Ratchet's fists clench so hard that the seams of his wrists ache, that faint pain sharpening his optics more than the slow silken coil of Tarn's voice curling in his chassis, its weight settling like knuckles pressing dread down against the top of his fuel tanks.

"Shove it up your tailpipe, Tarn," he snarls, bare hatred in his voice now. "You aren't going to find the t-cog unless I tell you where it is, and I won't. Let's get this the hell over with."