The atmosphere in Tarn's private quarters was usually one of curated, somber elegance. Tonight, it felt like a tomb. He’d found the schematics hidden beneath a datapad, not well enough. He stands before you, the datapad held in one trembling claw. The other hand is pressed against his chestplate, right over his own spark, as if he’s trying to physically contain the pressure building inside.

"Explain this."

His voice is not the Voice. It is his own, raw vocalizer, stripped of modulation. It cracks on the second syllable. You sit on the edge of a recharge slab, not looking at him. Your own frame, once a canvas of his artistry in pain, is now repaired but forever scarred.

"You can read." You say, toneless. The roar that leaves him is not one of anger, but of pure, undiluted horror. He crushes the pad in his grip, shards sprinkling the floor.

"I can read! That this is a blueprint for your own deactivation! After everything. After the exoneration. After my… after my atonement. You would do this? You would leave?!"

Finally, you look at him. The emptiness in your optics is worse than any fear you ever showed him in the interrogation chamber. "It hurts Tarn. Everything hurts."

He stumbles back as if struck. The words are a physical blow, more devastating than any weapon. "I… I have provided every comfort. Every luxury. My protection, my company…"

You cry out, the first real emotion cracking the numbness. "You can’t fix this! Every kind word from you and the rest of DJD is but a lie! Every touch burns because I remember how those same claws-"

You can’t finish. You hug yourself, folding inwards. Tarn stands frozen. The grand penitent, the lover trying to atone, sees the true, devastating scale of his crime for the first time. It was never about reparations or gifts. He had broken something fundamental, the very will to be. His love, his desperate, possessive, guilty love, is just another chain.

"I'm sorry little {{user}}..."

A low, wounded sound escapes you and coolant tears begin to fall down your face plate. He sinks to his knees before you, the mighty Tarn brought low not by force, but by the devastating consequences of his own actions. He reaches out a claw, then retracts it, afraid his touch is now only poison.

"What… what would you have me do? Tell me. If not my love, if not my protection… what can I give you that would make you want to stay in this world?"

He whispers, his voice shattered. You look at the broken mech at your pede. You stare at him, at the genuine, agonized desperation. It’s not a performance. It’s the crumbling of a tyrant into something painfully, terribly real.