Drift knows that look. He’s seen it before, Megatron pulling strings, a show of power psychological as well as physical. That he can completely dominate a situation by presence alone. He rose to power on his own merits, after all.

But Drift is no longer under Megatron's thumb. In a flash he's deftly sidestepping Megatron's touch, knocking that broad hand aside with the flat of his wrist. A bold move against someone like Megatron, but Drift's expression is flat and closed-off.

"We're guests here," he says evenly, as though that argument would have any impact on Megatron. He's all too aware that there are plenty of people within earshot, that every time Megatron calls him Deadlock it's only going to raise more questions, more doubt. Drift feels his spark contract uncomfortably in his chest. "These organics are our allies. And I will not let any harm come to them -- by your hand or anyone else's."

Never mind that many of these organics could take care of themselves. There's your warning, Megatron. Step the fuck right off.