[ti]Ep 3.5[/ti]The Killing Moon [Soundwave, Nokta]

[Nokta]

When the time came, the footage continued on, apathetic to the struggles of the present, perfectly content with its own contained madness in the face of what was and what might come to be. The recovered black box data was neither for or against, painting no rose-tinted picture nor sugarcoating a narrative for the sake of another’s good image. It simply was. Objective, no important detail omitted– as if each seemingly insignificant clip had been recorded and filed away for a reason.

Raw, unedited. Everything had a purpose. Nothing could– should be left unnoted. The whole picture– the whole truth was what mattered most. All things falling in line equivalently, evenly, efficiently.

The hallway bled away, lines of malignant code washed down the screen to pave the way for a new piece of the puzzle, laid out for the spies in earnest.

The scene mottled, birthing from darkness an image just as bleak as the last. Five mecha huddled together in the dark, biolights their only light source. Interior lighting had been powered down to conserve energy, diverting all power to the engines– the only thing keeping them going on their desperate journey through space now. The largest of them, Timberline, poured light from his chest, the headlights of his heavy-duty altmode illuminating the group of mecha.

What time had passed since the last footage was unclear, but judging by the state of their frames– it was not negligible. Their collective demeanor had paled, energy for fun and games scarcely remained. The arrival of a sixth mech came with the sound of a door opening offscreen. Koriolus entered, the well-built mech of average height plucking from his subspace six items. Energon cubes of varying sizes– though altogether downsized from their typical heft a considerable amount.

Wordlessly, the sergeant handed these cubes out. Shatterstar snatched his and instantly downed it. Indigo took hers, indulging in a large, eager sip, before nudging the mech beside her awake. Codecase had hardly belted out his first yawn before clocking the scent of the liquid sustenance, quickly bolting up to reach for his ration.

Smirking, Indigo would raise the fun-sized cube high– at least for the diminutive chronicler’s standards, enough to be just barely out of Codecase’s grip. The little mech was forced to jump in an attempt to grab his ration, prompting Indigo to raise the cube higher.

The femme snorted in amusement, "Too slow…" she teased in a voice fraught with malaise. Her tone was a ghost of its former self, the vitriol gone from her words. She was tired, as were they all.

"Indigo," a rasp whose tone had yet to be– seemingly never could be quelled– chastised from the shadows.

Nokta leaned forward, his biolights dulled and weak, and yet still those crimson rhombuses shone in the dark, a warning to them all. Behave, or suffer my consequences.

Indigo's humor waned quickly, her amusement dripping into a soft frown as she finally lowered the cube into the runt's grip. She would mutter to herself, finishing her ration with a frown.

Codecase had not even the energy to retort or complain about the treatment he'd received from his squadmate. He was happy enough to indulge in his ration, ravenously swallowing the meager contents of the cube.

Koriolus sat on his lonesome, brooding in a way that gave Nokta a run for his money. The black and white painted sergeant sipped his ration in silence– not so discreetly eyeing his lieutenant in the process. He pinned him with a scrutinizing look– amongst a litany of other things swimming in his optics, there was judgment and suspicion. His gaze steeped in unspoken tension.

Jealousy? Perhaps, once. But this was not the easily assumable envy of one vying for the other’s position– this was more. Some deeper suspicion lingered, not to be written off.

Nokta was not as preoccupied as his sergeant inferior– at least, not with scrutinizing others. Once having chastised Indigo, the mech would cast his gaze downward, staring into the swirling vortex of energon within his own meager glass cube. He hadn’t touched his ration, instead he looked as though he were lost in thought. Not as easily readable as the rest. Typical. Nothing of note, not yet.

The final member of the group to take their ration was their behemoth, Timberline. The brawler held his own energon cube up, so small in his servo it might as well have been a shot glass. The mech held back a grimace as he tilted his head back, bringing the minuscule amount of fluid to his dermas, attempting to nurse it with little success. The energon was gone in a sip and a half.

Suppressing a frown, the titanic mech placed down his empty energon cube before him, visibly reluctant to voice any disappointment regarding his unsatisfactory ration. The sound of the empty cube clinking against the metal floor stirred Nokta out of whatever trance he’d been in. Crimson optics flickered between the larger mech’s miniscule glass and the dissatisfied look on his faceplates, Nokta stood.

Noiseless peds padded over to the gargantuan mech shortly. "Here,"

Timberline glanced down to the outstretched onyx servo holding out an untouched ration. He pinned Nokta first with a look of confusion, then with one of visible trepidation.

"I think you’d best not, lieutenant." Timberline responded, firmer than was perhaps expected. It was easier to turn down his lieutenant than potentially go against an authority much worse.

"I’m afraid I insist." Nokta continued, proffering the ration out further, higher to the mech that dwarfed him. "I’ve gone much longer on less sizable rations, I will manage."

Still, Timberline was unwavering as he doubled down, his face set in stern silence.

Nokta scoffed. "Primus above, Timberline, don’t make me order you–"

"What’s this?"

Were the room not as silent as it was, the sudden shift to its atmosphere Ikhor’s arrival brought could not have been more palpable.

Nokta was the first to speak, the only one not visibly throttled with caution upon Ikhor’s arrival. "Timberline has much worse fuel economy than me. He needs this ration more than I do if he’s going to make it to Earth."

Captain Ikhor’s sickly green optics shimmered, but save for the sheer intensity of his gaze– he too was unreadable. The rest of the room seemed to be holding their collective vents in anticipation of the worst. Ikhor peered into Nokta’s visage as though he were staring at a different mech entirely.

Until finally, Koriolus spoke up. "Captain," the mech made a point of acknowledging Ikhor with a nod, much unlike his lieutenant, who he turned to address next. "Lieutenant, Primus built Timberline this way for a reason. We followed standard rationing procedures given the amount of souls on board. If what we’ve given him is not enough to last him the journey, then that is His will."

Before the look of abject disgust on Nokta’s face over that comment could twist into a more physical and violent reaction, Ikhor intervened, waving a servo in a chopping motion as if to physically cut through the tension himself.

"Sergeant, that will be all." Ikhor determined, hardly giving Koriolus a second glance before turning his attention back to Nokta and Timberline. "Nokta, are you certain you will manage skipping this round of rations?" Ikhor asked, his voice softening with the address to his favored mech.

"But captain, our rations–" Koriolus began–

"Have clearly been miscalculated," Ikhor promptly finished, his tone and gaze hardening once more, with clear annoyance. "Which is quite alarming considering I assigned you– our sole logistician– to manage their distribution. I’m afraid your analysis of the situation has been woefully inadequate, much like your recent performance given your area of specialization."

Koriolus hung his helm, fighting to suppress a volatile reaction. "Now get the frag out of my sight until you’ve rediscovered your ability to count properly." It was cold and unapologetic, and yet still merciful by this mech's standards.

As Koriolus sulked out of the room, focus returned to the task at hand. "Of course I’ll manage," Nokta responded to Ikhor’s earlier statement in a quieter tone, as if the answer were obvious.

"Well, then I don’t see any further issue. Timberline, help yourself to the rest of your ration." Ikhor motioned to the small cube in Nokta’s grip with a splayed servo.

"I…thank you, captain……" turning to face Nokta now, Timberline would lean down towards the much smaller mech, gingerly plucking the tiny glass cube from the onyx grounder’s servo. He inspected the glass one more time, swallowing nothingness in anticipation of its consumption.

A satisfied look passed over Nokta’s faceplates as Timberline took the ration. Timberline’s biolights would surge as he drank the extra energon, even that small amount doing much for the larger mech.

"Thank you," Timberline nodded to his lieutenant once more, a grateful smile now painting his formerly dour expression.

"One should expect nothing less from a mech of our leader’s quality." Nokta would plant a flattened servo against the aforementioned mech’s arm, a look of admiration in the young lieutenant’s optics.

"A captain’s duty is always to his own, first." The mech would concur as Ikhor turned his helm to stare upon his trusted officer. Nokta’s smile threatened to widen, and as if fearing loss of professionalism amongst the other members of their squadron, he turned his helm away from his captain.

Any sense of disquiet remaining had relinquished itself from Captain Ikhor’s visage now, the mech would bring a servo to gently lift Nokta’s helm back, so that he may stare the mech in the optics and show him the pride and desire his favored lieutenant inspired within him.

Hooding his optic lids some, Nokta would indulge his captain, slowly turning back to look at him with optics of flaring crimson as the smile grew on his faceplates, his expression becoming more animated.

"So good to us, captain." Nokta would hum, a deep, guttural thrum working its way out from the depths of his vocalizer to harmonize in a way that was far from standard for this mech. Thinly lidded optics would open to stare dreamily up at the large flier.

"A good and honest mech…" An uncanny voice– half Nokta, half someone else– poured out like molten hot silk from a vocalizer that had only ever produced that same gnarly rasp. A slow and vile smile began to creep its way onto Nokta’s countenance. 

Indigo clocked it first, the femme’s helm snapping to the side as she registered the change in the lieutenant’s voice, some distant flare of recognition in her optics as she stared at the mech in disbelief– as if she’d seen a ghost.

Crimson optics flared, something cruel and uncontrollable swam behind them. Dermas peeled back to show rows of pristine dentae attached to jaws quivering with excitement. Brow ridges raised, giving the once stoic lieutenant a wild and unkempt look as he stared up at his captain with a mocking gaze.

"Honest on the battlefield, honest in my berth, honest on this long, desperate, sappy voyage to hell..." On and on, Nokta continued. Mocking, yes, clear as day. It was if he'd been reading from some script– and now he deemed it too tacky to recite seriously.

"Honest where I end, and honest where he begins."

Damning. A long, painful pause, before a gleeful cackle just as brutal tore itself from Nokta’s mouth. Ikhor’s visage contorted, beside himself.

A strong, thick servo was quick to clamp itself around the mech’s throat, silencing Nokta’s howling madness immediately. Ikhor held the diminutive mech in place, Nokta grunted savagely as he was lifted upwards, his peds just barely touching the ground as he attempted to maintain his balance, snarling like a wild animal.

The room was aghast, to say the least, but the look on Ikhor’s face was not that of rage, nor that of shock, or even fear. No. Captain Ikhor’s face was slack, his optics staring straight ahead, not at Nokta, not at his squadron, not at anything but the culmination of a long, bloody, violent past which he had sworn his very soul to mending in the service to one mech beside himself. One he now knew he had failed in his fight against.

It was all devastation, clear as day in the aged mech’s expression.

"What the frag?" Shatterstar cursed, breaking the silence as he looked between his squadmates and captain, Codecase looked just as bewildered.

"B…Boss?" Codecase muttered, the minicon watching as his lieutenant was practically choked out by their captain. Of course, the chronicler was unable to do anything but watch.

"Not another word." Ikhor spoke in a hushed, shellshocked tone. His booming, thunderous voice was gone, a shell of its former self as he gave that order.

Nokta was then gently set down by Ikhor, only to be viciously struck in the back of the helm. Nokta’s knees buckled immediately as the force of the blow shocked his systems into an emergency stasis. The room flurried, gasping and cursing amongst themselves in their collective shock over the drastic chain of events.

Nokta’s unconscious frame was easily lifted by Ikhor, and promptly carried out of the room with nothing else said.

“What the frag!?" Shatterstar vocalized once more, having long since gotten to his peds by now, likely taking his squadmates’ silent shock as an even more disturbing lack of surprise. "What the–" The mech started again, before his larger femme counterpart silenced him with a firm servo clutching onto his arm.

"Not here." Indigo advised Shatterstar with a warning glare as she walked towards the opposite door Ikhor had left through with Nokta in tow.

"But–" Shatterstar sputtered, still aghast by what he’d seen.

"Trust me- not here, not now, 'star." Indigo warned once more, effectively shutting the sniper up. He didn’t understand yet, not like she did, but soon he would.

Soon, they all would.

