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

[Megatron]

"And by extension to us all..." Megatron ruminated, folding his hands on the small of his back. His optics narrowed suddenly. "...Beginning with you. — Since you have found his performance satisfactory, I shall leave him in your charge. Reduced though the size of our intelligence division may currently be, I cannot afford to rest its entire weight on Soundwave's shoulders alone."

The Warlord spoke in a plain voice, enhanced to some greater effect only by the virtue of his unique tone, but in reality, he did not say anything Nokta did not know. He'd spoken of sacrifices before, of commitments, of suffering and a glorious conquest.

They all had to do their part.

As a lieutenant, Nokta was not to be a solo act—for his part was to be the mech between the mechs, a lifeline for names like Soundwave and Starscream and Blitzwing so that they did not have to mingle directly with the Windshields of the world at all times. Though he could protest otherwise, it was a responsibility that came with the rank. The importance of it that Nokta stressed so thoroughly to the field agent came into play now. It was not karma or punishment, only duty.

There was ever only duty.

And yet, as if by intelligent design, Megatron left a few brief seconds of silence for Nokta to process this development before speaking again.

"As for now..." the tyrant began in a more reinforced tone—booming, almost. His optics glanced aside to the device on the table, briefly, incredibly so, but prominently enough to draw the lieutenant's own to it. This close to the beacon, it became apparent just how different it was from the previous three. They were standardized, universal tools of Windshield's ilk, complex in many ways that this one was not. The assertion could easily be made that, unlike the previous rods, this one was created for a special purpose of some kind.

"The information net you have installed will benefit our cause in the short term but what you see beside you could begin a new phase of the war. It need only find what I am looking for..."

A new phase?

The words were given a gravely prominent emphasis, more so than anything Megatron had said thus far. Clearly, this device was less ordinary than it seemed—or, perhaps, it was apart of a larger scheme that was left to the Warlord's own secret designs and nobody else's.

What were his goals, his aims?

Few could fathom Megatron's dark plans before they were put into motion—and fewer still knew the depths to which he'd sunk to here on Earth. Briefly, he recalls the sea, the brilliant SpaceBridge and his infinite armada... Dashed, gone. If he were to reprise his grand triumph, the methods had to be different. — But what were they? What role would this device play in this "new phase" of his?

Only two would know and Nokta was not to be one of them.

[Nokta]

Briefly, Nokta recalled the first time he’d ever been made responsible for ones beside himself. He’d been appalled by the idea, a sergeant at the time who’d abruptly received news of his promotion to lieutenant. The perceived inefficiency of having to organize and manage others in addition to his other duties had went against every fiber in his being.

But the wise words of a dead mech still rang true in his mind to this day.

"Faster alone, further together." The wraith murmured in a contemplative rasp as he took in the words of his leader. It was perhaps a droll sentiment for some. But that didn’t make it any less true. Armies were not built on individuals, they were built on the strength of their whole, and by extension the abilities of their leaders to lead. If anything Nokta’s words relayed to his commanding officer that he understood what he had to do, in so many words.

He wouldn’t lie. The experience with Windshield had been less than pleasant that night. The mech had clearly fallen out of touch with what it meant to be a Decepticon. For Nokta, his faith had already been lost in everyone but Megatron. But deep down he knew that if he could find a way inspire that faith in at least one other– perhaps someone that needed it even more than him– then they could reach further heights.

After all, the job of any teacher was to first teach those who were in most dire need of it. Of that he had no doubt. Without such a sturdy, uncompromising personality as Nokta’s to instill some sense of duty and purpose in someone like Windshield, who was to say the hacker wouldn’t just keep circling the drain? At the very least it might slow the descent.

"I’ll keep him in line." Plainly spoken, he didn’t need to emphasize any deficiencies there might have been with the hacker’s morale that he hadn’t been implied already.

As for the device, the lieutenant’s interest was piqued by the importance Megatron’s frame language seemed to place on it, but he knew better than to pry. If it was information he needed to know, he’d be made aware of it. Instead, he listened diligently, silent and stoic as he ever was.

