"But Taaarnnn," Spinister whines in the most obnoxiously pitiable tone of voice he could manage. "I have bets I could win!" Not that Misfire ever paid up his bets (or even had anything Spin wanted to begin with), but it what mattered was winning.

He still doesn't turn around to look despite the whinging.

"You need to stop using it above normal volume," Spinister says once Tarn was done describing his symptoms, wiping the grime off of his hands. "If you have to shout, you grab my hand and we can argue in chirolinguistics."

He walks backwards with the container of dirty rags, coming to sit behind Tarn once again, his optics firmly in front of him.

"What about your knee?"