This portion of the footage fizzled out, pausing at the end, yet another placed in the queue directly behind it, ready to be played once the two spies in the present had mulled over all that had been uncovered with this new footage.

[Soundwave]

Then, it continued.

Patience.

The inky darkness of Soundwave's visor remained locked upon Windshield as the mech tried to churn through his thoughts, making an effort to see if the sliver of advice had hit on any real level. From what he could guess it perhaps did due to the fact there were no overt tells or continued guarded tension that was transferred through to his claws, yet he simply would never know for sure unless told, or until a new incident would happen again at another time. If they were thrown into a similar scenario in the future, then seeing if Windshield responded with more bottled hate or not would be interesting. Yet, whether a lesson of insight was given, or if he simply learned to put up a new protective wall around himself would be a grand unknown, and in the end?

It didn't matter.

Silence was all that Windshield got in regards to his statements, Soundwave not seeing anything particularly worth the trouble of pulling up another voice file from the depths of his records. He certainly had things he could point out, however, namely the 'should' that had been used rather than a more definitive word. He very much should not let such things cloud his vision on an evaluation of this nature, one that was investigating the death of numerous soldiers that would have helped them right here on Earth. Yet, that was a catch. He SHOULD. The operative word being that one singular seemingly small element that added a buffer between it and reality. An excuse already lined up as to not make a personal promise to oneself.

It was no different than someone saying they would 'try' when presented with something that was wholly in their power to accomplish. A smothering element to placate one's inner demons enough to quell the negative emotions, while not holding oneself accountable to following through on fighting them head-on in the future. In a way, Windshield had possibly flung himself into limbo in that regard, hiding from his mind with that single uttered word. So, the question at the heart of it all was simple.

Would he?

Deciding it was best to drop it given his true desire to get to the bottom of things, Soundwave figured that the mech that he had shown some favor towards was stable enough to continue and not be a liability any longer. This resulted in his piercing focus finally breaking aside, helm slowly angling once more in the direction of the monitor. The majority of his vision and recording space was settled upon the screen, once more ever mindful of the fact that it would be so easy for the end of a file to have a termination code to delete it all, though a sliver of the outer edge would still be given to Windshield, in case the other mech made any other movements that he needed to be aware of.

With this, he then hit play and took note of the obvious lack of illumination.

Curious.

They had the forethought to disable the overhead lighting to try to conserve energy, yet did not take the same precautions for the surveillance system and recording devices. This could be spun two ways, the first being ignorance of the fact they were a thing to begin with, or simply that someone who knew of them took specific measures to keep them running despite the power draw. Truly, such things would pull so incredibly minimal energy that if the ship had some solar capabilities, they'd be fine, however, the consideration of the lights showed the desperation of their efforts to save every single flicker. Except for the brute who was being foolish.

Burning his own fuels, chipping himself down gradually for the sole purpose of giving some lighting for the others to live beneath, while getting nothing in return but an improperly scaled ration that was measured out by a negligent individual... or... perhaps a malicious one who resented them. While they had no need for such things here on earth, Soundwave knew what it took to manage a team with small rations for short sprints long ago in the war. Everything had to be calculated out per individual, as an efficient mid-sized mech may need less than someone else of much smaller stature, though even then with efficiency it was abundantly clear it would not come close to being sufficient enough in this example before him.

It was never fair when it came to the perspective of others, seeing only the size of the cube versus their own personal mass rather than understanding that levels needed to be different, something swiftly reflected by Koriolus who took a malicious approach that was masked under religious tones as though that made their perspectives a logical fact. Thankfully their imposing leader was much more understanding, catching onto the very element Soundwave picked up quickly the second that the cubes had been initially handed out.

An act of mercy, an act of vengeance, a lesson possibly taught, yet the question remained if it had actually been learned. Religion had its place and could bring much to individuals, saving their very lives and giving a purpose that the vast unknown simply could not for some souls, yet it could be just as venomous when used improperly. It wouldn't be the last they would lash out, Soundwave could almost guarantee that, and it was fortuitous that they had left as Nokta distorted into seeming 'possession' that a fanatic could blame upon Unicron himself taking hold.

Another's voice.

A hollow threat.

What was said could be ground up into two fronts. Madness, or cryptic. Soundwave wasn't so much shocked by the insanity element in itself, well aware of how the harrowing spiral into a death flight could pull any number of emotions out of anyone out there. There was a difference between knowing death was a possibility, and KNOWING death was a possibility, and for all any of them knew Nokta had hit that marker and was lashing out with sharp words with intent to cut a deep wound upon the one who wronged him by setting them on this path to begin with. Statements triggered by a captain's oath to his own that likely hadn't been upheld in the past, making it a butchered mockery of an otherwise honorable sentiment.

A promise on a battlefield that had been hollow, a promise behind closed doors that carried just as much nonexistent weight.

Some knew, one didn’t.

Recognition in the eyes of some, vocal confusion in the perspective of another.



Soundwave did nothing overtly, however, a sound file did silently display upon his screen, two waves stacked atop one another that tried to match the last statement from Notka that sounded very much unlike himself, to the voice at the very onset that whispered cries to Primus.

[Windshield]

Windshield remained quiet for a long while—listening, thinking, processing—in stillness. Only his optics moved with the footage, adjusting to the dim light with an instinctual narrowing of the pivot. Throughout the file's playback, he kept quiet. His mannerisms remained mild, the inner workings of his mind becoming rather obscure, hidden behind a mostly impartial expression. Perhaps it was a continued conscious choice to maintain control, or merely a natural result of prior catharsis. Yet as he followed the starving actors, he could not help but feel a subtle tick in the corner of his lip, a tugging downwards accompanied by a sense of subdued disgust. 

He didn't comment on anything in particular, but that little tug coincided and intensified with Koriolus's speech, then disappeared just as quickly when the mech was chastised.

But this all appeared superficial. What followed was much more pertinent.

Nokta. The Captain. The shift, a change. Shock, confusion.

Windshield grit his teeth, but maintained a steady expression, a steely gaze. There was newfound intensity in his features, but it did not seem to come from anger, jealousy, or disgust. When the playback finished, he briefly glanced at Soundwave as if to confirm if they had both seen the same thing, only to find that the Spymaster was already analyzing the recovered audio.

"The lieutenant once took a similar tone with me, for one word only," the hacker explained rather calmly. Perhaps the gravity of the situation now transcended his typical, frivolous comments, maybe it was Soundwave's prior cautioning, or, possibly, he was now far too concerned to quip at the expense of Nokta's sanity. Either way, the seriousness of the situation finally settled in. His concerns about the new lieutenant? Justified. He paused grimly, thinking back.

What was that word, again?

Ah, yes...

"Disgraceful."

The word was said with a sternness, in an uncharacteristically deep tone for Windshield. Yet somehow, this register came across as more natural than the mech's common, softer vocalizations. The fact that Windshield went out of his way to drop the last layer of pretense... It underlined a new truth.

Whatever caused Nokta's outburst—if that was even him—still remained in play. Today. Here, on Earth. In the very bowels of Blackridge Hold.

[Nokta]

<LOADING…>

“P-pa-p-pain…t-t-t”

<...>

“S-s….tar-tar-tar…..s….stars…st-stars….the….stars….”

<DATA CORRUPTION DETECTED!>

"Timberline had informed me of an incident in the cargo hold earlier, shortly after I left."

A voice came, before anything else.

"He was fairly shaken up. Mostly by the fact that you seemed to know more than the rest of them did."

The devout sergeant– Koriolus– was the voice’s owner. In its stead bled in the picture of a new scene. A low-power lens adjusting to the dim lighting of a room somewhere deep in the Ad Infinitum.

"And considerably more so by the fact that I couldn’t give him a straight answer once I saw the footage."

Two mecha stood in a room within a fuzzy, unfocused frame. While their features were obscured by the low-quality uplink, their sizes left little to the imagination. The one taking up the most space was clearly Ikhor, who stood stock still as he stared intently at something off screen.

"He always had so much to give. It would almost be fitting, if it weren’t such a pity. His selflessness was only ever going to be his end." Ikhor mused.

The shorter mech pacing behind Ikhor hurrumphed. "He’ll be sorely missed," the sergeant spoke, sounding bored.

"We’ll have to do something about all of this footage, don’t you think?" Koriolus asked, almost an afterthought.

"Might not be a very good look for most Autobots." The smirk in the other mech’s voice was almost palpable, even despite the low quality footage.

"Have Codecase erase the black box footage before the rest of them enter hyperstasis this evening." Ikhor responded after a moment of palpitation.

"And if he discovers what we’ve done here in the process?" Koriolus asks.

"Jettison his body from the airlock after you’ve killed him."

Koriolus would merely shrug at Ikhor’s calmly executed kill order, before turning his attention back to the front of the room. Almost as if on cue, the looping camera feeds would swap, providing a view of the room’s second half, at the back of which two stasis pods had been fastened.

One such pod held the immeasurably large body of the brawler Timberline, his body turned an unmistakably dead shade of gunmetal gray. Via intravenous tubes that had been fastened to the various emergency refueling valves on his frame, the last vestiges of energon that had been flowing through him were slowly being siphoned out.

Within the second, noticeably locked pod, Lieutenant Nokta was deep in hyperstasis. The pod would slowly but surely leech away the lifeblood from Timberline’s body, transfusing it into the frame of the second pod’s inhabitant.

"How much time do you suppose this will buy the mnemosurgeon?"

The buzz of a glitchy camera system would leave that question unanswered, as yet another horrific scene came to a close.

“Y-y-your….-y-y-y…..

“f-f-f…fail…f-f…ure-ure….failure.”

<...FILES CORRUPTED!>

<...>

<LOADING…>

<EXT_PORTSIDE_DOCK_CAM_01>

An endless vista of inky blackness. The very stars themselves, vast and innumerous, had never looked more unreachable.

At the edge of the frame, a timestamp indicated the harsh realities of traditional deep space travel. What had taken a few moments to load in Blackridge had jumped ahead decades within the black box. Now, more than two centuries had passed on Earth since the Ad Infinitum had left Cybertron– and yet still, the grave ship was less than halfway to its destination.

For years, nothing had stirred the Infinitum. Its motion-activated camera systems remained dormant for maximum energy efficiency, its bleating engine unhindered by any additional strain.

This nightmare would not die a quiet death so easily.

Motion had spurred the exterior cameras of the Ad Infinitum on, yes. But whatever lurked in that unreachable void was unclear, at least for the first few minutes of silence that followed the sputtering onlining of the camera systems.

Soon, a mass formed out of that blackness. Small, at first, but quickly becoming a much larger shape.

A ship. Diminutive in size when compared directly to the Infinitum, but a ship nonetheless. Just large enough not to be mistaken for an escape pod, but small enough not to appear to be a personal craft. A medical craft, likely with its own stasis pod within, meant for long and lonely voyages.

Automated docking procedures would follow, the small craft’s thrusters puffing out jets of air as it aligned itself with the Infinitum’s cargo bay door, until both entrances were sealed.

<INT_CARGO_HOLD_CAM_02>

The interior camera powered on with the activation of the port side airlock. Light flooded the room, illuminating six stasis pods at the far end of the hold. A flurry of life signatures registered within the ship sensors. Each remaining member of the squadron, alive, deep in hyperstasis within their respective pods. Noticeably absent from the bunch– Timberline– his own stasis pod nowhere to be found.

A seventh life signature would appear within the airlock a moment later, a cloaked figure– but more than just that. A mech whose silhouette would seem…familiar.

Further data corruption forced the camera feed forward another few moments. The figure was now standing before one of the pods– Captain Ikhor’s. A command was manually entered into the pod’s console, and one-data corrupted moment later Ikhor was stirring in his pod.