Sanguine optics considered the apparatus on the table, wondering himself about any number of things some ‘new phase’ in the war could have meant. And even moreso just what his leader might be ‘looking for.’ Perhaps if he was lucky, he’d be clued in another time.

Or maybe he would learn when everyone else did. It made no difference to him.

[Megatron]

It was ever refreshing to know that some still towed the faction line without hesitation.

"I am certain that you will," Megatron replied with a knowing glance. Whether it was an attempt at humor or a different, more piercing statement could be difficult to tell when he took that tone with others. Was he merely commenting on Windshield's new restraints, in Nokta's hands, because that is precisely the kind of arrangement he intended it to be... Or was he perhaps suggesting that Nokta will take responsibility for Windshield or die trying? The Warlord's voice could not be deciphered further and as the device came into play, he would offer no more commentary on the situation either.

He grabbed the mechanism at once. It was not so delicate as to break with the quickness of the motion or the strength of his grip. Truly, a more robust tool than the previous ones.

"Are you curious about its purpose?"

He paused briefly but waited for no answer, continuing as if though Nokta were an addressed crowd of one and not an active participant in their conversation. He held out the item to him, his other hand remaining on the small of his back.

"It's an astrogation beacon. Without the Nemesis, we have lost access to many such devices. Shockwave generously supplied us with this makeshift replacement and calibrated it to search for a specific energy signature in the unexplored reaches of space."

What energy signature? In what unexplored reaches? Why? Its technical purpose became clear but its role in the Warlord's plans remained beset by questions to which Nokta would get no answers. It was not his place to ask for them nor Megatron's place to give them to lieutenants he barely knew. Instead, he inspected it closely, narrowing his crimson optics, thick metallic brow skewing downwards. They shifted—towards Nokta.

He barely knew him, yes... but he was competent.

"It is a temporary solution—but one I would entrust to you."

The old warmonger's subsequent silence was deafening.

[Nokta]

Nokta gave no more than a curt nod in response to Megatron’s reply. His servos still folded over his back, Nokta remained in that poised, stoic parade rest as his leader moved again.

And then, as if he were capable of reading his mind, his leader asked a question. Perhaps Nokta had undersold himself in assuming the level of information he’d be allowed access to by his leader.

Was he curious about its purpose? Nokta was curious about a great many things. The beacon perhaps the least of which at this point, but still the subject of silent inquiry all the same. Nokta remained still, as Megatron continued to speak. The question had been rhetorical. It was good that he had not spoken out of turn.

He’d had time over 4 million years to learn not to give in to curiosity and temptation so quickly. Most practically, his stint overseeing a squadron of minesweepers late into the war had learned him the most.

But the desire Megatron’s mere presence inspired in Nokta’s full, attentive gaze won out over the cautionary images of dozens of damned, ignorant souls having their limbs and innards violently blown apart by shrapnel and rapid ionization.

Optics of molten crimson that hid much more than simple, quiet devotion and idle curiosity behind them glazed over his leader, his expression, and the device he now held in his massive, commanding grip.

Entrusted…to him?

Suddenly, this beacon was beginning to seem a lot more important to the lieutenant. Nokta wrung his servos behind himself. This had not been anticipated.

Nokta stepped forward. Slowly, a pair of servos much smaller than Megatron’s reached out, taking the beacon into his own arms. It was large, enough that it would be too awkward to hold in just one hand. Nokta examined the device up close now.

Indeed, Megatron’s explanation only inspired another flurry of questions in the younger mech’s processor. The lieutenant was not flight-capable, unable to comb the distant reaches of space with the alt-mode he’d been forged with. Unlike so many Decepticons who’d been blessed with those advantages, Nokta had been forced to specialize elsewhere. So it stood to reason any ‘signals’ or ‘energy signatures’ found by this beacon would have to be sought out by another, or by way of a space bridge, assuming wherever the signatures hailed from were accessible by those not flight capable to begin with.

"Heavier than it looks." Nokta noted idly, a calmly spoken rasp cutting through the silence. Calm, unlike his racing mind. If anything, his steely outward demeanor when confronted with this information displayed a capability to work under his leader's direct scrutiny that many did not have. 

