Drift's optics go flat the second that Overlord's name comes out of Ratchet's mouth and a practiced denial hovers on his lips until the rest of what Ratchet's saying finally registers and he feels the bottom drop out of his tanks and fall away, endlessly.

It hits him like a like a heavy blow to the chest, like getting rammed by a truck, over and over again, his spark catching in his chest and tangling, constricting. There were risks, there had always been risks, but these were not consequences Drift was prepared to deal with. He's no stranger to consequences, not in this life or any other -- but he wouldn't have been on board with the plan if he hadn't thought it was going to work. Whatever was left of his poised expression crumbles away and leaves him bare, his optics pale and his mouth slack in shallow-breathed horror. He looks sick.

Drift's vocalizer crackles with static, false starts and aborted attempts at words. "...What?" he finally a manages, and his voice sounds distant to his own audials, small.