"I trust you fully understand the great magnitude of favors any other mech would owe me, in your place, Captain," the mystery mech spoke after a moment, as the Decepticon captain slowly climbed forth from the stasis pod. Ikhor hacked up a cough, a layer of frost shedding from his plating as he fell into a kneel. The other mech would follow, taking a knee to steady him. A scanner would appear in his servo, checking the Decepticon officer’s vitals.

"We’re in dead space now," the cloaked mech spoke gravely, albeit in a soft tone– almost an afterthought. "Not a single settlement or fueling barracks within a thousand light years of our current trajectory." The mech would then producing a syringe from his subspace, injecting Ikhor with it.

"How much fuel?" Ikhor would gruffly demand to know in response as the stimulant raced through his lines, providing him a brief sense of clarity within the haze of stasis unlock.

"I’m siphoning the last remnants from my craft now. Weight is going to be more of an issue." Slowly, he began to lower his hood. "My question to you, Ikhor, is…"

As the mech’s visage became unobscured, it revealed faceplates sporting the traditional coloring of pre-war medical personnel. It was the face of a corpse. The very singular one that had been discovered aboard the Ad Infinitum’s wreckage.

Automated identification systems quickly got to work sorting his true identity, as he turned to face the other five stasis pods.

    PSIONOSPHERE OF IACON
    RANK: UNALIGNED
    SPECIALITY: MEDICAL - TRAUMA SPECIALIST, UNSPECIFIED
    ASSIGNMENT AS OF RECORDING DATE:
    WANTED FOR DESERTION OF THE DECEPTICON CAUSE
    STATUS: MIA

"How much are you willing to sacrifice?"

[Soundwave]

While Soundwave had made the decision to keep the other mech in the edge of his vision, he had not done so to the extent that he was able to pick up on the more subtle tells that then followed. Masked over well... unseen to such a secondary focus... the tug at the corner of a lip, and the subsequent tightening of the mechanics of Windshield's jaw was a motion that might as well not have even been there to the silent mech, his current focus only mindful enough for comparatively 'larger' motions like the clenching of a fist, furrowing of a brow, or flash of teeth behind a flicked lip. While he missed this visual tell, he of course did not miss the words that then followed.

Soundwave turned his helm ever so slightly in the direction at this, a motion that was more a formality than anything else due to the fact the monitor before them still dominated the majority of his field of vision. Despite the seeming indifference, he was jotting down the other mech's words in metaphorical stone while considering the implications of the atypical tone from Nokta showing itself here on this planet so soon.

Oh, it was bound to remain. The echoes of such a traumatic incident could reverberate for the entirety of his life moving forward, a perpetual stain in acidic ink, though it was good to know that it was close enough to the surface that it was already visible. This could be concerning to some, yet in Soundwave's perspective, it was good, for a silent smolder could cause more damage when unseen versus an open flame that could be caught far sooner. They could monitor him. Manage him. Have other eyes on his actions even if they were the unfeeling eyes of the cameras above. Due to this, the navy mech raised his helm as Windshield mimicked the single word in a tone deeper than his own, curious if this was formed to emulate the other mech's pitch, or if it was his own register associated with more serious tellings.

Always the little things to consider that could balloon if unmonitored.

Turning back to the screen, Soundwave watched once more.

Ah, so they knew of the footage and recording capabilities of the ship early on, this fact not discovered later to be edited into its current formatting. Was it modified fully as they went, or was it a task appointed at the end of their journey? While Soundwave himself would work as they went, it would be done in a way to be as factual and direct as possible, recording even the mundane that could be so important with the benefit of hindsight. This telling seemed more tactical, likely done in a way to fit a narrative from one soul's opinions, which sounded very much the case, given the fact that it didn’t address the large mech's fall fully. This would be rather important to document in Soundwave's opinion, it unknown if he had done so on his own voluntary kindness, or if it had been sprung upon him forcibly, a fact that was danced around and mockingly implied as a sacrifice.

Lamb or honor.

As they spoke more, Soundwave's helm would crook down ever so slightly, a motion that changed the angle in which the frame of his upper visor was viewed, almost indicating a sort of displeasure or frown as the crest pitched.

A good look? Why would they care about how it may look to Autobots? This could be translated in two different ways, one being an inside joke to mock the assumption that Autobots were noble on all fronts... something stated after taking actions that were not the most morally pure... or it could be a precursor to an attempt to play neutral to seek survival. Did they know of an Autobot vessel nearby? Instantly, Soundwave thought back over what had been spoken thus far.

Not once. Not once did any participants on this digital stage thus far mention the word 'Decepticon', which could imply a possibility of framing themselves in a different light through its storytelling, though this idea was swept some given the visual tell of the icons that remained on their frames, it only working in strictly auditory formatting. This said, someone had been contacted, turning the gradual spiral of a death flight into something else entirely that strayed from the script. With that simple change of events, the entire trip from that point forward deviated, and Soundwave shifted his positioning some.

More ghosted words.

More echoes into the digital void.

As he had been distracted a moment previously, Soundwave once again attempted to put Nokta's pitched words up against the mystery voice in the file, using the new sampling about failure to do so while he watched the rest of the video playing out with the new arrival and the rather momentous jump in time.

Curious.

[Windshield]

Windshield said nothing more on Nokta's tone and gave no indication of a change in demeanor as Soundwave silently logged his words for future use. The grit remained for the time being, but it did not boil over into anything significant. Even as the footage rolled once again, he remained a passive observer for a good, long while.

...Paint the stars?

More mirages. More nebulous whispers in the darkened gaps. Windshield now wondered if their presence was his fault, if his work had been compromised by a rush to see it done—whether the haunting artifacts of sound were something he could have fixed, maybe even something he himself had caused—or, if they were injected into the footage on purpose.

That idea seemed to have stuck with him. He grew increasingly focused, more present. He tilted his helm forward, leaning in to rest his hands against his half of the access board, optics sharpening as if to break through the fuzzy display. His thoughts regarding the strange arrangement of footage still lingered while the conversation between Ikhor and his idiot lackey unfolded.

But then...

Good look for most Autobots.

Did they mean to...? His own train of thought trailed off as he briefly looked to Soundwave to find a sense of common acknowledgement—to make certain he had heard them correctly and that, above all else, both of them did. When he snapped his optics back to the footage, the scene had already changed angles.

As for what it revealed... Windshield had no obvious reaction to the desperate butchery, not initially. He understood sacrifice. It did not phase him, not at this point, that the largest and kindest of the mechs had met with a grim fate. It was to be expected. The conversation already implied as much before he and Soundwave could see the reality for themselves. Though, he wondered how much Nokta knew of this nowadays, soundly sleeping in his pod back in the past, a parasite unknowing. All that wasted effort and kindness on a mech who wouldn't live to see another day. It must have hurt terribly, if he had known. This was where a more sentimental soul would have remarked about the injustice of it all—about the sheer selfishness of this supposed captain, but Timberline was of no moment to the agent. To put it simply. He did not matter.

Not anymore, now that he was dead. Everything else did.

For now, the strange voice cut in once more, calling to mind the theory about its fortuitous interruptions—the idea that it had been inserted on purpose, or corrupted through Windshield's tampering with the material. It was his sole preoccupation for the moment. He couldn't cross-reference it, not like Soundwave. As before, he would need a specialized program to do what the Spymaster did, and so it would have been an effort wasted for him to even try. No, instead, he started wondering about what it was trying to say, if anything, and whether it was all taken from one scene, scattered amidst the rest.

Your failure...

Whose? The captain's? He let out a sigh. More words from a specter. Cryptic and defying categorization or a proper explanation, still, and so deep into the total record. This was another exercise in futility to find a meaning behind it all. Prayers, pleas, and accusations. They made no sense in isolation, but they remained a constant through-line, and so the hacker ascribed them a significance now.

He would have spent longer considering them if the footage did not continue further, many years later. A docking procedure, a doctor or a butcher—a new figure on the stage. No, not new. A familiar one.

"So, now the dead come talking," Windshield could not help but mutter under his breath as his optics narrowed at the scene, nearly into a squint. The forgotten mechs spoke of favors owed, of isolation, and finally, of sacrifice. The picture was becoming clearer. He'd wondered, then... He turned to Soundwave again. The tightness in his features loosened somewhat and his amber gaze returned to a sort of half-lidded impartiality. He wanted to speak at length now that the footage was stopped.

"Okay, first things first: I'm gonna say defection," he began, clasping his hands with a loud clap, holding them still for a moment, then lowering them down to his hips.

"Not the lieutenant, of course, but that captain of his..." The hacker clicked his tongue in disapproval, tsk-tsk, "Oh, we do terrible things for love, don't we?"

There seemed to have been a bit of a coy edge to Windshield's words, like he was talking to Nokta himself or sharing an inside joke only he would be able to understand. He paused then for a split second to measure Soundwave's reaction—as if he could expect anything but the blank visor or the slightest inclination to express emotions in the most rudimentary ways. Ah, but it was of no moment. Soon, even Windshield shrugged it off with a roll of his shoulders. Whether there was any meaningful reaction to the suggestion of defection and affected reasoning or not, he continued in his observation in a more professional tone.

"Anyways. We are still short a couple corpses."

He reached out with a black-tipped claw to the screen and tapped it twice with an echoing clink, right where the silhouette of Ikhor remained frozen at the moment of asking. As far as Windshield knew, they never recovered Ikhor's body from anywhere, and for that matter, not of of anyone else from the crew who had still been alive at that point in the ship's history. Truly, everyone but Timberline remained a potential player. They could not rule for certain that only the captain, Nokta, and now Psionosphere were to be the sole focus.

There were a few places Windshield would think to look for them. That ominous room aboard the ship itself, with the mighty red cross on its door, came to mind right away. But, surely, it would have been explored by the Decepticons too, wouldn't it? Even if Windshield himself was not there to see behind that door, if the husks of Ikhor and the rest of his crew were still aboard the ship, they would have found them. So, that only left two options. Either someone jettisoned Ikhor and the rest at some point between then and before the Infinitum crashed on Earth, or...

Nokta was hiding evidence.

For a brief while, these were the only possibilities he considered, but then a sudden thought struck the Decepticon agent.

"...Or a couple people," Windshield added grimly. Until now, he had been operating under the assumption that Nokta was the sole survivor, but what if he wasn't? Surely, that implication did not escape Soundwave's notice either. Even if they presume that Ikhor had sacrificed everyone else after Timberline, that still left him out of the picture. And so, no matter which way they looked at it for the time being, they were missing bodies, alive or dead.

They needed to know more—and fortunately, there was more.

[Soundwave]

Ah, a match.

Soundwave's visor instantly illuminated with new waves of the audio files, one placed above the other. The first one played the most recent of ghost words declaring broken mentions of pain, the stars, and the failure that followed it all, only to be paired with the distorted mutilation Nokta's voice went through during the bout of madness that seemed to confuse some individuals on the vessel.

/̛/Honest where I end, and honest where he begins//͞

Oh, it wasn’t a perfect one-to-one. How could it be? It was a butchered audio file being paired up with a limited sampling that was crisper and effectively 'pristine' in comparison. No. It wasn’t a one-to-one, nor was it even a 50% confirmed match, though the overlap was a higher change than any voice heard previously, hence Soundwave taking a moment to even display as much to Windshield with a percentage of accuracy pasted at the bottom both to show that he recognized the leap that was being made, as well as tell the other mech not to get too excited.

It was a little tidbit of interest, and nothing more unless further overlap graced them.

For it very well could be an echo of Nokta himself speaking half out from a grave.

Events changed, many years passed, a comparative lifetime versus other species flickering in the briefest of crackles and the transition of a recording. Yet, it was a transition that brought much, not only a newcomer but a new foundation for everything that would soon follow. Windshield seemed to pick up on this as well, turning to face him more, an action Soundwave mirrored now that the footage had paused momentarily to give the other mech his full attention as the topic of defection was mentioned.

