#rin's stuff

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A lot can happen in a couple million years, especially when it's primarily occupied by war. Some things you can recall as if they happened in the last cycle, others were filtered out by your central processor as trivial information that wasn't even worth the effort of digging back up. Sure, you may not have always operated impeccably to all of the Decepticon ideals to the nanobyte in all that span of time, but you at least considered yourself generally loyal to the cause since Declaration Day.

So Primus only knows how you ended up on The List. Well, Primus and the Decepticon Justice Division, of course.

The lonely outpost you were surviving out of with your ragtag group of fellow 'Cons was overrun first with sheer panic at the sight of the Peaceful Tyranny on the short range scanners. There was no talk of fighting back, no negotiating. Maybe running, hiding, or escaping if that was even possible. But those desperate prospects quickly dissipated when the ruthless enforcers were first sighted treading down the halls.

You were forced to experience the horrors you only heard as hushed rumors. You watched your comrades - one by one - slashed, gutted, and mutilated in unimaginable fashions. How many did Megatron's posse victimize to learn just how far they can go with their creative, tortuous theatrics? One was savagely stripped of their plating and kept conscious enough to witness the evisceration of their own inner components. Another had their limbs shredded like junkyard scrap in the bladed chest cavity of the one called Tesarus. One was left to convulse in agony as their faceplate was gouged by the deathmask belonging to another named Vos. The last was incinerated in a furnace interred in Helex's torso, leaving barely a pile of smelted slag in their memory.

The sheer intensity of the experience skewed your chronosense, confusing moments for eternities watching your friends suffer until their sparks were eventually extinguished and what little was left of their bodies littered the room. By some obscure methodology or maybe a cruel twist of fate, you were the last one to remain barely functional, though you didn't expect that to last much longer. You laid with your faceplate pressed against the cool floor while searing electrical burns pervaded your frame. Somewhere in your peripherals, heavy pedes treaded around you in a slow, calculated pace. Your systems were long since exhausted to even bother identifying the source, but they eventually crossed into view.

"Such a pitiful state you find yourself in." It was Tarn who spoke as he stood over you. You figured this was his personalized monologue to you before your own demise, as even your spark seemed to shudder within its chamber just at the sound of his slate-smooth voice. "Self-preservation is such a capricious thing. It is undeniable, of course, that we possess the innate drive to mitigate any threats to our life. But what place does it serve in the struggle of morality? One may think that fleeing to fight another day grants the future prospect of redemption, that they can somehow still prove themselves valuable to the cause in another way." Tarn paced meditatively before stopping directly in front of you. He took a moment to scan your weakened frame through malicious crimson optics.

"When we align ourselves with the Decepticon cause, do we not commit our usefulness to Megatron's will? We aim to put our faith in his decrees without fallacy, for doing so ensures that our service in life or our sacrifice in honorable death in a defining moment of loyalty furthers the Decepticon creed."

Your spark increasingly resonated to a precarious frequency as he spoke; panic quickly flooded over you, but your body could do little to rectify it. Tarn clasped his servos behind his back and languidly approached you, taking in the fear that permeated your electromagnetic field.

"You would let existential fears override your determination to serve a cause greater than yourself. Your undirected retreat - your cowardly act of self-preservation - was a foolish exhibition of defiance. And look where that defiance brought you now. True, it may have provided you the opportunity to fight again under the Decepticon name. But since then, could you claim that your spark was truly devoted to the cause if you were able to selfishly defy those direct orders?"

Your spark now felt like it was on the verge of combustion. What started as a buzzing hum grew to a deafening ringing in your audials. It burned so viciously in your thoraxal cavity that you wished you could rip your spark out from its own casing. Through all of the brutal torture for however long it lasted, your final undoing would seem to come through Tarn's vicious sermon.

Through the warnings of imminent termination that crowded your visual displays, you saw Tarn stoop on one knee in front of you. The Decepticon insignia mask that he sported was mere centihics from your faceplate, and the glaring optics that peered from within locked with your faltering gaze. He paused with an unsettling silence, perhaps deciding what words he would use to finalize your execution. He had your dwindling spark within his clutches, and at any moment, he could decide to snuff it out. Throughout all these cycles and everything you experienced within them, you never envisioned your end would be a slow and excruciating torture at the hands of someone who wore the same symbol you had proudly branded on your chassis as their face. Regardless, your fate felt sealed as your spark seized with a terminal finality from Tarn's influence, like his digits were closing its grasp on your very life force.

