"No, I don't like them," Jazz replies. "I love them."
He is reminded of the fact that his own humble present, a sign of his intentions for his line, pales in comparison to Midvalley's well thought out gift. His other hand moves toward Midvalley's head, as if to touch the other's hair.
Just when it is only a breath away from its intended goal, a small chain of glittering sparkles falls down and now hangs before Midvalley's face.
"I know, it's not much. And it's only crystalized energon, so it's nothing special, but..." He sighs.
Jazz has not the slightest idea how he is going to explain that the tiny inscribtion in the fine polished tricket, this thing what humans would either call a bulla or military 'dog tags', tells the name of his line. That to where this sign is to be considered a part of it.
Absentmindedly he scratches an area on his head where he has worn exactly this sign since the day of his birth.