It wasn’t likely Nokta would be able to retrieve whatever this beacon found alone, and Nokta was no burly bodyguard. He couldn’t protect something like this from those who may be seeking its bounty out for themselves– not forever, at least. He could hide it, perhaps. But there was no knowing if any of that were feasible given what little he knew of Megatron’s real plans. At any rate, it wasn’t likely Megatron trusted him enough for anything like that yet, if the rather mundane nature of tonight’s mission were any indicator of this.

Trust had to be earned. But for now, the question still begged– the only question whose answer Nokta needed to know at this point, in the short term:

"How would you have me aid you in this…temporary solution, sir?"

[Megatron]

"You will keep it safe and hidden and quiet. That is one of your abilities, is it not?" The Warlord asked importantly, although it was less a question and more a statement of a fact—and one that did not nearly enough relate to the situation by itself to justify making it. Indeed, it was not the words that were significant but the motions. With a heavy step forward, he now towered over the lieutenant. His hand reached out slowly once more, proffered? — No. He's given Nokta something already, now he would take.

Take what?

Everything.

His index claw extended towards the lieutenant's body, his torso, the plates over the cavity in his chest—he was pointing: "In here."

Two fateful words followed by another pause. It was only enough time for the lieutenant to briefly consider the implications to an extent. Megatron did not wait overlong to explain further, but even before he did, Nokta could already feel in his hands that the device was much different to what it first looked like from afar. There were segments, minuscule, invisible at a distance. This was no firm signal rod, no fixture, and though it was heavy and cumbersome indeed, it bent so easily—like...

Like the column of a spine.

"Have no fear. It will not compromise your mobility. Shockwave's design is immaculate and harmless. It needs only be installed by a skilled hand."

And as their luck would have it, there was a Decepticon who had a skilled hand, four of them even, and specialized in exactly the kind of procedure Megatron would have him perform on the new-old puppet in his presence—another string woven into the fabric, to better to control it, to make it more complete—more useful. There were so many already. What's one more?

It would become his beacon, this puppet. It would play a part. Loyal, unflinching, subservient...disposable.

Had the puppet the good sense to realize that it was one, it would also realize that—in the end—it truly was no different from the other one. Its firmer strings were the sole reason it had been chosen to perform in the show and that broken old thing in the warehouse was left to rot.

[Nokta]

Megatron stepped forth. There was a flinching urge to step backward from the larger, imposing mech’s towering gait. Routing protocols in the ex-courier’s processor flared up, warning of an impending obstacle pressing into range of his fields. Invisible lines of coding blossomed outwards and coiled around Megatron’s form in the scout’s vision, denoting ‘efficient’ routes elsewhere.

He shuttered those protocols firmly.

There was a numbness. It had always been there, but only in random, fleeting moments like these did the lost wraith ever become fully aware of it. His plating crawled with awareness now.

Many others would have recoiled. They would have shuddered, or maybe even simply paled at the idea. The concept of having their frame violated so wholly. Have something that was not innate to themselves implanted within to gestate and slumber for an indeterminate amount of time until their master’s plans were finally delivered upon.

Nokta did not recoil.

But there was a part of him that wanted to scream. Not in fear, but in selfish outrage. That after all this time he was still nothing more than the freakish defect he’d been forged with. That it was not all that he was. That he could be more besides it. That it hadn’t been this ‘ability,’ this stain on his existence that kept him alive so long. Because anyone should know that if any idiot had simply tried to scrape by on being quiet they’d be a rusting carcass on a battlefield on Cybertron right now.

His salvation had been his intellect, his cunning, his faith in the cause, and it had been rage– by Primus had it been rage!

But it had also been a feat of sheer willpower. And patience.

And even after he’d lost his faith in people, it had been his faith in Lord Megatron. To do what it took to get them here. And from here to the end.

And in doing ‘what it took,’ he’d always strived to follow by his leader’s example. As Nokta began to remind himself that neither he nor anyone else had the luxury of declaring what was “right” or “wrong” any longer, that fleeting internal struggle stayed hidden under his expression. His faceplates remained stoic. It did not even show itself in those swirling optics that swelled like magma beneath his leader’s gaze.