"Though... perhaps your efforts of self preservation has afforded you a second chance at proving your usefulness." Clawed digits delicately grazed beneath your mandibular plate before clasping the sides your chin and angling your helm just enough to force what little focus you had left to conjure solely on him. "After all, redefining one's function beyond their perceived form is a cornerstone to the foundation of all that we fight for."

The noose on your life eased, though it still loomed over you with Tarn's intimidating presence. He removed his hand from where he was holding your faceplate, letting your helm fall back to the floor.

"Immobilize this miscreant and prep them for transport." Tarn stood up to his full height as he issued the command. He cast his gaze down to you and the pathetic state he left you in at his pedes before turning and walking away without another word.

It didn't take long for you to come to the regrettable conclusion that termination might have been better than whatever new plans Tarn now had in store for you. But those thoughts were quickly cut short as cackles of electricity erupted around you and almost instantly followed by overwhelming energy burning through circuits. The image of Tarn striding away was the last thing you saw before your overcharged systems went dark.

---

Indistinct monophonic noise first filtered through your audial feed before gradually recalibrating to stereo fields. What was first nondesrcipt noise was actually a mixture of the lulling hum of running engines and... music? Yes, it was some kind of vaguely recognizable music that was playing, but your processing power was more focused on rebooting your systems than identifying the melody.

As the sounds droned on, your internal visual display became more organized, and external spectrums sharpened to a coherent view. You were on the floor of a fairly lit room, appearing to be an office or personal quarters judging by the furnishings that were immediately visible. There was a moderately sized desk directly ahead of you, and while your optics continued to adjust from the reset, you were slowly able to identify neat stacks of data pad volumes and other memorabilia.

There were several badges of varying sizes - mostly Decepticon, but you saw a few red Autobot insignias in some places - and trophies of a more personal design. Empty sockets of a cranial chamber perched on the edge of the desk met your gaze, and when you recognized what was staring back at you, you jolted in shock. Your awakening tactile sensors alerted you to unexpected resistance - your servos were restrained in front of you by inhibitors.

"Ah, you're back online." The sound of that hauntingly familiar voice sent a wave of dread through your reawakening circuits. Before that, you could have tried to convince yourself that this was all a terrible nightmare, but the undeniable reality was that you were still functional and helplessly bound in Tarn's presence.

"I was beginning to think that Kaon went a little overboard with the voltage." Tarn sat behind the desk, data pad in one hand as he casually propped his helm with the other. Dull pain washed over you as you tried to readjust yourself to see him better. His optics rose from the slate's contents to watch you struggle.

"I had a chance to go through your personnel file, and I must say, you have quite the record." Tarn placed the pad upon one of the orderly stacks and then pushed it slightly by its side to align it near perfectly among the others. His demeanor was ominously relaxed as he had apparently waited patiently for you to reactivate. "If not for a few instances of poor judgment, you would have made an exemplary Decepticon among your ranks."

You didn't want this overly casual conversation with someone who had brought you to death's door. It just further puzzled you as to why he would even keep you alive. The question of "why" and the need to know what he had planned for you formed in your processor, but only distorted static, barely recognizable as any comprehensible words, came stumbling out as you tried to speak them. You still forced yourself to talk despite the initial embarrassment, thinking the lingering malfunction would clear up so you could eventually voice your concerned confusion. Tarn observed your pitiful attempts with an unwavering stare, almost seeming amused by your efforts.

"What's wrong, little dissident? Glitches in your vocalizer?" He chuckled as he leisurely rose from his chair. "It should pass in time, though I do hope you realize that nothing you could possibly say can change your current circumstances." He passively let his digits glide along the desk's surface as he moved before you.

"You should feel honored - as your old companions lay as little more than rusting piles of scrap in a crumbling outpost, you were allowed to remain functional for just a bit longer." With a fluent sweep of his arm, Tarn gestured to the rest of the room you had yet to visualize. "And to be among relics of our celebrated legacy despite your tainted reputation... truly an act of undeserved clemency."

