was likely to be seen anyways, but a solid distraction to divert any wandering gazes would all but ensure that line of thinking.

He took the device.

“Very well. I’ll get into position while you instigate the ruse.”

[Windshield]

"See, I knew we could find some common ground."

A pathetic excuse for a lie, but one spoken with a muddled tone of honest enthusiasm. His cat-eye briefly wandered to the device, now in Nokta's hand, and then turned portbound. He did not wait for further confirmation. His body followed. Before either of them knew in full, Windshield was at home amidst the inky blackness of apathetic walls and creaking, rotting scaffolding. The salt-sweet breeze was not very kind and time even less so. Yet, despite the conditions, in the wings of corporate concrete, he was no more than a tall shadow—an impression of a person. He had no preternatural skill or augmentations to thank for his silence, only rubber soles and years of experience.

Three hundred yards from the thumb, he stopped and scaled the wall to the other side. Pressing a clawed hand to the back of a shipping container large enough to accommodate his full form, he made contact with Nokta on whom the mission now depended more than before.

"Hey, it's me. Don't worry, haven't gone anywhere—Let me know when to set the place on fire..."

A coy voice devoid of principal respect, but nonetheless pertinent in its contents at the very least. Then, there was a click. A slot on his thigh opened and he grasped the hilt of something metallic. His eyes already scanned the docks for flammables, his processor screaming at him to set it off now.

No, not yet. — He waited, itchy claw on the trigger.

[Megatron]

The old man in the booth could have sworn he'd heard voices just now. Setting aside his well-earned reading time, he turned to the radio in a musty corner where the dampness had eaten through and left a trail of mildew on the nauseatingly yellow wallpaper. He turned a dial for good measure and only silence answered. No more voices. All quiet. Good. Just good.

He remembers a different gulf for a moment, not here, not now. The year is 1990. Indian Ocean. The Persian Gulf. He, too, was lieutenant once. He hears the chorus of bombs and smells the ash on his wet brow... For a moment, a vision of the apocalypse becomes a premonition.

The two guards, retreating to a nearby building, remain blissfully unaware, but he feels it in his old raggedy bones.

The fire, it never quite leaves. Rather, it becomes you.