Vacant of pride, of envy, of ego. Like all puppets should be.

Though in one way at least this one would not be vacant for long. At least now, there was a way to prove himself further to his leader. He’d found himself a use in Megatron’s plan, just like he had hoped. And that was all he’d been wanting, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?

“If the beacon activates, sir, while it’s…within me…” The lieutenant began, clearly deep in thought about the entire proposal. Optics folded downwards to gaze upon the device in his hands once more. The question had to be asked. He needed to know what he’d be carrying around inside of him. Mobility would not be hindered, which was good. But there were more delicate aspects of a mech’s framework than his flexibility.

“What are the prospects of damages to my frame– or my processor?” The way the mech spoke that word, ‘processor–’ as if it had already been a topic on his mind as opposed to something like the spark or the t-cog– seemed to stay on his lips longer than the other words. 

[Megatron]

Megatron returned his hand to his back once more and spoke plainly in response. It was only natural that one should question the nature of this arrangement. Though the Warlord's intentions were far from benevolent, it was not his intention to break his new puppet so soon. It would serve no one to do such a thing, it almost never did. Contrary to some popular belief, he was not fond of executing or torturing his underlings, especially not the ones who did not deserve it.

"Slim to none as long as it is installed correctly."

It was a cold comfort to hear this from Megatron's mouth. Reassurance has never been his strong suit. No, he was much better at making people angry, at motivating action and stoking that fire deep in their Sparks. He would offer no empty platitudes to dismiss the lieutenant's concerns and so Nokta could at least rest assured knowing that his master spoke the truth when he said that the risk to his person was minimal.

After all...

Behind every such perfected Decepticon tool, there were immeasurable sacrifices—of life, of sanity, of one's form and one's self. Not even the Warlord knew the specifics of how this particular device had been tested, but he trusted Shockwave's process and concluded that the possible side effects were worth the reward.

And yet—side effects there were. Nokta deserved to know as much and there was no reason to obfuscate the truth. He needed those strings to be firm, to keep the puppet dancing and dancing to the tune for as long as it could. If honesty was the path forward, then honesty would be applied.

"You may experience some—discomfort when it does, however. — I trust this is not an issue."

His eyes maintained their position, staring down at Nokta. Subtly, the Warlord raised a brow as if awaiting an answer: a positive one, a confirmation that the shadow-cast mech would do as he was told and question not the why and how of it any longer. But in all reality, there was no choice. His autonomy was not his. The tyrant's presence drowned out all possible thoughts of refusal. He had the final word—here, there, anywhere—and it was only a professional courtesy that he performed for Nokta out of respect to his loyal servant.

In the end, he belonged to Megatron, they all did.

[Nokta]

Nokta lowered his helm again, the agitation his question spurred on quelled just as quickly as it had arose by his leader’s words.

"Discomfort…" He murmured as he looked down at the device, noting the strange, layered panels to it that allowed it to bend and weave much like a limb should. Even staring at it now, the lieutenant’s intuitive gaze could tell this was meant to go somewhere around or near his spine– or perhaps even replace it entirely. "Can be managed…" he finished, staring back up at Megatron, taking in his expression, the cold, nay feeling demeanor, the single raised brow ridge. This was a mech who did not flinch when it came to making the sacrifices that mattered. He’d always looked up to his leader for that.

Nokta should be no different.

Still other thoughts nagged. Relating to duty, to purpose. Clutching the device in his spindly grip, the lieutenant’s brows furrowed downward, tilting his helm along with them, there was an internal struggle there. Sleek, black shoulder pauldrons inclined with visible agitation.

"Sir, I…" Nokta’s jaw hinges squealed as he ground fanged dentae together, carefully choosing his next words. A barely audible sigh escaped his quiet vents.

"I can reign in a loose cannon when asked, I can– I will be a vessel for your beacon if it protects your interests. My body has always been a conduit for the cause, but I–" A silent war raged behind those sanguine eyes, pressing– practically begging.