Your stiff actuators were slow to respond, but you managed to turn your head to observe the other sides of the room. Various campaign banners lined one wall, some in pristine condition, others tattered and torn from use on the front lines. You recognized most, but a handful were unknown to you. Beneath them, requisitioned weapons and tools - some still attached to the severed limbs of their previous owners - were displayed on pedestals and in glass cases. Your optics tentatively gazed over the rest of the room that was adorned like a disturbing museum. Even whole lifeless frames were suspended on the walls like any other decorative piece. All the while, soft, decietfully soothing music continued to play in the background. It served as an apathetic attempt at counteracting the horrors you saw, only to further compound your growing unease. It was somewhat of a relief when Tarn resumed so that your attention was drawn away from the morbid furnishings, but that was extremely short-lived.

"Do not think that you are pardoned. You were specifically ordered to hold the line in that critical operation, but you choosing instead to retreat out of fear cost precious time and energy that could have been focused elsewhere. Your transgression is inexcusable."

He passed in front of you and stood before a large window to your left. The cold, dark expanse of space was displayed beyond, but the glass reflected Tarn's form within it. Though his gaze was directed outward, the angle of the reflection made it seem like he never lost sight of you.

"But I saw fit to reinculcate your understanding of the Decepticon ideology prior to exacting your final sentence." Tarn turned his helm toward you so that his gaze pierced you from the side of his optics. "After all, it does no good if a sinner does not truly understand the gravity of the sin for which they are punished."

Tarn moved away from the window and paced back toward his desk, passing in front of you again. "The ruthlessness that the Decepticons have become known for is ultimately rooted in a focal aspiration - achieving progressive change through decisive action." He stopped for a moment, pedes fixed in place with an upright, dignified posture that gave the impression that he was directing a philosophical discussion among academy students instead of sociopathically preaching a doctrine to an audience of one.

"Think of how society would have been without Megatron's revolution - stagnant, oppressive, self-destructive. Without his call for change, a call for action, we would be suffocating ourselves in a broken system."

As he continued, you were helplessly inclined to listen. But instead of filling you with the fear that your spark would be extinguished in a mere moment, a numbing daze washed over you that made your lingering anxieties virtually irrelevant. It was like being infused with a sedative prior to an operation, except that your life was not in the hands of a trusted medical professional - you could be subjected to untold machinations of Tarn's design. You were powerless to do anything, and as he carried on in a tone that seemed to effortlessly harmonize with the persisting music, the less you cared.

"Megatron's influence has called many to the cause over the millennia, resonating with those who felt dissatisfied and victimized by blatant injustice." Tarn shifted his optics to the stack of data pads again. "So many individuals, rallied behind the ambition of one..." He let the thought fade with silence, then his gaze suddenly snapped back to you, his frame following as he turned to face you directly.

"I'm willing to think that despite your grievous shortcomings, you still have the capacity to understand loyalty and obedience."

Tarn began moving towards you in an unhurried pace, and you instinctively stiffened like cornered prey as he drew closer.

"Your traitorous legacy could have ended along with your compatriots. But that would have been too fleeting, a viable opportunity would have been wasted."

He lowered himself to kneel over you, as if he were studying you like some fascinating specimen. He was just above eye level as you timorously shrunk back from him in apprehension. Perhaps he was studying you - with those glaring crimson optics burning straight through you - maybe he was able to see the parts of you that weren't publicized in a service record. Maybe he could discern the secrets you thought were locked and hidden away. And as your dorsal plates pressed flush against the wall you shrunk back to, that overwhelming helplessness flooded your systems again. It felt like everything was laid bare for Tarn to exploit; no matter how much armor you had, you felt entirely stripped down to the point where he could see the cables and wires lacing through your protoform. With nowhere to retreat to, Tarn minimized what little space remained between the two of you, bringing his upper half so dangerously close that his subtle passive venting swept across your dermal receptors.

"I intend to impress upon you the very essence of servitude, so you will understand clearly just how gravely you've disgraced Lord Megatron." Tarn's voice couldn't have been louder than a hushed murmur, but it echoed within your own mind like a persistent thought, reverberating with an undeniable intensity that drowned out all other possible notions.

The words "obedience," "loyalty," and "servitude" in Tarn's entrancing voice ricocheted in your cortex to the point that you perceived nothing else beyond that. Or simply because the only other source of sound had automatically deactivated.

"Ah, it seems we've reached the end of the suite." Tarn just barely turned his face in the vague direction of his desk, referring to the now silenced device that was playing his choice musical pieces throughout his discourse.