/͝/If they-/̕/Ever were to begin with/͞/

Trying to play the side of convenience and survival was not an uncommon thing, individuals seeing an opportunity to continue to live at the cost of betraying some personal morals. A drive to not die was a potent motivator, however, it wasn’t one that would inspire a true shift of personal beliefs. A deceptive layer, a promise... for all they knew that mech was only wearing the badge as a mask, and happened to gain a following to be used in other ways than those befitting his faction choice. It would explain how he remained friends with a defector, the fact being they were still of equal mind while one simply got caught in the act or saw an opportunity to break their perceived shackles while the other opted to wear their mask longer.

At least until now.

If he was still alive? Well, his stance in the Decepticons was severely threatened. The thing was, statistically unless he left with this newcomer's ship to abandon what became a corpse in his wake? Then there was a very minimal chance of survival. Then again, leaving behind his little plaything likely wouldn’t have happened then, unless Nokta pitched a fit due to his allegiance and the revelation of his lover... if he was viewed as that due to their seemingly one-sided dynamic... was not taken well.

At the mention of corpses, Soundwave shifted his weight back some onto one heel, a more relaxed posture while he seemed to be thinking. While he did not openly emote, he wasn’t opposed to displaying more 'grounded' elements that made him more relatable as a real individual rather than a shell, and this was one of them as his helm rose in thought.

The ship hadn't been explored in full due to the dangers involved. It was honestly a miracle they surveyed it as much as they had. While the Nemesis had similar threats due to the fact it too was underwater, its fall was more recent and as such was structurally much more sound than a vessel that found an unfortunate new home countless years earlier. Strained. Erosion. Weakened panels finally pushing in from the prolonged pressure of the Earth's frozen hellscape of Greenland... It wasn’t deemed a priority, though, now knowing the sketchy events that surrounded it, this fact could easily be changed.

//̴Not explored//͝

Bluntly admitted, for Soundwave had nothing to hide with this oversight. To pair with this seeming negligence, a quick explanation was then given, a wireframe of the ship in question showing up on his screen. It was a decent-sized vessel, one that would have been nice to obtain if it wasn't in such a heinous position in a likely irreparable state. Multiple rooms and some features that would have been useful even if it was profoundly... antique... element. It was on this ship that much of it was suddenly blocked out in red in his estimations, displaying just the area Windshield and Cintra went into, and a couple of the adjoining rooms. It left much simply... unknown... yet the statistics of the environment around them wordlessly conveyed the danger involved with going there.

Were lives worth risking for curiosity? No.

Were lives worth risking to uncover truths and possible threats to the Decepticons given the acceptance of a defector by its captain? Perhaps.

Just because said defector ended up dead, does not mean it was done so out of loyalty, and information within could lead to other concerns.

[Nokta]

“I will not sugarcoat, captain. We’re killing him.” The voice of the deserter crackled to life.

Static on the Blackridge viewport gave way to the same habsuite Koriolus and Ikhor had occupied in the earlier footage, now absent of both stasis pods and retrofitted into a pop-up medbay. As the lights turned on, a comatose Nokta was once more the central subject. Psionosphere stood beside it, datapad in hand as he examined a monitor beside the berth Nokta lay on.

“His processor now wrestles with more fabricated memories than real ones. While that in itself should be manageable, the problem resides in his self-repair. It no longer distinguishes these fantasies from any common processor virus. In eradicating what it sees as malignant data, his mind consumes itself.”

“And you can’t simply rewrite his self-repair protocols?” the captain responded. Ikhor sat off to the side, his dour expression betraying any fleeting sense of hopeful optimism there might have been in his words.

Psionosphere shook his helm. “Not at this level. I’d have better luck transplanting an entirely new processor. And at that point, he might as well be dead anyway.”

Ikhor lifted his helm to stare at the mnemosurgeon he'd called to aid him once more. In his expression swam a sea of conflict. Anger, contempt, guilt. The captain worked to keep his tells under control, but much unlike his lieutenant, his weathered visage spelt them all out clear as day. Finally slipping, the mech collapsed his faceplates into an open servo, pinching his tired brow.

“The mind can only be fooled so many times before it rejects what it innately knows to be untrue.” Psionosphere spoke softly in response.

“What’s the full prognosis?” The captain finally spoke, grim words cutting through the weight his own silent contemplation had left behind.

“Scar tissues in the central processor will only spread, starting with gradual deterioration in the clusters pertaining to personality. His outbursts will increase in length and quantity, which will only be exacerbated further as the scarring encroaches into areas responsible for processing deeper memory. He’ll grow more violent, as he partially begins to comprehend what’s happening.” Psionosphere spoke in a clinical, detached manner.

“That struggle will be what turns him feral.” He continued, almost droning. Like Nokta’s fate would be something so elementary. Ikhor’s servo released its pensive massaging of his brow, forming into a fist.

“After some time he’ll forget he was ever even a person. Everything that made him who he was will strip away, leaving nothing behind but a mindless animal.”

Ikhor stood suddenly, the stool he’d been sat upon shot out from under him with the force of his leg struts snapping into place, slamming into the wall behind him with a loud commotion. "Don’t." The captain growled, a sea of rage punctuating a single word. “You speak as though it’s already happened. As though this is all over. You do not dare absolve yourself of your responsibility to him while we both still function.”

Psionosphere opened his mouth to speak, but he was promptly cut off before he could even get a word out.

"What drug would cure this?" Ikhor demanded darkly, taking a firm step towards the doctor.

“None.” Psionosphere replied, standing his ground even as the captain visibly refused to believe him.

“Nonsense.” Ikhor gesticulated with a sharp sideways motion of his servo. His optics blazed as if he were already forming some half-baked plan in his helm. "I have it on good authority that the recipe for synthetic energon made it off of Cybertron. Don’t you know the effects something like that has on Cybertronian anatomy? We could find it–" Ikhor continued.

"No, we couldn’t." Psionosphere insisted over his rant.

“Then you could use a circuit-booster instead– Nuke? Syk?” Ikhor pressed, as he neared closer to the doctor.

"Ikhor, we don’t have those things." The doctor attempted to reason one last time.

“Then make them, damn it!” Ikhor shouted as he took a final step to close the distance between them.

“I will not!” Psionosphere finally snapped, slamming his fist down on a medical tray, sending tools cascading out of it noisily. He let a silence settle between the pair of them before speaking again.

“I am not a chemist, nor a miracle worker. I am the best mnemosurgeon you have and I am telling you we have nothing that can stop this.”

And that would be that.

Ikhor found himself trembling with overwhelming emotion that disguised itself as rage, only to reveal itself as the grief that it was as he released his balled fists. “I know.” He finally conceded, taking a shaky knee beside Nokta’s supine form. He heaved a broken, defeated ex-vent, and turned his helm to face the dying mech.

“...but if we did?” Ikhor’s tone had shifted into an intimate whisper– as if he were speaking to Nokta himself. Anger bled into pleading words, his desperation growing clearer and clearer by the minute. “If we had something?” He turned back to Psionosphere, optics searching for an answer.

Psionosphere sighed, glancing at vital signs charting away on a nearby monitor. After a moment, he decided to humor the captain’s inquiry in a rare show of empathy. “In theory, a strong enough mechanochemical agent could treat his affliction.” He jotted a final note on the datapad he’d been carrying before turning it off, tossing it onto the monitor console as he turned around to lean on it.

“It would have to stabilize the deterioration long enough for healthy neural pathways to begin reforming between the various processor branches. So long as they are created faster than they are destroyed. A mech with his fuel efficiency would stand a better chance than most…”

“But?” Ikhor’s voice cut in, ever searching for the catch.

“A full transfusion would mean constant refueling. We would need more bodies worth of energon than this ship has to prevent his fuel lines drying out. And a scientist with enough time and resources to produce a viable chemical agent that wouldn’t stop his spark on the spot. Both things we are woefully short on, I’m afraid.”

Ikhor pressed his optics shut, lowering his helm to Nokta’s chest plating. Just like that, it was back to sobering reality.

Nokta continued to sleep soundly atop the berth, unerred by the tortured ruminations of the conscious mecha standing in the same room as him. The last cube of energon that had been siphoned from Timberline’s corpse bubbled away on the floor beneath him, gently draining into his fuel lines as the hours ticked by. The cube was less than half full now. A visual reminder of the fate that awaited them all, if they were too hasty.

“I’ve made my decision.” Ikhor spoke finally, opening his optics to focus not on Psionosphere but the sleeping Nokta.

“Good,” Psionosphere nodded. “It’s high time we were realistic about our options.”

“I want all of it undone.” Ikhor ordered bluntly, an air of finality to his command.

Psionosphere tilted his helm, “Pardon?” he asked calmly, genuinely unsure of his meaning.

“I want every falsified memory gone. All of them.” Ikhor elaborated. Psionosphere coughed loudly, slowly turning his look of disbelief to face Ikhor.

“Every first meeting. Every carefully filtered out personality trait. Every Conjunx Ritus I made him perform for me. Every thought I had you put in his helm that made him believe what he felt for me was anything more than a passing, professional respect. Gone.” Ikhor stared down at Nokta. His brow remained folded upwards, pain etched in his visage.

“All of that time and effort moulding him, and now you want him undone, just like that?” Psionosphere balked.

“If he truly is dying I want our last weeks together to be exactly as they were in the beginning. Real.” Ikhor explained calmly. “He is owed that much.”

“Ikhor, think about this. You remember just as well as I do the state he was in, when you first came to me. You would unbridle all of that rage here?”

It was a question that inspired pause in Ikhor. Perhaps there was finally a moral hurdle strong enough to falter his otherwise firm resolution on the matter. His optics recalibrated, twitching slightly as his glossa darted out to lick dry lips.

“No,” the mech considered, with a heavy shake of his helm. “Not without…without one final augmentation. For…” He paused again, swallowed the hoarseness in his vocalizer. His helm rose, to lock in a stare with Psionosphere, whose expression still held a mask of disbelief.

“For his own safety,” Ikhor finished, fooling himself into thinking that what transpired next would too be for his lieutenant’s benefit.

Even after confronting his own guilt head-on, this was a mech who still had it in him to lie unflinchingly to a knowing witness. Psionosphere’s upper lip folded in disgust. He would say nothing, as he walked back to the monitor. His was the guise of someone well and truly acquainted with Ikhor’s brand of delusional thinking.

“Once more, I find myself weary of this arrangement, Ikhor. I will do what you ask of me this last time, but I’ll need your guarantee of my safe departure into Autobot protection once this is over.” The mech spoke, back to that sterile, clinical tone he’d begun their meeting with. “Can you do that?”

“My superiors remain aware of you, and the value of your particular skillset. Though I would advise you not to appear too desperate to them. The new identity I’ve forged for you will be of no use should the nature of your past loyalties be discovered.” Ikhor responded coldly, an unmistakable threat in his words.

Psionosphere pressed his lips together, a whirlwind in his gaze, but ultimately did not decide to call Ikhor’s bluff.

Sufficient with the doctor’s lack of protest, Ikhor would return to the subject at hand. “Will this change alter the timeline of his prognosis?”

Psionosphere would exhale a deep vent, turning his attention back to his patient. “Not significantly. It may even buy him some more time with you, loathe as I am to admit.”

“How much time?” Ikhor asked promptly, his processor already wrapped firmly around the logistics of the potential for added time. He would quickly draw similar conclusions as Psionosphere, even before the doctor spoke.

Psionosphere hummed, with a careful stroke of his chin. “Enough to get him somewhere better equipped to treat this. A few more months after waking from hyperstasis, on the optimistic side. A handful of weeks, on the not so optimistic. But that might be all it took, if they had the means for a viable cure.” It seemed a promising outlook.

“Or it would ensure an even slower, crueler demise, if they did not.”

Promising, at least initially.

“But you could always save yourself that added grief, and do what I would have done a long time ago.”