"I can do more for you than just this." He took an animated step forwards, motioning to the device in his hands. "Silence any traitors in our midst, take from our enemies– permit me and I will, gladly." With every emphasized word, scarlet biolights flared in rare emotive intensity for the loyal wraith.

Eager. Ever eager to feel that impact. The catharsis of efficiency– knowing he was doing everything he was capable of for those he served. And then, with perhaps the most unfiltered honesty he’d shown any commander in years, he spoke an admission stemming from that part of himself he rarely indulged through words alone.

"For what they’ve taken from me, I would salt the ground behind your every conquest with their agony."

Those words, the way they were spoken– biting, gnawing, spilled so animal and impetuous and yet so real, unhindered by pretense– that wasn’t just duty. No one had taught him this sentiment. No one could train that kind of hatred into you. It had to be learned on your own. It had to be inflicted on you first.

A selfish sentiment in some ways, yes– but also powerful. It was, after all, how he’d gotten this far. How he’d been able to reduce himself to such a useful, deadly puppet. In search of an end that had been the only possible answer to that one, simple beginning.

Sometimes all one needed was affirmation that it would come.

[Megatron]

Megatron's expression remained imperious and unchanged. If Nokta's words made him feel anything at all, he did not let it show.

"Were it that I could vest my trust so thoroughly in every Decepticon who had sworn their life to me under these words."

Familiar words.

Nokta was not unique in his confessions, in laying his Spark bare before his lord like this. There were hundreds and thousands of such admissions and promises—only Soundwave ever amounted to anything, earned a mutual understanding. The rest were always...disappointing. Some were compromised by their honor like Dreadwing, some only claimed to be among the truly loyal like Starscream, and others still died far too young to realize their full potential. In truth, most Decepticons, regardless of creed or their true intentions, have made such promises in the past.

Megatron let out a small sigh.

It was not relief, not frustration. He was neither angry nor exasperated and although cold fury burned somewhere deep within him always, it would not be directed outwards, not at Nokta, and not now...or? Still, something had compelled him to make the sound, to respond thusly, in a voice that bordered on a deep monotone so unlike his regular mode, emptied of the spit and fire.

"I cannot," the tyrant swung his hand outwards suddenly, "Too many have died before reaching any amount of my expectations and far more have turned their weapons against their master when the time came to put their loyalty to the test."

Megatron too did step forward then. His massive form bent at the waist, looming high above the wraith who'd come to be entirely shrouded in the shadow of the colossus before him. He was a tower, a fortress, and an eclipse. He could not be denied nor subverted. His voice soared, rising higher into a powerful shout enhanced by the echo of the room. There was a newfound harshness to it. This was true fury. This was a Decepticon—the Decepticon—and he would make the chasm between them known in only two questions.

Nokta's flame was but a candle in the dark by comparison.

"What makes you different? What makes you worthy of sharing my burdens?"

My burdens. The words were tortured and violent. My burdens—not the ones I imposed upon you—he meant and Nokta would know because when out-poured like so, they could be seen in no other way. The Warlord said no more and only stood there, realizing now that his fists had become clenched.

[Nokta]

As the behemoth of a mech in front of him towered above, raising his voice to a bellowing roar, Nokta lowered his helm, allowing himself to feel the weight of his leader’s rightfully furious words as they hit him. This was not the infallible leader he had so often imagined off on his lonesome at the furthest reaches of existence. He was not some mythical, untouchable legendary figure who could do no wrong as he led them to peace. That would be a fallacy to believe.

Upon feeling the ferocity of Megatron’s tortured questioning for themselves, most mecha in their right mind might have cowered, begged for mercy, dropped the entire thing right there in fear of their life. Not Nokta. He had no misconceptions about any chasms. He’d died a thousand deaths for the mech standing in front of him– what was one more if it came to that?

Megatron had anger, wounds, squandered aspirations and loss just like the rest of them did. And though Nokta would not dare speak it aloud, it was a small comfort to know and see this side of his leader, even now. It grounded everything back in reality, knowing they at least had that much in common. None of them would leave this war unscathed– if they left at all.

