Tarn lets go of First Aid's shoulder as the medic takes a seat, reaching over him to fix a glass of engex on the tap. He slides the cup across the bar top, nudging it against a clenched fist.

"Why, yes it is, how kind of you to ask." He replies with a sort of saccharine pleasantness that just reeked of falseness.

"Now," He purrs, sliding onto the stool next to First Aid, "Why don't you go ahead and fill me in on what sleights I may have committed against your person. Clearly you have some sort of grudge. It's really not healthy to let these things stew."

Of course there could be a myriad of reasons to hate him since he arrived here, alone. And yet, he has a very specific inkling; though he would prefer to hear it from First Aid himself.