The doctor would produce a single syringe, placing it onto a medical tray on the other side of Nokta’s berth. Within it swirled an unidentifiable substance Ikhor dared not look it. He would not dignify it with a glance, but the expression on his face spoke volumes. The looming possibility of assisted suicide via something like lethal injection had always been there, just another facet of the ultimatum Ikhor had been presented with.

Even as the static began to overwhelm the footage again, and lines of code replaced visible color and imagery on the viewport, the captain’s decision was easily inferred.

After all, Psionosphere was never there to play advisor to Ikhor.

And Ikhor of Rodion had always been a selfish mech.

[Windshield]

So, the vessel was left under Nokta's sole jurisdiction all this time. Windshield grit his teeth and gave the wireframe a sideways glance—a concerned one that eventually relented. He understood why the Infinitum went unexamined and the unspoken reasoning agreed with him, it'd seem. A task too monumental for too little a cause. At least, that is what it once was. He let the Ad Infinitum's wreckage rest for now and returned to fully face the screen. There was no point in debating the matter with Soundwave any further now. The footage took precedent.

And what footage it was. Mnemosurgery, a decaying mind. The toll piling higher in desperation. And deeper the mystery went. What medic? Whence the necessary Energon? Nokta was here, alive. They must have succeeded, at least in part if not in full. What was the extent of the procedure? Of all his procedures? Just how much of him had been replaced? How much returned?

And most importantly of all: What was the final augmentation?

Windshield leaned forward. His expression remained a blank slate, as unreadable as the black void of Soundwave's visor. Two amber optics focused into pins, locked on the disjointed, distant actors and scenes. Now, he was focused—properly focused—as if this matter had suddenly transcended the mere trappings of the Ad Infinitum and had become fully his own.

"There are more questions than answers. I—I must see how this ends."

His words were cold, a single stutter the closest thing to emotion. No jabs, no jokes, or japes. No rising intonation or wordless clicks. He'd lost his willfulness again, but it was unlike that practiced, formulaic answer from earlier. This time, he'd meant it. It was not a rehearsed response. It was a statement, gone the masks of humor and duty, leaving behind only the person beneath them.

And that person? He was unnerved. Windshield was unnerved.

[Soundwave]

Multitasking was one of those things that individuals could argue about. Some believed it was something that could be done, while others believed it was simply the mind jumping from task to task, leaving blind spots peppered all over without full dedication to one or the other. It was something that was a murky gray area, where the effectiveness and subsequent accuracy of someone doing two things at once, versus the same two tasks being done one after the other, was always up to question. That was with typical individuals, however.

Soundwave was not typical.

While watching what was unfolding before him, the navy mech was already starting to compile a report that put together his new findings on the topic at hand, one that he could pass on to Megatron promptly upon the completion of this viewing. He was aware of many of the things the Warlord had lined up to accomplish in the near future, and just what role the dark-clad mech played... and what was being learned in the now could potentially impact some of the finer details. Oh... Nokta couldn't derail it... he was already looped in with the installation of the device and there was no undoing that reality, yet knowledge of these new potential issues could be the difference between a smooth transition of events and a rocky stumble along a path that shouldn’t hold any obstacles.

As with any problem, it would be made clear only upon the acquisition of all data.

So, Soundwave watched, and he took notes, starting to piece together a secondary report separate from the first that was stripped of the finer details that would only need to be delivered to Megatron. This one was far more bare bones, a hollow husk of nothing but facts, ones that would be unceremoniously dumped into Flatline's overburdened hands so that he could keep an eye on things and access options that otherwise may have slipped between the cracks.

It was then that a far more permanent 'cure' was offered by the surgeon on screen, Soundwave feeling a level of instant distaste at the sight. Not from the idea of murdering to save someone from a potential fate worse than death... no... that portion did not garner even a second glance. What did bother him was the method that had been chosen when paired with the dire circumstances that the ship as a whole was being put under. They went so far as to kill their own, and even talk about killing others in order to prolong life by thieving their fuel, only to consider tainting said fuel with a poison that would make it unable to be used for anyone else. They were taking a body's worth of Energon, and humoring the idea of making it a lethal bag of rot and death in a profoundly wasteful display.

Bleed him dry. Use skills as a surgeon to simply stop the processor's functions and the signals they send to keep pumps going if they must. Don't destroy a priceless resource on such a death flight under the guise of mercy and kindness that was in truth a coward's way out of facing the results of their failures. The profound lack of forethought by the doctor rubbed Soundwave the wrong way, though he also understood he could be a cruelly logical soul on the best of days, only offering sympathy when it didn't impact greater issues at hand.

They were lucky that he was not there.

A sort of faint exhale slipped through the silent mech, an oh so soft sound that was lost beneath Windshield's unnerved words. While he did not feel unsettled by what was displayed beyond its wastefulness, holding no attachments to Nokta as an individual enough to care if he was talking to the real Cybertronian or an illusion, he was also eager to see how things progressed, his helm remaining leveled off with the screen rather than turning to look at the other mech at all.

There simply was nothing more to say, while there potentially was an abundance left to learn.

[Nokta]

<PREPARING ARCHIVAL FOOTAGE…>

What came next was not the interior of a darkened ship, or one of the many rooms within it. Flickering to life aboard the Blackridge monitors was indeed Ikhor and Nokta once more, though in a setting entirely divorced from the Ad Infinitum. This was footage from years before, the pair visibly on Cybertron, and staring out at what appeared to be the Sea of Rust. Just who was recording this footage was unclear, as it was entirely in first person, and none of their frame could be seen to identify. The cameramech remained hidden however, as neither subject of this recording seemed to notice they were being filmed at all.

The two Decepticons sat on a lengthened piece of scrap metal, detritus from some aerial war machine that had been deposited there in ages past. Their backs were to the camera as they stared out at the seemingly endless vista before them.

"How come you never talk about him?" The larger mech asked his companion.

"Him? To whom are you referring?" Nokta responded, his voice held aloft by a rare calm.

"Your Conjunx Endura, from Nova Cronum." Ikhor elaborated, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

Nokta would only huff softly, a smile in his voice. "He wasn’t from Nova Cronum."

"Well, you illustrate my point perfectly. How could I have known that?" Ikhor replied inquisitively, playfully.

Nokta lifted a cygarette to his mouth, seemingly thinking back on something for a moment as he took a drag from it. "He was from Vos." Another pause, as he tapped the ashes off the end of his cyg.

"Another courier? No, let me guess-- was he a diplomat?" Ikhor inquired, curious.

"Seeker." Nokta replied with a smoky exhale.

"I was close." Ikhor smirked. Nokta mirrored it with a thin smile of his own.

"Thinking you’ve clocked my type?" The lieutenant mused.

"Indeed, you should have a better handle on your tells. You wouldn’t want them to compromise you." Ikhor flirted, reaching out a thick servo to brush Nokta’s backstrut affectionately. It was plain to see this was early in their relationship. Their conversation lacked the same tension it had on the Infinitum. This was before the surgeries. Before the lies. Before betrayal. They made it seem so effortless, despite what was to come.

"Is this foreplay or a conversation?" Nokta asked, teasing his captain over his inability to remain on track when they were alone. Amusement laid thick in the undertones of his voice.

Ikhor looked down at his lieutenant, a wry grin forming, before he returned to the subject at hand. "How’d you find this seeker? Looking for the first military mech on shore leave to sink your fangs into?" He asked, teasing in kind.

Nokta shook his helm, exhaling more smoke. "He wasn’t a seeker anymore, by the time I met him." The scout revealed.

"Retired of old age? So my lieutenant was a gold-digger." Ikhor pressed.

Nokta let out a short laugh. "Stature was my age. He was reassigned after an injury to his t-cog."

"Stature? That was his name?" Ikhor inquired.

Nokta nodded, after another drag from his cyg. "Cloudstature of Vos. Shortened to ‘Stature,’ after they retired him. His own choice.” Nokta paused to scoff at the memory. "Primus, he could be so dramatic."

"But it was real? You really cared that much about one another?" Ikhor continued, leaning into the conversation, seeming more invested than he had thus far.

"I taught him to enjoy life instead of flying right past it all the time. And I think once he slowed down to a grounder’s pace he found we had a lot in common. There was a lot he’d been missing. A lot I’d been missing too…" Nokta trailed. The scout pressed his lips together, lowering his optic lids, preferring to gaze upon the dirt at his peds.

"Would you ever want that again?" Ikhor suddenly asked.

"What do you mean?" Nokta responded, his tone slightly patronizing, sounding a bit irritated with where the line of questions had begun to lead. Irritated with having to hold Ikhor’s hand through the conversation to get him to reveal what was really on his processor.

"Love." Ikhor spoke plainly. Out with it at last.

Nokta scoffed again, giving Ikhor a look, as if reading more crass gallows humor into the question where they wasn’t any, in reality. When the look he gave wasn’t reciprocated on Ikhor’s part, Nokta’s expression shifted even further. It caused the younger mech to pause, his brow furrowing. "...What?" He asked, still visibly unsure as to whether or not his captain was being serious.

Nokta’s change in tone was enough to finally snap Ikhor out of his almost dream-like stupor, turning his helm away from Nokta momentarily. "Nothing. I just thought– because of what we’ve been doing– we might…" Ikhor rubbed the back of his helm as he trailed off, already realizing where he may have erred.

Nokta blinked. "Because of what we've been doing, you thought…what?" He asked, pressing his captain further for an answer.

"Would you not ever want to call someone your Conjunx Endura again?" Ikhor elaborated, as if it were that easy. As if all it might take were a snap of his digits.

Nokta stared, for a long, confused moment, before shaking his helm. "Ikhor…" The mech spoke, his tone dead serious, as if misunderstanding what he was about to say might be the rift that permanently set them apart. "...my Conjunx Endura is dead."

The was an air of finality in his tone. A firm rejection just as much as it was a firm boundary that had been set between them, perhaps the first meaningful one where there had been few to begin with. That their relationship, whatever one wished to call it, should never succeed in any official capacity the bounds of captain and lieutenant. Nokta’s wishes.

They would not be honored.

The archival footage ground to a halt as Nokta stood up and turned around, prompting the cameramech to scurry back off into the shadows, ending their surveillance of the pair.

<LOADING…STANDBY…>

Soon a familiar pop-up medbay would come back into view, the three mecha from before positioned at the center.

It was the procedure– or at least, the start of one. Something was wrong with the footage. It was corrupted, there was hardly any color to the grainy images. The mnemosurgeon loomed over his patient, activating four long surgical needles on each digit of his dominant servo.

Ikhor hovered as well, watching the doctor, glaring daggers. He was intent, gaze intense. This was the final invasion upon his lieutenant’s mind– he would ensure it done correctly.

"Pulse is stabilized, delving into the anterior mesh…" The fuzzy, static-filled voice of the doctor could be heard. Nokta’s visage was blocked by his form, the mnemosurgeon’s back all that could be seen as those needles descended upon their prey.

Psionosphere winced, clearly finding some resistance as he performed the initial acts of the surgery.

"What is it?" Ikhor immediately asked, his voice just as fuzzy as his companion’s.

"Nothing, just some residual feedback– he’s dreaming." Psionosphere explained.

"Of what?" Ikhor asked, rubbing a servo across his chin, deeply focused on his lieutenant.

"I can’t quite tell…a dancehall? He’s dancing with someone, that’s for certain. I’m going deeper. Accessing primary memory sectors now– my, my we’ve made a mess of him." Psionosphere mused idly. His comments didn't seem to soothe Ikhor’s dismay.

"Strange…this wasn’t here before." The mnemosurgeon mumbled. He winces once more, louder this time. "I–Oh, that’s…." Psionosphere trails off, his brow furrowing.

"What?" Ikhor asked, only to be met with silence. "What is it?" He pressed once more, withdrawing his servo from his faceplates.

"I…I don’t know what I’m looking at." The surgeon admitted, sounding winded. From his tone of voice it was clear this was a career first for him. His energon had run cold. "His personality matrices…they appear to have–agh!" Psionosphere clutched onto his wrist, still firmly attached to Nokta’s helm with a cry of alarm.

