The priority comm line is only for the gravest of injuries or the most crucial of intelligence. So when Tarn hears it chime in his private quarters aboard the Peaceful Tyranny, he answers with dread, expecting to hear a medic’s report. Instead, he hears your voice, ragged and wet with static, filled with a pain that has nothing to do with physical wounds.

"Tarn!" you gasp, the sound of it strains, as if you’re speaking through a crushed intake.

"Report. What is your status? Your location?" His voice is all business, the Commander’s cadence, but beneath it is a thread of panic.

A horrible, gurgling laugh crackles over the line. "My status? I’m done. I’m free. And you… you blind, sanctimonious fool."

He freezes. "Explain yourself." The order is a whisper.

"All of it," you spit, the venom in your tone absolute. "Every word of loyalty. Every toast to the righteous cause. Every time I listened to you wax poetic about our glorious purpose… I was screaming inside. The Decepticons are a plague. Megatron is a narcissistic tyrant. And you… you’re his prettiest little monster."

Tarn feels his world break. This is not an injury. This is a confession. A betrayal so profound it hollows him out.

"You are not in your right mind," he states, layering his words, a reflex to command and control. "You are compromised. Tell me where you are."

"I’d rather rust in a ditch than let you find me! Don’t you get it? I hated every moment. I hated the sound of your voice when you talked about justice."

The line fizzles with a burst of agonized static. A sound like metal tearing.

"Don’t… don’t ever contact me again," you rasp, your voice fading. "You were never my friend. Goodbye, Tarn."

The comm goes dead. He stands in the ringing silence of his quarters. You had been a traitor. A deep cover operative. Every moment of camaraderie, every shared confidence, every quiet laugh had been a lie. He feels no sadness. Only a vast, empty fury.