Disclaimer: Don't own, all props to the right people, etc., etc.

This is again inspired by the "Megamom" AU of Meridianbarony over on Tumblr. Check out all the stuff on their masterpost it's way cooler than my lame stuff.

Warning: Mentions of severed helms and mistreatment of the dead. Also cussing. (always expect cussing)

Drift let his optics wander as he strolled leisurely across the battlefield, taking in the carnage and destruction the Autobots always left behind. It was a truly terrible thing to behold, and it filled him with an odd sense of pride. He was one of them; a champion for the winning side, as he was always meant to be. This was yet another taste of victory, something he was rapidly becoming addicted to. He had never been particularly bothered by the aftermath of battles. These were fallen soldiers, a necessary part of any war. It seemed pointless to grieve for those too weak to survive. Something glinted in the corner of his eye; he wasn't sure what compelled him to stop, why that glimmer of gold caught his eye, but he nudged a bit of debris out of the way with his pedes. A severed helm was unearthed, and familiarity gripped him; it was someone he had once knew. A prickling feeling raced up his arm, and he clenched his servos to resist the urge to rub at the Autobot symbol on his arm, painted over permanently scored metal. He never felt regret, or shame or guilt, but that damn sensation whenever he looked a Decepticon never stopped, a constant reminder of the emblem he had once worn.

Anger filled him suddenly; a burning, directionless fury that had his servos shaking. He had done everything to separate himself from those Cons. He had painted over the whites and blues of his creators; he'd abandoned his swords in favor of guns, a weapon he could easily slaughter with; he had even taken up the designation Deadlock. Not a single Autobot knew his true heritage, knew just what Megatron was to him, not even the great Optimus Prime who had known him in another life. (Though perhaps that was to be contributed to the fact he was as eager to erase his past as Drift was.) He had turned his back on his carrier, slaughtered bots he had once called friend, spat on everything he had ever been raised to believe – hadn't he proved he was an Autobot? And yet here was this nobody of a Decepticon, mocking him, daring to accuse him with those spark-less eyes. Drift sneered; he kicked the helm with all his might, a metallic clang ringing out as the abused helm soared through the air. Several optics flashed in his direction, the handful of other Autobots making their way across the battlefield giving him looks that ranged from curiosity to resentment. As quickly as they took note of him, they turned away, either disinterested in his actions or unwilling bother with a conflict at the moment.

Drift – no, Deadlock stood up straight and marched across the battlefield. This was where he belonged, thriving amongst the dead and dying. He was a soldier, a sniper, an assassin. He was stronger, stronger than a Decepticon and their hypocritical morals could ever be. He was an Autobot, and he would kill anyone who said otherwise.

He's got a lot of anger, if you couldn't tell.