Violent passion and righteous indignation faded. So too did the tension in the smaller mech’s brow, his shoulders slowly lowering, as if all ego were leaving his body at once. Sanguine biolights dimmed with the quelling of the silent rage that had always kept them aflame, a dark body now shrouded in the shadow of his lord, the only place he had ever known. His flame was not even a candle, not really, for this was not a mech engaging the outlier ability that so many had reduced him to in the past. This was him truly baring his soul to the one mech he felt he could trust in knowing just how little there was left behind that mask of vengeful fire.

"I turned my weapon against my master once," he began, a foreground. "My captain was one of us. But he suffered from a frightening delusion. One that I was unaware had been festering in his processor for many years."

That rasp was dull now. There was no fiery flame to keep it alight with barbed tones of idealism or harsh vitriol of traitors and enemies. He did not have to be loud or imposing to tell his truth. He just needed to be forthright.

"One night, he woke me from the berth we shared, took us away from our camp, far out across the Acid Wastes. By the time we’d neared enemy lines, I’d become well acquainted with his delusion."

White rings drowning in cold, black sclera were peeled to his leader’s optics as he spoke.

"He was convinced that we were close to losing something that couldn’t be regained. That we had become cruel, and that we needed to atone. And to do that, all we had to do was cross those lines, and we would be welcomed with opened arms– to salvation. I begged him to see reason. To turn around and come home with me. But he was an old mech, set in his ways. In the end, he couldn’t accept what I’d already lost."

Numbness clawing at his innards once more. Nokta’s gaze wavered elsewhere then, as if still trapped in that memory.

"I left my captain at enemy lines with a hole in the back of his helm, and returned to camp to find the rest of my squadron slaughtered by the Autobots he’d been consorting with behind my back for months. None of them gave an inch, until the end."

He pulled back from the memory, finally, pinning Megatron with the attention of his whole once more.

"Perhaps some of them would have been here alongside me, hoping to live up to your expectations as I do today."

Silence. Before the wraith took another half step forward, deeper into the shadow of his leader’s eclipsing height. As though if nothing else had been heard, in close proximity these next words should.

"I have nothing." Every word firmly emphasized, even as he spoke those words his vocalizer bristled with static. Not with rage, or violence, nothing that could veil or skew perception. Just the painful truth.

"No one else." No one to steer my allegiances elsewhere. If they tried, they’d be dead too.

No other burdens. "It’s only you."

He could not fail Megatron like he’d failed his captain. Not because he couldn’t bear to fail Megatron, or that he wouldn’t be worthy of the shame of that burden. But because he’d buried the last parts of himself that were capable of such failure with his betrayer.

This was all of him. He’d chosen peace through tyranny, because he knew it was the only thing that couldn’t be stolen away as all else had been.

"You are the only thing that lasts."

[Megatron]

The only thing that lasts...

One would expect a long and arduous silence, no less agonizing than the Warlord's rumbling cries—but there would be no silence. Loosening his iron first, the tyrant spoke again. Decisively, the fury within transformed into something else entirely.

"I am," he replied with determination—not for a moment did Megatron doubt his position in the other mech's eyes. Unlike Optimus, he scarcely reflected on it for he had been completely assured in it ever since that fateful day, ever since he stabbed a dagger through his chest and became the betrayer who'd mattered more than all the others: "But do you know why?"

Megatron took a step back, his hands fell naturally to the small of his back once more, where one clasped the other. He'd collected his emotions in the brief few minutes of tranquility that Nokta's story provided and he was once more as he had been—perhaps that was good. The iron mask was far better suited to these chambers than a furious monster. And yet, that he was not the latter any longer could also be a sign that Nokta's past did not reach anything deep within the Warlord's Spark and instead merely gave him a chance to raise his defenses again.

"I last because I know that it would all crumble if I ceased. — Your demented captain would have died for nothing. Your comrades would have died for nothing. You would have lost everything for nothing. Every Decepticon would lose everything for nothing."

Megatron turned his back on Nokta, proceeding to the side of his table once more. He trailed its edge with a slow, heavy step, stopping just short of the far corner so that he would meet the other Decepticon across it with a backward glance.

