Killing people and broadcasting self-indulgent dramatics. Not good signs.

[Ratchet doesn't leave--he stumps closer, mouth set, his optics cold and flensing. He stops next to Megatron, well within arm's reach, utterly unafraid.]

The hell it doesn't and the hell you are. [His gaze flicks to Tarn for a brief moment before dismissing Tarn from his attention utterly, turning back to Megatron. He searches for words for a moment, struggling to say what he means the way he means it, brow furrowing.] ...this isn't you. Not now and not here. Not anymore. And he isn't worth you becoming what you'd be if you murder him like this today.