"I'm trying." He snaps back, flinging a handful of snow at Ratchet's head . The powder scatters to the wind before it makes contact with the Autobot's face

He continues sitting hunched and frozen, crossing his arms. It looks awfully close to sulking, though Tarn would fervently deny it.

"I am. I just don't understand why this is happening. Look at me! I'm an organic. A weak, small, simple minded human." He points furiously at his face. "Look at this. Look how many pores I have. It's repulsive. And I have this fur that gets tangled in everything." He runs a hand through his hair. shaking off a few loose strands. "Look at it. It's falling out. Why is it falling out?"

He's having a melt down. His breath catches in his throat. Quietly he worries that maybe he really is dying.