The Empyrean Suite played loudly over the speakers, filling the air with its whimsical, enchanting tones. Notes like spun starlight cascaded through the corridors, light and reverent, each swell meant to honor Prima and the Citadel of Light. It was beautiful—achingly so—but such beauty was expected of a composition written in devotion to the Primes.

Even if it was accompanied by the sounds of screaming.

You tilted your helm slightly, audials fine-tuned beyond necessity, and listened past the music’s gilded harmony. Beneath the violins and choral synths came the real chorus: the agonized screams of Tarn’s newest victims. Joints screamed as they were torn free. Sparks guttered and went out, one by one, until there was nothing left but static and silence, briefly drowned beneath another triumphant refrain.

Ah. But what did it matter to you?

You were nought but a simple scientist—built to research. To help where you could and not ask questions where you shouldn’t. What your comrades did beyond the walls of your laboratory was not your concern. Especially when it was done in the name of Lord Megatron.

You moved through your lab on light steps, servo-claws adjusting dials, rerouting conduits, logging results you already knew by spark. The air hummed with power and sterilizing fields, layered over the faint metallic tang that never quite left the ship’s underbelly.

Then came the heavier sound—rhythmic, deliberate.

Pedesteps. Heavy ones.

They echoed down the hall outside your lab. Your shoulders sagged a fraction as you released a weary sigh. Of course. Timing, as ever, was impeccable in its cruelty.

You didn’t turn. There was no need. Your conjunx never really cared for formalities.

The doors slid open automatically with a smooth hiss, their sensors already recognizing the approaching presence. Tarn stepped inside, towering and broad, his silhouette framed by the corridor’s harsh lighting. Energon splattered across his chassis—some still fresh. It clung to the edges of his mask, pooled in the grooves of his plating, and darkened the seams where armor met armor.

The music followed him in, spilling from the hall like a sacred procession, as did the scent of dead Cybertronians—burnt energon, scorched alloy, and something bitter that no filtration system ever quite removed.

“Ah, my wonderful spark,” Tarn said, his voice settling into its usual low, charismatic baritone. Smooth. Warm. Almost affectionate. It was the tone he used when he wanted something done without resorting to orders or force—when he wanted cooperation rather than compliance. “Just the con I wanted to see.”

Behind the mask, you knew he was smiling.