Ratchet's optics widen slowly, a kind of thick, choking rage numbing his brain and sending a faint crackling through his audials, soft white noise in his head for a long moment before he manages to draw in a shuddering vent of cool air.

"Pharma was one of the greatest surgeons and researchers we ever produced," he snarls, voice a little unsteady, "and he was my friend,, and you ruined him, and you murdered him, as surely as if you'd put a gun to his head. You aren't getting one single more t-cog from an Autobot medic, not if I can help it. We are done here."