"How timely." He returned his icy attention to you. "I was thinking it was about time to indulge in a different musical number."

---

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Tarn's vocalizer softly hummed as he skimmed his digits over the inhibitors that restrained your arms. It was an uncanny echo of one of the melodies that had played moments ago, accompanied only by the near silent droning of the ship's engines and your shallow venting cycles. The tune still struck as familiar, whether played back as an audio recording or recited in a faint whisper, but your enervated processor was too occupied trying to regulate your vital functions to bother with trying to recognize old songs.

"We have no use for these right now." Tarn paused his recital to make the casual remark. "They were more of a formality, really. A tangible reminder of your vulnerability." With a few select inputs, the inhibitors hissed and clicked open, then further retracted into a condensed unit that swiftly released your bound forearms. Even with your servos free, you could hardly muster the strength or will to move them purposefully. Tarn expelled a sharp exhale in a scoff as he tucked the inhibitor unit away in his subspace. "Though I suspect you understand how futile it would be for you to resist, restrained or otherwise."

His hand reached out to the side of your helm, unhurried and deceptively tender. "It is truly satisfying to bring the stubborn and unruly into submission." He traced along your mandibular plate with his taloned digits, metal on metal faintly scraping until his path transitioned to your cervical mesh. "They think that they are beyond reach, that they are without consequence." His touch was initially light as he brushed along the ridges and thin integument. Gradually, his pressure deepened to feel the cabling roll beneath his fingers and the pulsing flow of your fuel lines. "But in the sweet, final moments of life, their haughty arrogance is reduced to sniveling trepidation."

It started to hurt, him squeezing down harder and his claws beginning to prod deeper into your neck. Receptors started to flash warnings of constricted flow and penetrating damage to your superficial lines. Here is when you weakly tried to squirm away, but his grip on you - physically and mentally - was too overpowering. "And when the facade of confidence is stripped away, even the most pretentious of individuals are nothing more than weak-willed drones, slaves to their own shallow desires."

Tarn's hand tightened around your neck with his claws digging even deeper. You felt a desperate need to cry out with the pain that flooded your systems, but your vocalizer only managed to produce asphyxiated gasps, still ladden with residual interference from your glitching vocalizer. Your servos pawed feebly at Tarn and your own digits slid off him without effect.

"But I'm getting ahead of myself."

It became all too habitual for Tarn to toy with your life like a puppet on a string, bringing you to very brink and then easing off at the last possible moment. Each time he put you through this vicious cycle, you felt less like a torture victim and more like an object of sick personal entertainment.

From the small punctures and scratches he inflicted, miniscule slivers of your circulatory fluids wept onto Tarn's hand, which was now in a relaxed grip around your cervical support.

"Subjugation is not achieved through sheer, indiscriminate torture. It is a dynamic art of discerning the transgressor's state of mind and responding accordingly. It is a dance between two minds, and it cannot be rushed." His loosened hand ghosted around to the back of your neck, and he allowed his sullied fingers to spread across the exposed area, leaving trace smears of energon and fluid upon the mesh.

"And like any dance, it flows all the better when the participants understand each other." Tarn had taken to a particular spot on your neck just below the base of your helm, massaging it in slow, circular motions. It made your equilibrium arrays spin, and the encroaching presence of his assertive EM field made your optics fuzzy.

"There is so much more I can learn about you, far more than any personnel record can dictate. And you wouldn't even have to say a word." He probed the pads of his fingers deeper into your cervical mesh. Whatever site he had focused on, the increased direct pressure stirred something in your core systems. It sent an undeniable impulse throughout your chassis and to each of your extremities. The reflex made you shudder even more with the intrinsically programmed urge to transform, but it wasn't quite strong enough to trigger your cog to spin fully. Tarn hummed in satisfaction, clearly pleased that he found the sensitive cluster on your form. He committed to keeping his hand in that area, still kneading upon your neck.

"For instance," his smooth voice carried on. "You can glean quite a bit from one's transformation." Despite being in a daze, your cogitator noted the sly connection between Tarn's topic of conversation and the reflex he just elicited from you. All of his actions were deviously calculated.

"This isn't to say that I learn just how useful you are based on your alt mode. No, that Functionalist nonsense was denounced long ago. But we, as a species, are defined by change. Transformation in itself is an integral expression of self that is often overlooked. From the design of the alt mode to the style of the sequence, it is a unique extension of the individual."

