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Helex has a look on his face as he leaves Tarn's quarters. Kaon's echo only brings him passing flashes, not a full scan, so he misses any nuances. It's enough to put him on alert as he files in for his turn.
When Tarn had first brought up the very concept of productivity reviews he had, briefly, mistakenly thought Tarn had been joking.
"How can I expect Lord Megatron to hold us up as an example to the entire army if we are not rigorous in our own self-assessments?" Tarn had said, with the air of a faintly offended noble. Not that Kaon had ever shared his impression, as he likes his plating on his frame and not spread around the room.
Now they're a familiar burden, and Kaon accepts the energon Tarn offers as he sits opposite him.
It's his alert state that has him pulsing a fuller image of Tarn, today: every detail immaculate, wax fresh on his plating, a curious tilt to his helm. So often he is only traced in outlines like everything in Kaon's life, and it's reassuring to fill in the details and see that they are the same. No injuries, no -
There is a trickle of energon behind the broad plating on Tarn's chest. Kaon hesitates, then raises a hand to prevent Tarn from saying anything, and pulses a strong read.
There is. There is a stream of energon running bloody down Tarn's chest, from underneath his armor.
"Tarn?" He says, mind racing to understand this puzzle. An injury would register on his sensors, as would anything else. Their last kill - Trilotech, 3rd class infraction, treason - hadn't been messy, only exhausting.
At the gesture to his chest, Tarn gusts noisily. Kaon expects irritation, surprise, not what happens: Tarn actually curses softly, fetching a cloth from his subspace.
"I apologize," Tarn says, stiff, as he wipes up the mess.
"Are you injured?" Kaon asks. If Helex had seen, why hadn't he said anything?
"No," Tarn says. There are layers of recrimination and other emotions wrapped up that one word. He collects Kaon's file, and Kaon almost thinks he won't get an explanation, that it will be quietly filed with other things he doesn't know about Tarn and will never learn, before Tarn speaks. "That's right. You were created after the practice was dismantled. Tell me what you know of empurata."
Kaon doesn't see the connection. He recites, obediently: "Empurata was used as a means of punishment and social ostracization on enemies of the Senate, or anyone who had the power and means to mutilate their victim. The process removed a mech's face and replaced it with one optic, and replaced hands with claws or pincers."
"There was one other additional change, for select mechs," Tarn says. "Empurata victims were transformed into public energon dispensaries. Energon pouches were installed in their chests, and given the delicate structures it became impossible for empurataed mechs to...relieve the pressure themselves. This completed the ostracization, as victims weren't just faceless victims to be shunned, but also seen as pleasure bots - less."
Kaon can't imagine it. He makes an effort to, as Tarn is so clearly going somewhere with this, but...
"Before I met Megatron, I was one of these victims," Tarn says.
Kaon's mouth opens, then closes. It's not a confession, but a statement of fact. Once, Tarn lacked hands and a face. Kaon can't help but pulse again, just to see that his mask is in place, his optics glowing steadily.
But this isn't about his head and hands, is it? It's about the energon that... leaked from his chest.
Tarn goes on: "This frame still has the pouches. It was not my choice to keep them. They require regular servicing, or this happens." Every sentence is matter of fact, almost an order not to ask questions.
But Kaon will wonder. He asks now, or he may never get the opportunity to ask again. "How are they serviced?"
"... You wouldn't know," Tarn says, almost surprised. Kaon tilts his head slightly. This is the most interesting appraisal he's ever sat through, that's for sure.
Tarn hesitates, long enough that Kaon can hear his treads squeak slightly with tension. He puts the cloth down and begins to unhook his chest armor, lifting it away from his treads, hand brushing his Decepticon sigil as it comes off.
Underneath, trapped protoform springs forward, hanging heavy and soft on Tarn's frame, plump with energon. Kaon turns up the sensitivity on his echo and pulses multiple times to be certain that he hasn't mistaken himself. The pouches look - they're round, bulbous, completely alien on the otherwise hard lines of Tarn's frame. They're vulnerable and one is leaking still from a tip, fuel beading on the nozzle.
Kaon puts a hand on the table, half-rising in his chair before he remembers that this is Tarn.
"Are," he begins. How does he ask? Tarn is silent. "May I touch? It's difficult to get a precise..." A little crackle sparks from his palm, as punctuation.
