"Yeah, well. It was stupid, and reckless, and completely brilliant, but I suppose that's why he's got my job now. My old job," Ratchet corrects himself, then freezes.

"You--what? How did you--" He stops himself, looking thunderstruck, then scrambles to collect himself as pieces start clicking into place. "Hell. Oh, hell. Does Prowl know you have them? No wonder he finally sent someone to Garrus-9." Ratchet has always hated politics, but that doesn't mean he has a poor grasp of them. He reaches up, scrubbing one hand roughly over his face. "Do you have them on you? No, don't--don't answer that. I don't know what's in them, but I'm guessing it's not good."

He cycles his vents for a long moment, then drops his hand away from his face, his expression suddenly serious.

"What do you plan to do with them?"