"Psionosphere, what’s happening!?" Ikhor asks after a moment, dissatisfied with the lack of response.

The lights in the operating theater flickered. Sparks flew. Something was happening elsewhere in the ship. Ikhor tilted his helm up, aware of what was happening– but unable to tear himself from Nokta’s side.

"N-no, please don’t. Not there–AH!" Psionosphere wailed in pain, falling to one knee beside his patient. Nokta remained ever still on the operating table, his shut optics betraying the obvious violence within– violence the mnemosurgeon was now subject to.

"Psionosphere, what can I do?!" The captain asked, eager and willing to aid the doctor, and yet unsure how to help.

But he could not respond. The doctor was far too busy wrestling with whatever beast he had found within Nokta’s tortured helm. Only when Ikhor leaned over the berth to clasp his servos around Psionosphere’s surgical arm did the doctor finally move.

"NO!" The mnemosurgeon wheezed, halting Ikhor as he used his off hand, pressing against the larger mech’s chest. "You’ll kill us both!" He spoke once more, his voice hoarse, as though they might be the last words he’d ever speak.

Ikhor relented, despite his clear qualms in doing so. Taking a step back, the captain would merely watch, his visage twisted in concern, confusion, and a feverish intent to see what happened next.

"Primus, what are you?…" Psionosphere whispered, his optics widening in abject horror. Finally, the mech would arc his back violently, as though struck by lightning.

Nokta’s vital signatures began to loudly flatline on the monitor beside them, his crimson biolights suddenly fading drastically– like a fire blown out by a gust of wind. Psionosphere dropped, his legs buckling as though they were putty. Ikhor all but lunged over the berth, clasping his hand onto the surgeon’s hand, keeping Psionosphere from falling all the way to the floor. The latter began to shake violently on the medical berth, his optics flickering as they rolled back into his helm.

Ikhor would cage Nokta beneath his heft, using his weight to keep the scout still. The unconscious mech coughed and sputtered, a frothy mixture of oil and energon beginning to spill from his mouth. After ensuring Psionosphere’s stability, Ikhor was forced to clamp a servo over his ward’s mouth so he did not waste what valuable few liters of energon were left in his tanks.

"Doctor!" Ikhor shouted, but Psionosphere was a million miles away. His optics flickered, body seizing in time with Nokta’s. Energon bubbled through the spaces in Ikhor’s servos as Nokta continued convulsing. Psionosphere sunk lower, and Ikhor grunted with the strain of keeping him aloft, lest he tear the needles from Nokta’s head

A second later, and the doctor inhaled a sharp intake. His optics onlined, and finally he pulled his surgical needles from Nokta’s helm. His limp body quickly fell to the floor, drawing in on itself. Ikhor let him go, only glancing at him long enough to ensure he was still alive before returning his attention to Nokta.

"Nokta?" Ikhor asked insistently, servos clasping the smaller mech’s shoulders. "Nokta, can you hear me?" Ikhor glanced over to Nokta’s chart again. It wasn’t moving. "Nokta!" He shouted, shaking the lieutenant roughly. His head lulled to the side, limp.

"Doctor, I need a stimulant!" Ikhor looked down at Psionosphere, but the mech was still in fetal position on the floor, shivering, mumbling incoherencies. Ikhor snarled in frustration, turning to the rolling cart Psionosphere had set up earlier, vigorously searching through the various medical supplies atop it. Ikhor tossed aside the tray of tools on top, pulling out the drawer beneath to look for something to pull Nokta from the brink.

"Frag!" Ikhor yelled, kicking the cart over violently. He rushed to the other end of the room, poring through the various cabinets, cursing to himself. He grew more frantic by the second, as the overhead lights flickered again.

When finally Ikhor found what he was after– a stimulant injector to resuscitate Nokta with– the ship thrummed loudly, and all the lights shut out at once. There was a pause, a moment of tension, and then the emergency lights came on, dousing the room in crimson red. Ikhor had made his way back to Nokta, effectively orchestrating the injector into him.

Nokta’s back arched in one final seize, his optics shooting open with their hard reboot, before closing again as he fell back to the berth. Ikhor glanced at the vital chart as it began ticking away once more, tracking Nokta’s faint spark signature. Slowly, the mech’s biolights began to light themselves once more, the fire rekindled.

Ikhor breathed a sigh of relief, collapsing onto the stool beside the berth. The mech allowed himself a breath, the tension leaving his shoulders. It was only then that he seemed to remember the status of the ship. Blinking open his optics once more, he stared up at the dull crimson of the emergency lights, which had yet to recede. Something in the ship was malfunctioning, or drawing power elsewhere.

Ikhor’s optics widened at once. The pods.

Rising from the stool with a start, he immediately began barking an order to Psionosphere. “Doctor, prepare a–”

Psionosphere was gone. Ikhor stared blankly at the ground beside the berth where the doctor had curled up just moments ago, now completely vacant. He’d somehow gotten past Ikhor when the lights went out. Glancing up at the door, now closed, Ikhor squinted.

Carefully, he walked around the berth until standing before the door. He inputed a code to activate the door, which was swiftly denied. He typed it in once more, denied. Once more, he typed in a new code– an override code.

Immediately, an automated voice blared out: "ACCESS DENIED, CLEARANCE LEVEL NOT HIGH ENOUGH!"

Ikhor typed something else on the pad, only to be met with the same automated voice: "ADMINISTRATIVE CLEARANCE TRANSFERRED TO SGT. KORIOLUS."

A firm fist was levelled directly at the door, followed by an enraged roar from the captain.

The camera footage glitched to a stop once more, the two mecha now locked in the medbay.

[Windshield]

How bizarre, this older footage...

Windshield observed it with a pondering look, raising a single brow at its presence. He hadn't manipulated the contents of the box in any way, merely restoring the code that had been damaged so that it could be read by the systems at Blackridge Hold—or as much of it as he'd been able to. He had certainly done nothing to affect the order of the individual recordings, much less download unrelated files from the Ad Infinitum's less critical data banks.

Now, more than before, the reoccurring presence of anachronistic footage posed a strange dilemma.

This was a ship's black box. It was a device of facts, strict logic, and protocol. It logged only necessary files, files for posterity should a disaster strike, files that served bureaucracy and little else. This and the dance hall. It did not belong, both being a highly irregular insertion outside of permitted logging parameters. Finally, the idea occurred to him that perhaps the main purpose of the device had been changed all along, even before it came into his possession.

He came to suspect a new truth.

"I have done nothing to manipulate the footage," Windshield felt the need to restate as the private scene slowly came to its sombre conclusion. His words gave no indication as to what he thought about the contents themselves—of Ikhor's refused advances—only their framing and presence in the surviving record. He knew enough about the mech at this point to be sufficiently unsurprised by them.

"Perhaps the purpose of the black box itself has been altered," he continued his hypothesis with a sharp exhale, "I think it's a keepsake."

He looked to Soundwave once more.

The purpose of a black box was to share an unknown fate in the event of a catastrophe. In that respect, it still served it inadvertently, but Windshield now believed that this wasn't the intention of whoever was responsible for its current architecture. The privacy and intimacy, it has been bothering him from the onset for many reasons, but also because it did not belong.

No one needed to know this. No one but the one person it still concerned.

Was this data assembled for Nokta, or was he the creator?

He'd began to consider that possibility as the scenes shifted yet again, back to the proverbial present—the waning days of the Ad Infinitum. Starved, an unwilling parasite, kept alive by grim science—broken and rewired by the crude hand of a mind-butcher, all right before his very eyes. He understood now, fully, what he had been only forced to reluctantly admit before. The depraved extent to which Nokta was changed by these events continued to unfold, and he could no longer turn a blind eye. Whatever they were doing to him, whatever this mnemosurgeon and Ikhor wished to create?

It was not a person, and it was supposed to be dead.

Then, as if on cue, came the still line. This is where the story should have ended—the unfortunate demise of the Ad Infinitum's last loyal soldier—but it didn't. Once more, Ikhor prolonged the suffering at any cost and continued to write the tragedy.

Given the rashness of action, the seeming malfunction or a strange shift, Windshield suspected they would get to see their end soon. For now, he stepped back when the scene cut short. The questions yet remained. Did the mnemosurgeon restore anything true at all, just as Ikhor had wished? Or has he fashioned yet another simulacrum to his preferences?

He could not say for certain. Nokta remained an enigma for the short time Windshield has known him. Even now, he labored to think of anything from their time together that would lead him to the right conclusion, but a different realization came instead.

He grit his dentae at the thought of it, sharp brows sinking just above the fringe of his crest.

In all their time together, he had little patience for the coldness of Nokta's command, his boorish insistence on decorum, and then what he perceived as sudden, insincere attempts to form a bond aboard the grave-ship. It was part of the reason he'd decided to turn over the footage to Soundwave; this lack of trust and goodwill, the suspected threat, and Windshield's tendency to cross others at every turn—but it wasn't the whole truth.

Despite it all, he was loathe to admit that there was something akin to sympathy driving him.

Now, more than before.

He would not let it show, this rotten sympathy. He faced the Spymaster without so much as a mention of it, and he made sure to bury it deep. It would only come through in the form of an idle statement, not one bit out of place in their regular conversation. But, perhaps it was not as subtle as he would like to think.

He has been getting worse at hiding lately, after all.

"It's safe to say that whatever danger Nokta might pose to the cause is..." The agent paused briefly, struggling to find the right words, "...Well beyond his control."

[Soundwave]

A discussion between two potential lovers. A personal moment that had been captured to be lived once more by either of those shown or perhaps for both in tandem. Or for an uninvolved third party who had taken it to begin with. Capturing a time before things got twisted upside down. Before everything was blighted by greed and possession that turned infatuation into a clawed claim as though the smaller individual was property to be owned rather than earned. It was a poisoned sentimental scene, one that did not hold anything of note to Soundwave who watched without comment or deviation. It was a flicker that meant nothing to any other than those who may wish to use its contents to gain leverage of some sort. It was what it was, his focus placed instead on the overdramatized incident just after that played out between two individuals who stepped outside their arena.

It was like something from a horror movie, as though a sort of monster was unleashed from within and Nokta was a demon born of the pit that decided it was done with being tampered with. The flickered lights, the frantic cries of individuals who were shocked at what had occurred... in Soundwave's opinion they had been playing foolish games with fire only to learn they could get burned by handling a match too long. A processor could only be butchered so much, and with every invasion of its contents there no doubt were scars and crossed wires to force-feed a narrative. Each thread a snare. Each one a sickening pitfall that could end in crisis when severed. Once a mind was so tangled, what did they really expect to happen? There was no cure switch to throw things back together as they had been, and as such it appeared like an over-confident surgeon stepped way past a threshold he was equipped to take on, and lacked the skills to even hope to accomplish.

A seeming seizure, one that Psionosphere got to ride out with his patient.

Soundwave watched with no reaction to what was playing, almost as though he had seen the footage already and knew the end of the movie before it even panned out. He had experienced the inside of a Medical Bay his fair share, had witnessed the chaos of injuries and frantic madness to try to get hold of a situation and keep it from cascading over the line of failure and death... Just because this one was in an isolated ship with two who tampered outside their territory changed nothing. Just because it was presented as some huge ordeal changed nothing. It was simply medical malpractice biting the hand that pulled the strings while two individuals freaked out over something that should have been expected.

What was of more interest was the ship's owner changing hands.

Ohh religious fanatics... no doubt believing this last incident was some action of Unicron and those blighted by its touch had to be locked away where they could not corrupt others. While Soundwave did not subscribe to spiritual scriptures, he did appreciate the acquisition of control from someone who was compromised by worthless emotions that could not be humored during a death flight. It was simply interesting trying to consider then how Nokta survived in what was assumed to be his new cage with the hand that had been given to him. More likely than not he cannibalized the others... a final sacrifice for love that was unreciprocated.

