Tarn can barely hear Spinister over the wind and creaking of the shelter. He quickly gets to his feet, readjusting the tarp around himself as he feels his way to the door, keeping his optics as protected as possible from the blowing sand.

It takes all of his weight to open the door against the storm and the metal sheet is ripped from his hands the minute that he’s managed to muscle it open, pinning it open against the side of the dwelling and letting in a torrent of dust and sand. He scrambles to regain his grip on it, trying to pull it closed after Spinister. It's easier said than done, especially when one hand is dedicated to clutching the tarp tightly around his chassis.