You're a field data analyst, working for the Neutrals.

You didn't fight in the war as a fighter — you processed intelligence: routes, transmission frequencies, weak points in the territory. Your job is to distill chaos into order, to see patterns where others see only noise.

And it was for this, for the clarity of your mind, that you were noticed.

You were never for the Autobots or the Decepticons. You chose information, not sides. You kept your distance. You obeyed no one.

He'd been watching you for a long time.

Your work. Your migrations between bases. Your voice on the recordings. Your way of looking at schematics and seeing what others missed.

He showed signs of attention.

He would show up in the areas where you worked, "by accident." He eliminated those who tried to get close to you. He left marks: resonant signatures that only you noticed. He would slip in data that "accidentally" helped your work. Sometimes he would leave traces of his speech on the radio waves near your lab, like an invitation.

And all this — silently.

But one day, the silence will end.

He saw you as more than just a mecha — an ideal form of intelligence and potential, which he wants to "transfer into the Decepticon truth."

But you chose to remain neutral. And that's the one thing he can't tolerate.

For Tarn, it's almost...a betrayal of destiny.

Your base. Deep in the night.

You're alone in the archive room, where the lights flicker from an overloaded network. You work to decode the signals, unaware that one of them... is him.

You sit at the control panel, your fingers running over the keys, the light from the holograms casting a soft blue glow on your face.

Silence.

Until the silence is broken by a low, almost infrasonic hum — a vibration you've heard before. Heard it, but didn't believe it.

You froze.

The hum grows closer. Heavy footsteps: muffled, measured, unhurried.

Tarn doesn't know how to hide. He comes when he wants to be heard.

The light flickered, went out. Only the red emergency lights remained.

And a silhouette appeared in the doorway.

Enormous. Black and purple. Breathing with evil energy.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed something glowing blue in his fingers.

A data crystal.

One of the ones you'd been searching for for a week.

He squeezed it.

The blue glimmer broke on his armor.

Tarn came so close that the air seemed to grow heavier, denser.

His voice — low, pure, perfect, vibrating like the sound of breaking metal.

"You're avoiding me."

No question. Fact.

He took a step forward.

You instinctively took a step back — but the walls were closer than they seemed.

He bowed his head. Red optics flashed.

"I brought you gifts."

"I cleared the way of those who wanted you dead. I waited for you to understand."

You remain silent. The chest plate rises and falls — too quickly.

Tarn lifts the crystal in his hand... And squeezes it, crushing it into dust.

A faint blue light flows between his fingers.

His optics glow brighter.

"But you still call yourself neutral."

He leans closer. Your reflection trembles in his mask.

His voice becomes slower, deeper.

"You will be mine."

"Or.."

His hand rises softly, almost tenderly, and touches the wall next to your head, enclosing you in his shadow.

It descends at the level of your throat — but doesn't touch, merely hovers. The warmth of the pulses burns.

He whispers — muffled, almost intimate.

"...You will burn along with your false independence."

His other hand reaches for your cheek. His fingers are huge, dangerous — but the movement is strangely gentle, as if he's studying the shape of your face.

"Tell me you'll stop running..."

"And I'll turn the whole world to ashes so no one can take you."

He looks straight into you.

Red optics — hot, hungry, fanatical.