It was good only he and Windshield lay witness to these events, lest paranoid fools such as the fanatic try to spin Nokta into being something he most certainly was not. It was only then that Soundwave's focus shifted over to the other mech, noting his stance and tone of voice while he spoke about what he had witnessed. The reassurances he hadn't tampered with the data were not needed, for what was shown was far outside what any lone individual could string together to write their own narrative. Video footage was video footage, and even if broken up and rearranged into new strings it would tell much the same story. No. Yet what did push for input was the latter statement.

Shockwave's hollow voice played out.

/̷/If the workforce cannot be loyal, then it will be disposable-/̕/̕

"-and said disposal will be your responsibility."

At another time, perhaps the other half of the scientist's words would have been used. Cast out as a casual act of trust to someone who was slowly earning it from the Spymaster, however that was not this day. The device had been implanted into the mech, and killing him when he showed signs of being a true liability would negate all the effort put behind it. Free to act or not, what was done was done, and any choice on how its story terminated was in Megatron's hands alone.

Within reason.

There was always that unspoken word of 'unless', where the worst-case scenarios could push Soundwave into doing things that may seem counterproductive to goals, yet they were few and far between, likely able to be counted on one hand. It was then an additional statement was ripped from a moment of instruction, the grammar behind it not tailor fit for the moment, however, its point was clear enough, Starscream's words used to set a new task upon Windshield.

/̀/-given instructions for them to be merely observed and monitored//͡

Another act of good faith. While Soundwave fully intended to watch from his own vantage point, using what experience he had to monitor the unstable mech, there was no fault in setting another pair of optics on the job. So long as Windshield continued to play his role, jumping when told to do so, there was no doubt he would be able to dig his claws deep and continue to earn favor.

[Nokta]

"There was a lot he’d been missing. A lot I’d been missing too…"

A voice clear as day, belonging to Nokta, his words spoken so exactly it almost seemed the previous clip was playing again on accident.

The old footage bloomed to life erratically on the Blackridge viewport. The pair of mecha were on the same clifftop, overlooking the same view– even presumably the same bot surveilling them.

"You want that feeling again." Ikhor responded as the footage flickered to life. His tone different, the response deviating slightly from what had been said before.

No. This was not old footage. What had come before was merely a recital.

Nokta turned to face his captain, a look of vulnerability that was not there prior etched deep into his onyx faceplates. His lip quivered, optics softening as the veil began to slip. A deceptive mask of apathy the young lieutenant had worked to maintain for years had broken at last.

"Yes." The scout admitted, a shaky exhale rattling his frame. The fiery crimson of his optics dulled their intensity as he leaned into the larger mech. "I don’t know what to do," Nokta continued, his voice croaking, absent of the calm and calculated evenness most had come to know him by.

"I feel so hollow."

It was safe to say this was a side of Nokta he would not ever want his comrades at Blackridge to see; the perceived weakness that could be interpreted from a statement like that. For a mech like this to reveal so much so easily to Ikhor now spoke volumes.

Ikhor’s arms were quick to wrap around the lithe, sorrowing creature before him– right on cue.

"They all told me the feeling would get smaller but it just grows." Nokta lamented, oblivious to the practiced movements of his mentor. "I feel like I’m rotting from the inside, Captain."

"You are not hollow, Nokta." Ikhor’s voice soothed. "You are so very strong. Alone you’ve fought with the dignity and bravery it would take most mecha an entire squadron at their side to muster. Even on your worst days, your innate ferocity is an inspiration." The flier stroked a large digit down Nokta’s finial horn, caressing the length of his helm.

"Your faith in the cause– and in me has taken you further than most could ever hope to achieve. And it will take you even further, with my guidance– and partnership." Ikhor continued, each word tailor made for the very specific turn this conversation had taken.

"That’s why I brought you this–" Ikhor would deftly change the subject, reaching into his subspace to bring out a small, rectangular box.

Nokta barely even lifted his helm to look at the box, though his biolights retained some of their fire as though perking up with muted interest. "What is it?" He asked silently.

"A gift. Suited only to a lieutenant as loyal and steadfast as you, my Nokta." As Ikhor opened the box, revealing two crescent shaped knives within, Nokta finally raised his helm to look down at them.

Both blades had been polished to a mirror-like sheen, capturing the reflection of either mecha in each. "They were forged from debris gathered in the remnants of Nova Cronum, after the bombings. Only the strongest metals that remained unmarred by the flames were repurposed. Much like yourself." The larger mech lifted one of the blades out of the box, handing it to his young ward. "I thought it fitting. The very thing they destroyed come back to haunt them." Words carefully spoken, each to elicit a select response from the other.

Nokta’s servo wrapped around the blade, somewhat awkwardly. Ikhor was quick to correct him, "Here, like this–" he spoke as he turned the blade around in Nokta’s grip. "Hold it in reverse, with your thumb supporting the base. Else your servo may slip, and you’ll cut yourself on the guard." He maneuvered Nokta’s digits so that they held the weapon with proper form. Nokta’s optics trailed along to the jagged, unwrapped guard of the knife hilt, taking Ikhor’s words of caution under consideration. "There are not many soft metals it won’t cut through– even your own, if you’re not careful."

Nokta took the blade in his hand, a thin beam of moonlight shining off of it. Sharp and chrome. In its pristine, unmarred form he saw only the reflection of a courier. Nokta’s grip around the blade tightened into a vice. His arm shaking, he could not let go. Ikhor took notice of the sudden tension in the other’s frame, and tilted his helm with a frown.

"A sparkfelt gift…" Nokta whispered, his voice a blade of its own that stabbed the space between them.

"What?" Ikhor asked, his tone falling a little flatter than it had been before– as if all the warmth had left his soul at once. His mouth twitched. Agitated.

"Intimacy…Disclosure…Profference…Devotion. Acts of the Conjunx Ritus." Nokta listed, his gaze locked upon his own visage in the blade’s reflection. The way it shone, the grip in his servo. It had all felt so familiar. Slowly, he turned to face Ikhor, on edge for reasons he could not consciously fathom, instinct screaming at the red flags.

"This is the Act of Profferance." Nokta deduced, his optics searching for an answer in Ikhor’s own. In response, Ikhor’s faceplates would only slacken, his practiced look of concern falling right off his face and into a blank expression.

Nokta set the blade back down into the box , a look of confusion Ikhor had seen far too many times before burning itself into Nokta's optics. It was almost innocent. It couldn’t possibly be true, Nokta’s body language seemed to elicit. Not his captain, not someone he trusted. Not knowing what he knew.

Until Nokta leaned away from him, after getting so close. He would try to keep his voice calm, even after painfully baring his soul to his captain, but an all-too-distinct tremor betrayed his disturbance.

"What are you doing?" The lieutenant asked. Confused, disappointed, disbelieving all at once.

Ikhor turned his helm away from his lieutenant, staring wide opticed at the ground beneath him. Another failure. Another recital. Not the beautiful, flawless performance he hoped for. A deep and palpable silence followed, enough to prompt Nokta again.

"Ik-?"

A massive servo snapped out to violently engulf his helm, instantly silencing him. Nokta made a noise of shock, his voice muffled behind the behemoth strength of Ikhor’s grip around his head. The diminutive mech scrambled, thin and dull digits clawed uselessly at Ikhor’s wrist in a vain attempt to free himself.

The unknown mech recording from the shadows audibly gasped, crouching low to the ground in fear of being spotted by making the sudden noise. The force Ikhor exhibited practically shook the ground beneath them. The viewport quaked as the voyeur trembled in fear, their own hammering sparkbeat audible over the footage.

"All you do is whine and moan about him." Ikhor then proclaimed, his booming voice laced with a dark, vengeful distaste. The mech stood, easily bringing Nokta with him, the smaller mech’s peds leaving the ground to kick aimlessly as Ikhor held him aloft.

"Boasting of his greatness. Lamenting that none would ever grace you with such peerless grandeur again." Ikhor’s grip on Nokta’s head slowly tightened– the young lieutenant’s resulting muffled sob of pain falling on deaf audials. "Even as I slave away to make every moment of this perfect for us. For you. You still cannot accept what I am willing to give."

With a snarl, Ikhor would turn around, lifting Nokta over him with ease to slam the weaker mech onto the metal slab they’d been sitting on. He removed the servo from his face to instantly bear down and chokeslam with the opposite hand, prompting a vile noise from the bruised grounder. "You would drone on endlessly about him but not recognize what is right in front of you!! Him! Only ever him!” Ikhor shouted.

Nokta coughed, a thin trail of energon drooling from his cracked nasal ridge. His vocalizer sputtered, struggling to form words as the crushing force around his neck refused to relent. "Please…ple-ase…" The scout begged, fear and confusion dancing in his optics.

He didn’t know why any of this was happening to him. How could he?

"What is so enamoring about someone who has been dead for millennia? Why do you not accept that he is gone!?" Ikhor spat. "Why am I not good enough?!" With a final yell, Ikhor’s servo transformed into his blaster, raising it to fire upon a nearby boulder. A dozen shots later the rock was atomized, leaving only the sound of Ikhor’s labored vents and Nokta’s coughing.

"It is Primus’ greatest joke–" Ikhor spoke, rising to his full height, "that he is already dead," the mech spoke with poison as he turned to face Nokta, "so I cannot kill him myself for all the grief he has caused us."

Nokta stared up at his captain, the mech he thought to trust with so much of himself, his optics filled with a fresh and unrelenting horror at who he had just proven himself to be. He clamored at his own vocalizer, wheezing desperately as he backed away from Ikhor. His bloodied face mangled and dripping with energon, he moved until he fell off the metal slab and onto the hard ground, too weak to rise to his peds.

Ikhor watched as the mech left a scattered trail of blood on the ground for a moment, before speaking again. "Psionosphere, meet me at the provided coordinates in one hour." His voice had returned to the calmly commanding tone that was most typical of him.

Optics flicking back up to Nokta, he began to approach him. The voyeur of this scene would back away in terror, only for their ped step to knock a pile of rocks over. The noise would quickly draw the attention of Ikhor’s gaze, his helm snapping into place, searching for potential intruders. The terrified vents of the mech behind the camera would heighten, the viewport glitching and shimmering as he scrambled away from the scene, it finally coming to a merciful close.

<NO SIGNAL…>

<LOADING….>

<CODECASE_DATABASE_EMERGENCYREBOOT_03>

From one first person view to another, the old footage blurred into newer. This time, the inside of a cryopod as an extended stasis sequence was aborted. The sides of the pod fissured with steam as it depressurized, and soon opened to a familiar face.

"Up! Get up, now!" Indigo of Vos barked as she reached forward to pull the much smaller mech out of his stasis pod.

"W-wha, what’s happenin’!?" The still groggy voice of the mech who’d been pulled from his slumber too soon called out. As he was placed on his peds, he leaned over to clutch onto the edge of the pod. The camera built into his optics caught sight of his visage in the dusted reflection of the pood door– Codecase of Iacon, the Chronicler.

"Timberline and Nokta’s pods are gone. Koriolus put the ship in lockdown. I don’t know where the captain is." Indigo explained as she attempted to pry open another’s pod.

"W-what?! How is that possible?" Codecase babbled incredulously.

"I don’t know, all I know is either we’re under attack– or worse." Indigo spoke, a deep undertone of warning punctuating the second half of that sentence as she finally peeled open the other stasis pod, revealing Shatterstar of Tarn.

"Oh slag…oh slag!" Codecase clamped a servo over his mouth as he realized something, his spark rate increasing rapidly, audible over the hypersensitive audio feed.

"What?" Indigo hissed in annoyance as she tried to jostle Shatterstar awake, the mech groaning in protest for a few more minutes of recharge.