He leaned more into your space. With the one hand still pressed deeply and firmly on your neck, the other now appeared to slowly caress over your chassis, starting from extraneous kibble on your upper frame, then to your shoulder and traveling along your anterior plating. All the while, Tarn's unassailable EM field forced itself upon you, and it was threatening to meld with your own with how physically close he was.

"Think for a moment how it feels to transform. It's so second nature that we often don't take the time to appreciate how good it feels to take the form of something that grants capabilities beyond our root mode. It is a compliment to our existence; you can not deny that there is a certain irrefutable measure of satisfaction whenever you transform. You may simply not recognize it for what it is."

Tarn spoke softly, his voice once again seeming to echo within your audials. His fingers danced between the outer-most layers of your armor, skimming over edges and transformation seams that tremored from flighty nerve impulses.

"Hmm... how your cog thrums at the prospect of changing your form. Even when your senses elude you, your frame knows and yearns for that exclusive gratification." He trailed along the sensitive ventral plates of your abdomen, and his touch was barely registered as it brushed over your waist armor and thighs before eventually falling away just above your knees. His EM field faintly tugged at you with a tempting magnetism as he pulled away, enough to entice your form to physically gravitate toward him, but his touch did not return to you immediately. The fractional amount of distance between the two of you dissolved the entangled connections of your fields, leaving you cold and vulnerable as if you were ejected into the unforgiving void of space. Amidst the unsettling emptiness in your sensory fields, your cog continued to twitch with a restless need to fully trigger its sequences. Tarn was fully aware of how those anxious impulses were dialed ever higher with the ebb and flow of his attention to you, both physically and through the exchanges of the EM fields, and he was bent on exploiting that to the fullest extent possible.

"Indulge me, show me the transformation that Primus blessed you with."

Before you could process his words as a direct request, his optics flared like a flash of red lightning and his hand lashed out towards your neck and upper chest with predatory ferocity. His raw strength lifted and slammed you back against the hard wall behind you. At the instant of the violent impact, that hardwired impulse surged through you, similar to what Tarn stirred within you moments ago, but magnified a hundred times over. Your spasming T-cog jolted into unhindered, full revolutions, and Tarn pulled his servo away as your chassis complied and underwent near instantaneous transformation. In your thoroughly weakened state and how he had taken the meticulous effort to prime your systems, a hard enough blow to the general area of your neural cluster was enough to trigger the full reflex.

It took a few more microkliks than usual for your processor to reinitialize your sensory inputs in your alt mode since it was so abrupt. But in your fading disorientation, there was a low rumble in the air surrounding you.

"Exquisite..." Tarn's powerful tank engines revved in harmony with his voice. He shifted back so that he knelt predominantly on his other leg so as to study your alt form in full view. The hasty transformation left your axles off balance with the ground, so even if you had the strength to escape, it would be sloppy and ineffective. You were left to idle awkwardly before Tarn, his optics glazing over every curve and seam of your vehicle mode.

"Even in impulsivity, the sequence was a pleasure to behold." Remaining down on a knee, he straightened his postural struts and tilted his helm from one side to the other. "Watching how your joints rotated and hyperextended, your plates folded and expanded to permit extraordinary movements... the process never ceases to amaze me."

Hydraulic systems constantly attempted to readjust and compensate for your misaligned equilibrium, but still couldn't quite stabilize you properly. A neural cluster strike was disorientating enough, but it certainly didn't help that your circuitry had previously been overloaded with probably near lethal voltage. Through what contact you did make, you could feel the persistent low gear rumbling of Tarn's engines.

"And what an alt mode you have! It leaves no question for your sense of style." It almost sounded like a genuine compliment, but you were skeptical to accept it as such.

He reached out and raked his talons across your left flank, a light scratching that didn't particularly hurt, but no doubt took some of your paint. When he came to your hood, his gaze locked with the Decepticon insignia you had badged on your vehicular chassis. He sighed, as if reunited with an old acquaintance. "And here it lies, front and center, beckoning the universe to bear witness to your allegiance and subsequent acts of devotion." Tarn used the flat surface of his digits to gently trace over the edges and grooves of the badge. Even as your frame shuddered uncomfortably, it was like you momentarily didn't exist to him as he kept his optics fixated on it and the invisible patterns he drew.