"Go ahead," Tarn says, and Kaon reaches across the table to cup one pouch in his hand. It's soft, malleable. It spills into the pit of his palm, smearing energon on his plating.
He freezes as Tarn hisses softly and waits.
"They are sensitive," Tarn says, after a prolonged, agonizing silence. "Moreso at the tips. Be gentle."
Kaon relaxes fractionally and continues to touch. The pouch is sized to spill out of his hand, and he has to balance carefully so he can use both hands to touch.
This is inappropriate, but he doesn't want to stop himself and Tarn is still, watching him.
Again: he may never again have the opportunity. "I assume you empty them yourself," he starts.
Tarn takes his wrists and gently pulls them off of his pouches. The motion makes them sway slightly. "Points off for excessive caution. Come around the table and drink, Kaon."
Well, when he puts it like that.
Kaon comes around the table as Tarn pushes back from the table. He climbs into Tarn's lap and cups a pouch, leaning in and licking - it takes a few careful attempts to find the nozzle, and he latches on.
Tarn hisses again, and Kaon keeps it gentle as he tongues the nub.
The thought that other mechs, strangers, have ever had their hands and mouths on Tarn's chest makes his coils crackle with a strange mixture of anger and arousal. He doesn't know who Tarn was, before. He can't imagine Tarn in any other frame: he's so huge a presence in Kaon's life. He is, will always be a giant tank with powerful hands and a rumbling, roaring engine. There will always be the squeak of treads, the hum of the cannons on his arm.
Therefore it is this frame that he imagines on a distant, dead Cybertron walking through streets, pulled aside by strange hands and drunk from against an alley wall. No courtesy, no respect, only the crime of using another mech as nothing more than a mobile dispensary. Tarn left with bitten pouches and aching equipment and no hands to relieve any ache.
Kaon dares to play his part in the memory, drinking deep.
His fuel is sweet, rich. This is a delicacy, and Kaon savors it, tonguing the tip and urging more to pour from Tarn. He can hear the whir of fans, and more - he doesn't need to pulse to know that Tarn's utterly fixated on what he's doing.
Killing traitors is thirsty work, and Kaon goes ahead and fills his tanks, drinking steadily, running his tongue around the tip. He kneads the pouch itself, enjoying the strange, delightful texture as he drains it.
Far too soon he's holding a smaller pouch in his hand. He licks the tip dry, making Tarn hiss again, and he shifts his position in Tarn's lap. It would be rude to leave him unbalanced: he takes the other pouch and kisses it.
"You taste very good," he murmurs, and he latches on.
Tarn touches him, this time. His hand traces the top of his helm, then cups the back of his neck. He's gentle, fingertips blunt as he - effectively participates. Kaon wonders if he was allowed to touch, as empurata - probably not. Probably victims were expected to keep his pincers at their sides, possibly coded to hold still unless given permission.
Tarn isn't a victim now. He's strong and powerful and still - whoever decreed that he should have pouches, and it was probably Megatron - Kaon nips gently at the pouch. He isn't done drinking, but he wants to speak.
"As a suggestion, offer these in the future. I wouldn't want you to leak unnecessarily."
Tarn's vocalizer clicks.
"I'll consider it."
All Kaon can ask for, given Tarn's history. He bends back to his task, nuzzling the pouch as he drinks - it's soft on his cheek. He wants - he's missed this chance, but if ever he can fondle them again he wants to knead them in his hands and squeeze and savor.
Instead he laps up the last of the fuel and sits up, faintly regretful that it's over.
Tarn's hands find their way to his sides, before he touches Kaon's chin and tips it up. A single cautious pulse shows his optics bright.
"Full marks, Kaon," he murmurs. "I should have expected that you would treat this with the dignity it deserves."
Did Helex - ? Kaon doesn't dare ask.
Tarn gently traces his face. Kaon catches his breath, expecting - something. This is fragile and intimate and Tarn has control, as is proper. Kaon wants more. He wants that mask to come off so Tarn can press his scarred lips to his -
Tarn gently releases him and the moment is over. Kaon gets out of his lap, returning to his position on the other side of the table as Tarn restores his armor. The Decepticon brand sits perfectly between the pouches.
Kaon doesn't sigh or show any discontent as Tarn resets his vocalizer and gets back to business. There will be another chance to play with those.