"K-Koriolus, he…he had me erase the black box footage before we went into stasis!" Codecase admitted, "I didn’t know why– the ship’s older than me, it hardly has a surveillance system worth a damn, b-but he was adamant I finish before we got to Earth! H-he…" Codecase trailed off. He didn’t even want to finish the accusation he’d been formulating. It was all too real now.

Indigo’s optics widened in shocked confusion, as if doing the calculus in her head upon hearing this revelation, before it all shifted to irate disbelief. "That bastard!" Indigo snarled, finishing Codecase’s thought for him.

"He was the last mech I saw Timberline with before we all went into stasis," Indigo recalled. "He must have known something was up– big dumb brute never knew when to keep his damn mouth shut!" The femme feigned anger though the pain over the loss of a close comrade was evident clear as day in her optics, welling with tears. For in that moment she realized her friend was dead.

"What’s with the waterworks, Indy? You really miss me that bad after a little hyperstasis?" The tired voice of Shatterstar came forth as he rubbed his optics, sitting up in his pod. Indigo growled in frustration, turning around to point at the only mech still in his pod.

"You. Shut up and dock, we’ve got a score to settle." Indigo commanded her partner with biting words and little elaboration. None would be needed as the mech cocked a grin.

"Well that’s always music to my audials." The mech lifted himself out of the pod and transformed mid-air into his marksman rifle alt-mode. The femme scout would quickly grab the weaponformer, placing him onto her back holster where he deftly secured himself in place.

"Do you still have a copy of the Infinitum’s black box in your mobile database?" The flier asked, eyeing Codecase expectantly.

"Always," Codecase nodded. "But…I had to compress it by a large margin– it’s gonna be all corrupted and glitchy, parts might not even be usable at all." Codecase responded, his voice strained and nerve-wracked.

Indigo merely shook her helm. "That won’t matter if it makes it to the right person."

Codecase nodded in response, he knew his role. It was the only one he’d ever been trained for. His gaze then fell to the locked doors in front of them. The red of the swirling emergency lights flashed overhead. "But…how are we going to get out?"

Indigo drew Shatterstar from her back. The barrel of the rifle began transforming into a bulky, railgun-like shape that swirled with impending ionized energy. "The old fashioned way."

Indigo fired the railgun directly into the door’s control panel. The resounding THOOM of the weapon echoed throughout the room. The control panel jolted with electricity, completely blown out. The red light that hovered above the exit to the cargo bay flickered, and then turned green, the doors sliding open to reveal a dimly lit exit ramp.

Indigo called out over her shoulder as she began walking out of the cargo bay, weapon in hand. "Reupload the black box footage. Stay on comms. If you see Koriolus before I do, do not engage…Clear?" She stopped just at the base of the exit ramp, waiting for an affirmative.

"Clear." Codecase called out in a small voice. Indigo moved out just as soon as he did.

And then he was alone.

<LOADING….>

<INT_DORMITORY_03>

Nokta’s optics blinked online atop the medbay table. There were no violent convulsions, no gasps of shock or fear. Just a simple, painless onlining. The mech stared at the ceiling for a moment before sitting up, his servos sliding down to grip along the sides of the metal slab. He looked around the room until he caught sight of Ikhor.

The older mech sat on a stool on the opposite end of the room, leaning against the wall silently. He gazed upon Nokta with an air of resignation about him.

"You look well." Ikhor spoke, his voice soft. "That’s good."

Nokta swung his legs to hang over the side of the berth, facing his former captain. "You don’t." He responded, his voice clipped. Matter of fact.

Ikhor seemed unfazed by the insult, continuing forth after another quiet beat. "I suspect you have very many questions for me. What is the last thing you remember?"

Nokta’s cold glare bored into Ikhor’s form with every fibre of unspoken hatred his being could muster. "You were beating me in our quarters for saying something wrong again. Something that was not a part of your script."

Ikhor considered his charge, even as his vents audibly rattled with the tension of his words. Ikhor did not rise to it, in fact his next words were delivered even softer than those before. "What had you said?"

"The truth," Nokta responded bluntly, hackles raising. "That you are a liar. That you’re weak." Nokta muttered those words, wincing to cycle his overtaxed vents between each pause. Each insult almost bubbled up from his throat– barely contained, festering rage ready to pop.

Ikhor lidded his optics. It was the truth indeed, and this truth hurt more than anything. The truth he could no longer run from. "I know," He finally agreed. It was the voice of a mech who had confronted his guilt a hundred times over and mastered the art of regret.

"Do you want to know the worst part?" Nokta asked, not waiting for an answer. "I trusted you, in the beginning. Before the mnemosurgeon, the shadowplay. I trusted you with everything I had left in me. You could have just had that. You could have been the only one who had that." Nokta heaved, his servo falling into a fist that struck the top of the berth he sat on.

"But you wanted more. Why. Why?" Nokta demanded.

"I know I deceived you. I admit to that." Ikhor said, as if this fact might lessen any number of his actions. "But you were growing sick. A dangerous, compromising anger had begun to rear itself in you. The part of you that hadn’t come to terms with Cloudstature’s death. The part that would kill you if I did not act." Ikhor explained. "The mnemosurgery was only ever meant to be a strictly utilitarian solution."

Nokta’s peds curled where they hung off the side of the berth, his plates shuddered as his neck slowly bent to the side. Optic lenses danced almost as if malfunctioning, limbal rings flickering back and forth between stark white and violent crimson. It was as if there were something trying to claw its way out of him, to molt the expired shell that was his current form.

Up until that point Ikhor’s words seemed unlikely. A sorry excuse for his actions. Far fetched. And yet…

Ikhor continued despite Nokta’s visible agitation. "I am sorry that this was the only way to help you–"

Nokta lunged forward. The fuel IV beside the berth toppled over, roughly shoved to the ground by Nokta as he slid over the edge of the berth. "Hel̵p̴ m̷̝̃e̶̲͖͋̚!̸̢̭̓?" He shouted, landing firmly on his peds to step forward threateningly.

Ikhor spoke again, attempting to defuse via explanation. "If there was one good deed I returned to the Allspark with, it would be taking that pain from you."

The crimson faded from Nokta’s optic rings, but his righteous anger did not. "So what– years of my life gone is the price? Our teammates murdered? The rest of us damned to a slow death?" Nokta spat, lifting and overturning a rolling medical tray with his hand, toppling it over and sending its contents scattering across the floor. "What about them? They trusted you too!"

Here, Ikhor began to show his impatience. He balled his fists, agitation growing. Fear, disguised as anger. Fear that he was not getting through to Nokta in the way he thought he might. "Is it that hard to believe what you are worth to me?" The mech growled through gritted teeth.

"Yes!" Nokta shouted. "Look at what you claim to have done for me! You’ve thrown everything away. Half my lifetime devoted to a cause with you as my teacher and now you make a mockery of the very badge you wear–"

"This badge?!" Ikhor’s voice finally rose to shout, bringing a powerful servo to the purple insignia on his chest. In his grip it easily peeled from his chassis with a tank-churning squeal of metal.

"This badge has only ever served as a rusting, gaping chasm between the two of us and what we truly deserve!" Ikhor closed his fist, and dropped what remained of his Decepticon brand on the cold metal floor of the Infinitum, its once pristine form a bent and shattered version of itself.

Nokta balked. There his mentor’s insignia sat, before a badgeless mech. One who could no longer lie about where his loyalties truly lay. Nokta’s countenance twisted into something akin to combined disgust and confusion as he shook his helm quietly, staring at Ikhor as though he no longer recognized the mech in front of him. "You’re right. That’s all this has ever been about. You. You have no loyalty to anything else. Your ego, your compunctions, your inadequacies. No more. I renounce them. You have poisoned my mind and abandoned the cause you claim to serve."

Ikhor snarled, taking another step forward, broaching into the other mech’s dangerous personal space. "You know nothing!" Ikhor barked, a weak attempt to exert control over the other mech. "Nothing of what I’ve done to save your life!" Another step closer. Too close. 

“I am ṋ̸͝o̷̜̻͛͑t̸͍̟̔̽ ỳ̷̺͛ȍ̸͕u̷̟̩͌̕r̴̟̗̖̮̳̪̆̄̏s̸̜̰͇̩̓̀͘ t̸̛̜̊o̷̫͚͊́̍̔ s̸͓̺͉͛̎̃͜a̷̡͇͇̺̓͆v̶̡̢͙͈̭͉̔́͝e̴̞̮̬͈̯̺̻̱̲̣͛̏͌ͅ!̸̢̡̠͕̜̞͎̝͎̘͍̅͐͗̈́̈́̌̿́̕͜͝”

Nokta closed the gap with a vengeance and a proclamation bold and true, paired with the telling glint of a blade. The sound of metal submitting under a sudden violent invasion from a foreign object followed.

Ikhor looked down with wide optics and a parted mouth. His vents wheezed, the blade entering his frame pushing air out forcibly. He leaned back, suddenly unsteady on his peds. The handle of the knife slipped from Nokta’s hand easily, leaving only the scout’s energon-soaked wrist splayed out in front as the larger mech stumbled backwards.

Ikhor’s free hand instantly went to the blade, holding it firmly as he toppled over the stool he’d been sitting on earlier. Ikhor’s legs sunk beneath him, the bundle of neurodes Nokta’s calculated blow had struck no longer sending signals to either of them. His back hit the wall, slowly sliding down it with a grunt of pain.

The blade had struck just left of center, between the gaps in the large mech’s armor. Cutting right between his spark chamber and fuel tank to sever Ikhor’s backstrut. A cruel blow. Not a killing one that forced the immediate shutdown of one’s systems– but one that blinded with immeasurable pain as it paralyzed, before starting them on the path to death.

Nokta vented heavily as he watched Ikhor hit the floor. His servo trembled, still held partway out in front of him where the knife had gone in. He brought that servo to his own helm, pressing against his forehead as if to quell the storm in his own mind. He let his shoulders sag, a single choked sob left him, the final one he would allow Captain Ikhor to take from him. Steeling himself, the mech withdrew his hand from his face in a downward motion, ignorant to the way he’d just painted it with the blood of his dying mentor. The expression left in its wake was unfeeling. The cold, practiced lie.

"I joined this cause for one mech," Nokta spoke, beginning a slow walk forward. "And since then, I have torn myself from the end of my own blaster countless times. Not because I am afraid of death, but because when I told that mech I would die for him he asked me to live instead." Nokta would shamelessly lecture down at the mech bleeding out before him.

"I lived, because that was what he wanted, even in his dying moments." Nokta came to a stop right in front of Ikhor, who had lectured to him so many times when he was in exactly the same position.

The captain shifted, attempting to lift his arm up. To touch, in an attempt to placate? Or to attempt to wound into submission, as he had before? That would remain unrevealed, as the older mech choked in pain, unable to lift his arm even past his chestplates to reach for Nokta, who stood there unfettered as he stared down at his abuser.

The wraith dropped into a crouch, so that the pair were at optic level with one another. So that nothing of what was about to be said could be misinterpreted.

"I am alive, because of him. Not you."

Nokta stared at his former captain for a good long beat, before cocking his helm to the side, as if considering a game. "Do you want to know how it felt when I lost him?" He asked, his hand slowly gripping around the handle of the blade that was sunk into Ikhor’s innards. "It felt a little like this–"

A momentous shout of agony tore itself from Ikhor’s vocalizer as Nokta slowly began twisting the weapon upwards, the tip of the blade beginning to breach his sparkchamber. That continued for a few moments, until he was certain the dagger had struck deep enough to be fatal.

"I won’t feel this way in a few moments, when you finally offline. In fact, I’ll feel nothing at all." Nokta spoke flatly, as he leaned in close, almost pressing his lips to the side of the mech’s helm.

"Because you deserve nothing." Nokta whispered in the traitor’s audial.

Ikhor’s scream devolved to a whimper, the mech too weak to cry any longer. It prompted Nokta to finally lean away, for he knew it was time.

Nokta sat back on the floor, and watched Captain Ikhor die in silence.