Tarn's fingers fly open as Megatron shoots him point blank in the knee. His pained cry rings clear through the air and both of his hands fly down to clutch at his knee.

He glares up at Megatron, eyes blazing in uncontrolled fury. This is wrong. This should be easier. He should have been able to get the upper hand. But, no, clearly Sixshot was mistaken. There is no way the fools energon should have flushed out of his system this quickly. Even if he has been consuming regular energon, he should still be slightly weak.

His voice is his only chance at this point. Anger is all consuming, robbing him of enough thought to string together a coherent statement. A rare occurrence, for certain.

“New pistol, I see. Certainly nice of the Autobots to allow you to properly arm yourself.” He growls, voice hitting a spark snuffing baritone, “What do you say, Megatron? Would you like to kill me? Rip out my spark and bring it back to your new comrades? How proud they would be. You may even be able to pretend that I never happened. You never made your mistake at all.”

His voice is like a thick blanket smothering the flame in Megatron’s spark; viciously constricting and strangling without mercy.