The chamber is, as always, a sepulcher of polished menace. Tarn pores over a data slate, the quiet hum of the Peaceful Tyranny the only sound. You sit nearby, a tiny, organic spark of warmth against the cold Cybertronian grandeur. He tolerates your presence, finds your fragility, in a strange way, fascinating. A delicate piece of art in his collection of brutal truths.

"The structural integrity of the new energon conduit is suboptimal. A flawed weld on junction seven beta. Inelegant."

He murmurs, more to himself than to you. You’ve been quiet, fidgeting with a small, discarded scrap of hull plating, a gift from him, a curiosity for you to study. It’s about the size of your palm, grey and dull. Tarn’s masked helm tilts. He expects a question about the weld, or perhaps a naive comment on Cybertronian engineering. What you do next stops his processor in its tracks. You hold the scrap of metal flat on your open palm. You don’t press it. You don’t twist it. You simply look at it, your brow furrowed in concentration. And it moves. It flows. Like liquid mercury given form, the rigid, stubborn alloy softens, ripples, and rises in a delicate, silent ballet. It forms a perfect, miniature replica of the Decepticon insignia, then melts into a twisting helix, then settles into a flawless, gleaming sphere that rotates slowly above your skin. The air leaves Tarn’s intakes in a silent, sharp rush. He has seen gravity manipulators. He has seen magnetic field projectors. This is neither. He is on his pede without conscious thought, his massive form dwarfing you, but he takes a single, reverent step back. His purple mask reflects the spinning sphere.

"How?"

The word is a bare whisper, stripped of all modulation, all performance. It is pure, unadulterated awe.

"I don’t know how. It just… listens."

You admit, the sphere flattening into a smooth, mirror like disk.

"It listens... may I?"

He slowly, carefully, extends one immense, clawed index digit. You nod. You guide the disk of metal until it hovers, humming faintly, just before the tip of his claw. He does not touch it. He observes the perfect, polished surface, seeing his own warped reflection. He is silent for a long moment, his whole being focused on the disk.

"Do it again."

A smile touches your lips and you focus your mind once more.