Chapter Text
If anyone should ask, let this be known: Drift—formerly known as the Decepticon Deadlock—has returned to Cybertron. Let them know that his more than a million year of absence did nothing to quell his insatiable lust for spilled energon. Let them know about the countless helms that flew off with just a single, silent swipe of his blade. Let them know about the corruption of his spark, about the tendrils of darkness crawling through his body’s cracks, latching onto him until he was nothing but a hollow shell of his former self.
Let them know that he works at an amusement park five solar cycles a week, for seven hours, wearing some pink, stuffy costume of a giant petro-bunny.
“Hello, Mister!” a femme bitling beamed up at him with her denta-gapped grin gleaming from the afternoon sun. Drift pretended to jump in surprise at her sudden appearance and waved in return. She giggled. He offered her the balloons he was holding, together with the basket on his other servo. After the hardest decision of her life, she chose an electro-deer shaped balloon, thanked him, and skipped away.
Here’s a little game: among the bullslag he just said, find out which ones are true and which ones are his attempts to sound edgy. Drift—formerly known as the Decepticon Deadlock—couldn’t even pretend to be badaft anymore to save his life.
Drift didn’t know which accursed herald of Unicron had possessed him to apply for a job at Six Lasers, and as a bitlings’ mascot, of all things. What even compelled him to visit an amusement park in the first place was beyond him. But he realized, after being alone for so long, floating in the dark abyss, maybe he craved the familiar fields of energy, the kind that belonged to a race he was most familiar with.
He thought leaving would make him happy. He thought starting a new life somewhere far away would be his salvation. But after infinite light years away, after countless planets he tried making a home out of, after immersing himself in different alien cultures, his spark had remained as cold and lonely as it was the day he left a million years ago.
The laughter erupting all around the park, the happy shrieks of innocent sparklings, and the secondhand, positive EM fields brushing against his frame...so yes, forgive him if he chose to be in a place where happiness was rampant.
“Excuse me, can we take a picture with you?” Two bots approached him, one of them holding the servo of a little mech. Drift knew fear when he sees one, and it’s not everyday that a huge petro-bunny with unblinking eyes would stare right into your soul, so before the young one could burst into tears, he handed him one of the mochibot stuffed dolls.
Well, the park didn’t officially name those but they resembled that soft, round dessert from one of Earth’s countries he visited before and thought that it was a befitting name for those little suckers in a T-pose.
Drift watched as the hologram of the family, including his dumb, costumed self-materialized out of the robo-cam’s screen. Primus, he’s fat. Nope, there’s definitely no trace of the former assassin left in him. But in a hypothetical scenario in which he takes up a job again, he’s sure that he could kill his targets more effectively by telling them that the mech who came to snuff out their sparks works part time in a petro-bunny suit. Method of killing? Make them laugh to death.
Deadlock is now as good as his name—dead and locked away somewhere.
One and a half million years of traveling eventually lead Drift to form the Circle of Light with his fellow Cybertronians who had left the planet in the midst of the Great War. He was convinced that it was his calling then, to build a society which had all of Cybertron’s ancient beauty and none of it’s corrupted, functionist system.
But when his ex-lover Wing died from an isolated alien attack, Drift couldn’t find it in himself to remain in New Crystal City. He was sparkbroken, yes he had loved him and he was happy during their short time together, but that love didn’t go beyond deep friendship and respect. They would’ve been better off as each other’s amica endura than bonded lovers.
That tragedy triggered something in Drift, and that something which he still couldn’t identify, compelled him to return to his home planet after more than a millennia. Dai Atlas granted him his wish. He, along with the other Knights only requested that he’s never to speak of the existence of the New Crystal City to the Cybertronian government. They would welcome refugees, but not political parties.
The very next solar cycle, his ship launched for home, carrying nothing but himself, Wing’s former Great Sword, and that nagging thought in his processor—just why did he want to come back after all this time?
As soon as the family left, a group of friends suddenly jumped him, snapping Drift out of his thoughts. They were howling and swearing for frag knows why, one mechling even smooched the petro-bunny’s cheek before activating the robo-cam. They didn’t leave after the photo and started poking his costume with their digits, questioning each other if there was a real bot inside.
Thankfully, it was quiet after that. Drift allowed himself a moment of rest. Turns out, a bunch of rowdy mechlings and femmelings were tougher to handle than armed, grown-up bots. He could feel his throat cables grow hot and itchy from thirst. Suppose he could take off the head of his costume, which was very large and heavy by the way, to accommodate the long horns of his helm. Or he could do a quick pop in the break room for a bit, where he could guzzle down ice cold energon to his spark’s content. Primus, he needed to breathe—
Drift was about to walk off when all of a sudden, something strong and fast collided with him, causing him to lose his footing and collapse backwards. He lost his grip on the balloons, the poor mochibots spilled out of the basket, and he could feel the press of tiny but heavy servos and pedes all over him.
“Ooh!” Drift heard a tinny squeal. “Meester Peto-bunny, dead!”