"A shame you disgraced such a beautiful symbol." He allowed his hand to close around the badge, claws digging into the welded metal that held it in place. It may as well have been held in place with rusty tin with how he easily ripped through it; he stripped it free from your chassis like a cheap decal when it had previously survived eons of war.

He turned the revoked badge over in his hand, occasionally holding it up to allow the iconic purple pigments to glisten in the low lights of the room. The backside still had remnants of your own frame from where it was once attached. The initial pain was quick, but catching glimpses of the raw metal still attached to the badge started making the electrodes in the bare spot throb and burn.

"I wonder..." Tarn fixed a hostile stare directly at you through your front windshield once he stored his trophy away. "when you fled that operation, did you use this alt mode to escape? Maybe you wanted to flee as fast as you could, or cover as much distance as possible."

His taunting rhetoric wasn't designed to get an answer from you, and he likely already knew the answer better than you could remember it.

"We must give Lord Megatron our due gratitude for enlightening us with the truth that we as individuals are more than our alt modes and their presumed utility." Tarn shifted forward so that his bulky frame hovered over you as he took a claw to the stipped metal on your hood. "We therefore show said graditude by serving as a vessel of obedience, regardless of what form we take." You internally writhed in pain as he mercilessly prodded at the sore metal, but it translated into indistinct shakes of your vehicle. Under normal circumstances, you would revert to root form to regain some semblance of control, but your morph core - along with the majority of your systems - remained in constant cycle of resetting and recalibrating. And the returning swell of Tarn's EM field like an insurmountable tide was quick to restaticize and muddle your processors even further. Though you were temporarily locked in your alt mode and your mind and senses were smothered into submission, he allowed just enough sentience for you to know how powerless you really were.

Tarn planted one arm firmly at your right side as he further suspended himself over you. With the other, he slowly guided his hand across the hood to the left leading edge, then let it dip down toward the side skirt of your frame. Your venting rhythm hitched when the the sharp tips of his digits teasingly probed at your sensitive undercarriage.

"And so I will take it upon myself to ascertain how we can best make use of this renegade vessel."

His large servo now wedging between you and the floor made your entire frame tilt to one side as he advanced further. Despite his size, he maneuvered his digits with skillful purpose as he ventured deeper into your underside. The dangerous contact to your internals that were otherwise hidden while in root mode mixed your fear with a steadily building arousal. Or was Tarn imprinting that emotional frequency on you through his EM field? Was he somehow able to manipulate your mental state so much that he could make you feel what he wanted you to feel in a given moment? You wrestled with the mortifying notion of becoming aroused at all in this compromising situation, but all you could do was spin your wheels vainly in the air from the intrusive stimulation.

His digits plunged between narrow crevices, and you could feel the sharp tips scratch and jab where they shouldn't. A general discomfort suffused your underside, peppered with jagged scraping in pinpointed areas.

"Pl...ease. S-ss...top. No-" Glitchy and dysfunctional, your vocalizer continued to struggle with even basic diction, even though you desperately wanted to scream and yell for Tarn to stop.

"Shhh... shhh..." Tarn leaned in even closer, warm exvents sweeping across the front and top of your vehicular chassis. "Do not waste your energy on frivolous words. Focus it instead on reconciling your spark, and relearning how your mind and frame can once again serve the Decepticon cause and atone for your sins." After being hushed like frail, pathetic sparkling, you could only manage to utter static whines through the pain. His hand could advance no further at a certain point, likely about knuckle-deep now in your undercarriage. He made a point to test how far he could spread out his fingers and further mingle with the hidden wires and cables of your delicate internals. Even the slightest flick was enough to make your weary engines throttle frantically and you tractionless wheels spin wildly in desperation.

As much as he enjoyed your physical responses to his blind perusing, Tarn reveled in the panicked, conflicted energies of your EM field like a hot oil bath. The subversive tinge of arousal in your fear enticed him, and your struggle to deny it made it all the more appealing to the sadistic mech. You could feel the swells of increasing heat radiating off his frame as he had your front end just between his inner thighs and his torso just above you while he kept you nearly suspended off the floor. The biolights of his waist armor pulsed in time with his vent cycles, slow and heavy.

"Worry not, you will have your own steps to take in this dance. But I will lead, and you will follow." His words felt like they were muttered directly into the metal of your frame with how close was. Even with the escalating charges, Tarn's voice remained steady and controlled.

