Tarn pours slowly, careful not to spill any of the precious cleanser. Warm steam curls up to lick at his dull plating, creeping into seams to chase the chill from his very core. He wishes there was a pool of it to fully submerge in.

"I don't suppose that you received any clean rags from Brainstorm during your little rendezvous?"

He's sure he can find an old one, but everything that they own is coated on that blasted dust and he doesn't want to soil the cleanser with grit. The presence of a shower would make things so much more simple. Tarn would kill for that shower right now. He's willing to do whatever Spinister needs to ensure its construction.

Instead, he has to sit here like an invalid and recieve a sponge bath.