“Y-You...you dead him, Ambuz!” Another voice said in an accusatory tone. “Powl will get you!”
Drift peeked through the cloth mesh of the costume’s mouth and saw two sparklings, probably twins, crawling on top of his chest. The mascot was thickly padded enough that he couldn’t actually feel pain from their combined weight, but oh, whoever their creators are should consider laying off on sugary energon and junk treats for a while.
Before Drift could assure the bitlings that he isn’t dead, one of them broke into a whine which was immediately followed by a very loud wail.
“Oh no, no, no! Sshh..” Drift attempted to soothe the crying twin. “I’m okay, Mister Petro-bunny is very strong, see?” He flexed his biceps to easily emphasize his point. Fortunately, the action seemed to work, the bitling’s cries quickly dwindled down into soft sobs. Drift wished he could wipe the coolants with his digits but his hands are trapped inside his costume. It wasn’t easy but he managed to rub soft circles around the bitling’s back until the little one fully relaxed.
With a huff and a protective hold on the twins, Drift carefully sat up, perching them on his lap.
This new angle allowed him to examine his new little friends more thoroughly. Each bitling sported a different colored helm—one dark blue and the other a greyish white, but both are in an identical trapezoid shape, topped with two adorable, small finials on either side. The twins are similar in their form too, mostly blocky and what little of their plating are thicker than an average bitling’s. One of their creators must be a real heavy duty. By the AllSpark, it wasn’t the junk energon snacks.
“Ambuz, sowry. Don’t cry.” The blue-helmed twin said, his tiny dermas pushing into an exaggerated pout and then launched himself at his brother who met him in an embrace. Awww, Drift only had them for two kliks but if anything bad happened to them, he would offline everyone in the park....and then himself.
The one called ‘Ambuz’ turned his greyish head back to Drift, purple optics wide with fear. “Powl...don’t get me?”
“No, the police won’t get you, don’t worry.” Drift couldn’t help but chuckle at the image of the Autobot trying to intimidate a child. That mech could make grown bots cry with a stare! Wait, how did they know Prowl? Plus, Autobot or not, no matter how hilarious it is considering it’s Prowl, he doesn’t approve of public servants being used as scare tactics. He needed to have a word with their parents. “But where are your creators, why are you two by yourselves?”
Before one of them could reply, however, a loud, panicked cry from an adult mech rang out like a blaster shot. “AMBUSH! CONVOY! Oh by the Pits, my optics would turn away for a nano-klik and you’re halfway across the planet!”
His spark dropped to his tanks.
From inside the costume, Drift’s optics flared up in shock, he knew that voice. He would forever know that voice, that raspy baritone, the familiar quiver in each syllable. It was the very same that haunted him for millions of years. It was all he could hear even in the furthest reaches of space. It was what his dreams were always made of, be it bittersweet or sparkwrenching.
Something strong crackled from inside, it’s currents wrapping around his entire frame and suddenly, he felt very light-headed.
Of course, sooner or later, he was bound to meet him again.
He just didn’t expect it to be this soon.
Because this was the last place he expected Ratchet to be.
The combined strength of the twins managed to knock Drift’s frame, which had gone rigid on the spot, as the two bitlings burrowed their faces into the mascot’s chest. They were mad with giggles, as if refusing to see Ratchet would somehow trick the medic into not seeing them at all. If this was another bot, they would’ve played along with the twins’ shenanigans, but this was the most notorious grump Drift has ever known.
Anxiety warred with longing.
“No, what have you two done?!” Ratchet cried out when he noticed the twins practically pinning the mascot down with their fat aft.
In-vent, ex-vent, Drift. Come on. Regulate the excess charge. Unfortunately, it did little to help. Now his erratic spark was trying to crawl it’s way back up. Drift wanted to throw up, to scream, anything besides sitting frozen on his pathetic aft the more Ratchet drew nearer to their spot.
He could barely react to the boys who now seemed adamant to phase through Drift’s costume and hide in there with him. Because when you see the old medibot stomping near you, no matter your age, your best shot is to hide. They seem to be familiar with Ratchet’s infamous temper, even though they were treating it as a game, which lead to Drift into thinking, what is their relationship with the medic?
Jumping straight into an icy lake was less startling than the sudden realization that hit him.
No...no.., please don’t tell him—
Optimus Prime was swift behind Ratchet’s heels. All he needed was to wrap an arm around the medic’s shoulders to calm him down, a smile blooming in his weary, old face, and Drift’s throat cables constricted at the deadly beauty before him.
Ratchet barely smiled. Now he’s freely giving Optimus one.
The Prime didn’t need to call out to the twins, Ambush and Convoy’s helms snapped up in an instant the moment Optimus sent out a shock wave of a field, one that was dripping with sparkwarming love, strong devotion and fierce protectiveness. One that Drift was unfortunate enough to be caught in. After all these cycles, the Prime still couldn’t reign the magnitude of emotions he was letting out....
The twins were out of his hold before he knew it, toddling back to the pair as fast as their stubby legs could carry them, tiny vocalizers squealing “Carrier! Carrier!” all the way.