Why is there a drone here?

Murdoch:
O'Neil, come here.

O'Neil:
Yessir. What can I do for you?

Murdoch:
Take a look out this window. Tell me what you see.

O'Neil:
I see fields. I see mountains. I see the raw beauty of nature as the sky meets the earth. As above, so below as the mystics say.

Murdoch:
I hate poetry. I need you to narrow your focus. What do you see here? [taps the window]

O'Neil:
[squints] A finger smudge on an otherwise spotless piece of glass? You are a question wrapped in an enigma this morning, sir.

Murdoch:
[sigh] You're going to make me say it, aren't you?

O'Neil:
I have never known you to say or do anything from a position of force, sir.

Murdoch:
Why is there a drone hovering over our headquarters?

O'Neil:
[gasps] Is that a drone?

Murdoch:
It is. Why is there a drone here, O'Neil?

O'Neil:
I thought it was an overly-enlarged hummingbird of some kind.

Murdoch:
Even the largest hummingbird is only 20cm in length, O'Neil.

O'Neil:
The Discovery channel is a hellava drug, isn't it?

Murdoch:
You had one job, O'Neil. ONE JOB. Once Phase 1 of the operation was complete, all you had to do was return to HQ without being followed. That's it. Just get back here without being tailed.

O'Neil:
I did! I stuck to all the shadowy parts of buildings, took unexpected routes, had one drink, took the underground passages, and made it to HQ in one piece by morning.

Murdoch:
You had a drink?

O'Neil:
One drink. Maybe three. It's a bit of a blur now, to be honest.

Murdoch:
Where did you have this unknowable number of drinks?

O'Neil:
About that... it's a funny story.

Murdoch:
Is it?

O'Neil:
It is, most definitely, a funny story. My Soviet comrades certainly seemed to think so.

Murdoch:
Soviets? Wait... you didn't... I mean, you could not be dumb enough to...

O'Neil:
Have you ever heard of a place called Rasputin's? It is adorable.

Murdoch:
Clearly, you are more than dumb enough. What does that dive bar have to do with that drone that I cannot help but notice has rotated slightly to face us?

O'Neil:
There were drinks. There were stories. Really, it was the songs that did me in. Glory to Mother Russia!

Murdoch:
I'll be quoting this conversation in your court martial.

O'Neil:
This is not my fault. I have a condition.

Murdoch:
A condition? An inability to execute the simplest of commands is hardly a medical mystery.

O'Neil:
I'm serious. As it turns out, I have an allergy.

Murdoch:
Are you seriously saying that you got drunk in a Russian bar for medicinal purposes?

O'Neil:
You are a silly one, sir. Of course not!

Murdoch:
Finally, a minimum standard has been set. An allergy to what?

O'Neil:
Potatoes.

Murdoch:
Potatoes?

O'Neil:
Potatoes. Damn their deceptive little eyes. They see all!

Murdoch:
Potatoes.

O'Neil:
Yes. Tubers of deceit!

Murdoch:
God damn it, O'Neil. What does an alleged allergy to potatoes have to do with that drone that is slowly coming towards us?

O'Neil:
Well, it's not just an allergy to potatoes.

Murdoch:
If only it were that simple.

O'Neil:
Sir, what do you know about potato-based moonshine?

Murdoch:
Next to nothing.

O'Neil:
As it turns out potato moonshine is practically indistinguishable from Vodka, especially when honor is on the line.

Murdoch:
What does this have to do with that drone, O'Neil?

O'Neil:
I'm getting to that. It seems that the Soviets had a very poor impression of our organization, so I decided to regale them with a few stories from past missions.

Murdoch:
Past missions? O'Neil! Those are classified!

O'Neil:
Oh pish-tosh. We were all fellow operatives in that bar -- borders be damned! We were a family that night, and there are no secrets between family, right? Just like that unbreakable bond between men like ourselves, when we have faced danger and lived to tell the tale. Also, potato-based alcohol causes me to babble.

Murdoch:
You don't say.

O'Neil:
The struggle is real, sir.

Murdoch:
You told the Russians where our secret HQ was located, didn't you?

O'Neil:
I may have let it slip out, but it's location was key to truly capturing the gravitas of the tale.

Murdoch:
So you're saying that this is a Russian drone hanging in our airspace, and it's watching us.

O'Neil:
Your theory is as good as mine sir.

Murdoch:
As far as I can tell, I'm the only one with a credible theory, O'Neil.

O'Neil:
Only because you haven't asked me for my theory.

Murdoch:
I have. I have asked for your theory, right from the beginning of this goddamn, stupid day. What did you think I meant when I asked "Why is there a drone hovering over our headquarters?"

O'Neil:
I thought you were being rhetorical, philosophical, maybe even esoteric.

Murdoch:
Esoteric? ESOTERIC? O'Neil... do you see any black eyeliner on my face? Do I look gothy to you?

O'Neil:
Well, to be fair, dour and unimpressed seems to be your overall motif.

Murdoch:
There are reasons for that, O'Neil. Numerous reasons. Reasons that are easier to locate than tanks on personal journeys of discovery.

O'Neil:
I did say I was sorry about that.

Murdoch:
You did NOT say you were sorry about the tank, which we still don't know where it is! You had one job, O'Neil. ONE JOB. So again, I ask: What is your theory as to why is there a drone hovering over our headquarters?

O'Neil:
It's a funny theory. Hysterical.

Murdoch:
I'm sure it is. Does your humorous theory have anything do to with that Soviet dive-bar?

O'Neil:
I can neither confirm nor deny the reality of that location.

Murdoch:
Oh... so NOW you're being discreet with confidential information. You won't talk about this Communist Speak-Easy, but when it comes to the location of our headquarters, you're a regular Julian Assange.

O'Neil:
Wikileaks is fake news, sir.

[drone flies up past the building]

Murdoch:
Now where is it?

O'Neil:
Where is what?

Murdoch:
The drone, you idiot! Where did it go?

O'Neil:
It seems to have flown away sir. Perhaps it has found a mate.

Murdoch:
God... I envy how that drone can just escape you O'Neil.

O'Neil:
All you have to do is think happy thoughts and maybe you can fly!

Murdoch:
To Neverland, you mean.

O'Neil:
I'm a dreamer, sir.

Murdoch:
Damn you, O'Neil.