"My will has to be absolute, my authority unquestioned, and my mind must remain remote. I cannot entertain you for the sake of what exactly—sentimentality? Anger? A sense of hollowness? It makes no difference to me."

A lone chair, nearly a throne, sat at the back of the table by Megatron's side. He placed one of his hands to the side of it. His grip on the edge was almost as firm as his iron-clad will.

Will...

Will. It was indeed the connective tissue here. Nokta needn't have looked further than any other Decepticon among Megatron's elite. They all shared it, the way he stressed it, it must have been a pertinent detail. Be it the will to survive, to rule, to serve, to create, to disfigure, to fight. They all had it in immense abundance. It is what separated them from the rest. The tyrant did not choose them because they were hollow and he was their sole anchor. He chose them because they were ambitious, cutthroat—trailblazers. Soundwave was loyalty incarnate—undying, unflinching, and perhaps his only friend. Starscream desired more than anyone in the history of the Decepticons. He craved power as much as he radiated it. Shockwave cared for nothing else but the sciences. Logic drove his will to extremes that benefited them all.

It was the hallmark of Decepticons to desire strongly. Freedom, fulfillment, power. The subject often mattered less than the force driving them onward.

What did Nokta have? Will? Megatron thought not. He saw a burnt-out husk. Some vain hope that his lord would remain eternal was not enough. It did not outweigh the questions and uncertainties surrounding this frozen wraith in his chambers, its desire to poke and prod at the fraying seams in the Decepticon ranks. Megatron made a decision and he would stand by it as always. He would not let this empty vessel roam and search for traitors at every turn, not now, not on this day.

"You are an unknown, come from a grave ship where you should have, by all rights, perished. Nothing you say now will convince me otherwise, only duty and commitment and time will. — Apply yourself to the best of your ability and perhaps there will be a place for your desires in my service one day."

As he spoke, the tyrant slowly lowered his body into the chair. Thus seated, he pressed a hand against the side of his head for support. For a brief moment, he seemed... tired? Exasperated? Clearly, this conversation took its toll. With a half-lidded gaze nearly more focused on the table readouts than the other Decepticon, Megatron let out a final question: "Should you find yourself dissatisfied with this arrangement, there are faster ways to end your life than tire me with more of your woes."

His optics sunk further, from the readouts to the fusion cannon. Finding a new puppet would be bothersome, but if this one truly had no other reason to continue existing, he could very well oblige it with a final death, for he did not see himself as enough of a reason to sustain such a miserable creature in a miserable existence. If it had no other will to live, nothing else to cling to, nothing of its own, it was no Decepticon at all and deserved not the benefit of his time or consideration.

[Nokta]

There was a drive to answer that first question with affirmation. Brow ridges raised, dermas parting as he clutched the beacon to his chest in earnest. He was, like an enamored youth, clinging to every word this mech spoke. But as those words became brutal and unrelenting, that expression changed– withering from idolization to numb realization.

My will has to be absolute...my mind must remain remote.

He wanted to say something more, express what? Pity? For what his leader endured? What this mech could no longer indulge because of the burdens he forced himself to endure for their kind? At best Nokta felt that would only insult his leader further, so instead, he could only find the strength to softly whisper: "I understand…"

He did not understand, not totally, not yet and maybe not ever. No one but Megatron could understand what Lord Megatron’s burdens were. 

Nokta had not always been a husk, as he was now. Perhaps in burning away the parts of himself he viewed as a threat to his duties, he’d forgotten why he’d learned to care so deeply for the cause he served in the first place. He thought he understood the cost of war, until he had to turn his weapon on his own mentor. His realization that he knew nothing in the grand scheme of things had nearly broken him.

When he stared at his leader, his spark still ached. It was impossible not to project his own anger and loss onto him. Everyone saw what they wanted in those they idolized. But the reality was that Megatron had never been his first reason for any of this.

He’d been able to love, once. He’d been very good at it before. But it had only ever ended in suffering. Now, he could only permit himself to love an idea. Because ideas were immortal. Ideas could not be taken away from you. They couldn’t betray you like people could.