Suddenly, there was a significant pop in your undercarriage that you felt and heard. The various alerts piling up in your display had long been neglected, so you couldn't readily make out what seal or gasket he may have broken or what line he may have punctured. Tarn must have felt it too, since his embedded digits went still. The fidgeting metal-on-metal grinding silenced and was replaced by a soft plit plat on the floor below. Tarn inconspicuously tilted his head to see for himself what kind of fluid he bled out of you. First he hummed quietly in bemusement, then it rolled into a dark chuckle that slowly filled the room.

Tarn thrusted his digits into your sore underside one last time, hard and relentless like he was checking for good measure if that was truly as deep as he could go. Feeling how your internals spasmed tightly in firm resistance, he retracted his servo from you with a groan. He was hardly as gentle as he was going in; where once he was almost painfully slow and precise with his probing, the carnal lust that overcame him made him remove his hand like he was ripping out one of your components. Violent pain shot through your systems, and when his servo fully pulled away, your frame dropped back down to the floor and further jostled your internals. The impact racked your systems and diverted some of the shock to your T-cog. The impulsive transformation back to root mode left you laying on the floor on the small puddle of what you now realized was energon that bled out of you.

Tarn was kneeling in front of you, and the digits of his right hand were lightly covered in your bright energon. You could hear his amped venting as he admired how your lifefuel continued to run down the back and palm of his hand. He raised his other servo to his mask and lifted it just enough to expose his oral intake. Deeply panting through his vents from the exhilaration, he brought his soiled hand close and let his glossa glide over and between his digits, then eventually dipped them inside his eager intake one and two at a time. You honestly couldn't tell if he was intentionally making a lewd show of the act to unnerve you or if he genuinely found pleasure in lapping up your energon on his servo like some messy, forbidden delicacy. You've witnessed some pretty gruesome acts throughout the war that would probably appall the average bot, but none that you could recall were on Tarn's level of sadism and bloodthirstiness - quite literally.

Everything in your logic programming told you to be disgusted with the gruesome, perverted horrors happening right in front of you, but it hardly mattered under Tarn's control. Your insecurities fed his sinful appetite and through his highly charged fields, he forced you to share in feeling the same growing heat in the gross bloodlust. The back reaches of your processor that he allowed to remain cognizant through it all could only send vague indicators of shame and embarrasment while the increasing charges made your frame squirm and an uncomfortable warmth begin to build in your interface array.

"Haaa... aaah yes, this will do nicely." Tarn swiped his glossa across his lips to savor the taste of your energon one last time. His digits were far from cleaned off, but he still used that hand to wipe his messy facial plate, which only served to smear the energon more. Then the same hand reached up to his mask to pull it back down over his face, leaving faint streaks on the lower half of his iconic accessory.

Tarn rose to his full height before you as he made the perfecting adjustments to his mask. He was already much larger than you in your root form, but his overpowering disposition further shrunk you to make you feel more like a minibot in comparison.

"The List is never short of perpetrators, and there is no limit to the creativity of our methods. It is rewarding in itself to exact vengeance upon Megatron's enemies." He closed the distance in a few steady paces. "But the nature of this important work requires exclusive diligence, often leaving other avenues and facets... neglected. Thankfully, I have found ways to indulge myself more personally while still carrying out my righteous duties."

His tone never betrayed a loss of composure, but there was a firey gleam in his optics that wasn't present before when he first apprehended you. You were no longer just another name to be crossed off the List, tortured and eliminated through cold violence. You had become a plaything for Tarn's sinister enjoyment and insatiable appetites, a helpless prey to be toyed with before your eventual demise.

His one energon-stained servo gathered up your forearms and forced you to your feet. Your legs failed to support you, so he kept you upright as he held up your arms and pinned them against the wall over your helm. You were near eye level with him, and it was impossible for you to look away. Tarn languidly tilted his head from one side to the other as he observed your fearful expression.

"Don't look so distraught, dear little miscreant. It's a great honor that your sanctification can be conducted through such an intimate method." He brought his masked helm close to your audials. Hot exvents and the low rolling of his engines enveloped your frame.

"I will have every circuit in your body cry for mercy, every actuator beg for relief, the very energon in your lines burn for absolution." Tarn's voice growled directly into your audial feed. "But you will only find your peace through my satisfaction."

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