But for all his talk of loyalty to the end, somehow, bitter apathy had begun to be his own brand of disillusionment. It had gotten in the way of that first reason. He thought back to his first talk with Windshield after meeting with Megatron. He’d been so ready to denounce the mech as a lost cause just because of a bad attitude and perceived disrespect for their leader. Perhaps he had been so quick to see a potential traitor in him where there was none, when what he should be doing was calling upon his own experience to do more than just 'keep him in line.'

Perhaps even it was time to stop pushing others away in fear of betrayal, and instead focus on what made an army strong– what had made his squad strong so long ago.

As the warlord returned to his throne, Nokta listened, bowing his helm in submission to his leader’s words. Biolights faded back in with Megatron’s final remarks, the mech going so far to suggest the lieutenant might take his own life instead of take the chance he was being given to achieve what he desired– in future.

Nokta tracked Megatron’s gaze to the fusion cannon on his arm. He considered the weapon for a moment far longer than he was proud of before speaking. "That won’t be necessary, sir."

Optics cast down. Another inward hiss of his vents, he nodded once, twice, stabilizing his mind, his voice, his posture, before meeting his leader’s gaze again. After scraping his dignity out of the silence that had settled, he continued, as gracefully as he’d been taught to.

"I understand there’s no way for me to prove myself to you so soon. But as for this," he motioned to the beacon in his arms, the device he’d be the vessel for. "You are owed no protest from me."

He would do what needed to be done, but there were no promises yet. Not even when chances were ‘slim to none’ the device could kill him when it activated. Any promises against failure would have been wasted, then. Even if his death would have been more meaningful than those of his squadmates.

Instead he would have to be patient.

[Megatron]

Submission at last.

To a less jaded individual, this would come as a relief. They would sigh or smile or respond to the mech before them with a simple affirmation. Megatron did no such thing. To him, obedience from a mech like Nokta was expected. It was the prerequisite, the bare necessity, and not a thing to be commended or exalted in absence of history and proof. When at last he'd fulfill his purpose, perhaps then Megatron would smile and speak something sweeter to him...

But not here, not now.

Instead, the Warlord focused on the screen before his optics with all his attention. To Nokta were left the bitter dregs of it, a simple and tired command: "Very well. Take the device with you." Already, Megatron dismissed him, and already, he was planning for the lieutenant's transformation. Megatron pressed a button at his disposal and the large, geometric doorway behind Nokta slowly shifted open, letting in the dim light of the Blackridge tunnels. It was time to go now.

A few days from now, the wraith would lay down on the table and become a prim and proper puppet, woven with the fabrics and designs of a tyrant hand that knew no compassion—could never know compassion again—and cared not whither the path led for the one dancing at the end of the strings.

Tonight, much later still, a new item would appear on the medbay timetable...

PROCEDURE
SURGEON: FLATLINE - PATIENT: NOKTA - DETAILS: CONFIDENTIAL
FURTHER NOTES:
LORD MEGATRON IN ATTENDANCE

[Nokta]

Just like that, he’d been dismissed.

And so, with a single nod and a succinct and proper 'Good night, sir' the lieutenant left his master’s quarters, retreating back into the shadows that he had always known.

Tonight had been gutting. It left a sour taste in his mouth, a twisting sensation in his tanks. It was a feeling almost too subtle to realize so soon. But it was there, and it was familiar. This was not the numbness he had been stricken with for the centuries he’d been aboard that ghost ship and ever since he’d woken up.

This was something else. Something older. Something that could not be faked or hidden behind to save face or maintain a facade of control amongst those that mattered and those who otherwise needed to be kept in line. But it was still there, and it was waiting– desperately it had been waiting as it clung to this lost mech for eons of pain and isolation.

The scout clutched the beacon against him now as if that were the only thing that was even binding him to the Decepticon cause in the eyes of his leader. In his own eyes even.

Only time would tell when this shell-shocked husk of a lieutenant would come to fill the vacancy that his squadron’s demise had left behind. That his captain’s betrayal had left behind.

But once he did?

The proportions his rage soared to would be biblical.

-Fin-