Chapter 18: Don’t Tell Him
The arena was loud as ever that night, the crowd above screaming for blood, the walls trembling with every impact from the fight in progress. But Bonecrusher barely heard it anymore. The sound had become background noise, a constant drone he’d learned to ignore.
He worked the way he always did—head down, muscles straining, dragging slabs of plating and twisted girders across the sand. Each load hit Long Haul’s bucket with a crash, the clang echoing louder in his chest than the crowd ever could. His vents rasped with the effort, dust sticking to his plating, pain grinding in his joints. All of that he could take. He always had.
What gnawed at him wasn’t the weight.
It was the empty space at his side.
Hook hadn’t come down tonight.
For weeks now, the kid had shown up after studies, stubbornly hauling lighter scraps, always within reach of Bonecrusher’s shadow. Tonight, that space was silent. No slim figure dragging panels, no bright optics stealing quick glances at him between loads. Just absence.
Bonecrusher set down another slab harder than he meant to, metal shrieking as it hit the pile. His jaw clenched, a bitter taste in his vents. He told himself Hook was studying late, or maybe finally listening when he’d said the pits weren’t a place for him. But deep down, the unease prickled sharper, like he already knew better.
He told himself the kid was probably buried in academy assignments, maybe too tired to come down after all. That was the sensible answer, the one he wanted to believe. Hook needed his studies more than this pit, more than dust and broken steel.
But still—his optics kept flicking toward the service gate, again and again, like a habit he couldn’t shake. Each time, he half-expected to see that slim frame darting down the stairs, datapad tucked under one arm, optics bright despite the hour. He could almost hear Hook’s voice, matter-of-fact and insistent:
I finished my lessons. You said I could help.
Only the gate stayed empty.
No hurried steps.
No flash of academy plating.
Just silence and the echo of the crowd above, louder than ever in the absence.
Bonecrusher’s grip tightened on the girder in his hands until the metal creaked. He bent into the lift, hauling it toward Long Haul’s waiting bucket, but the thought followed him with every step:
If he’s not here… then where is he?
On the far side of the floor, Scrapper hefted a slab of broken barricade across his shoulder, boots grinding through the sand as he carried it toward the gate. His optics swept the wreckage out of habit, but what caught him wasn’t the debris.
It was the absence.
No Hook.
The kid had become a fixture over the past months—small frame darting between the lighter loads, always careful, always keeping within reach of Bonecrusher’s shadow. Tonight, the shadow was empty. Bonecrusher didn’t say a word about it, but Scrapper noticed.
He always noticed.
He didn’t mention it. Not to Bonecrusher, not to anyone. Just filed it away, the way he did with everything else the others overlooked.
Hours later, when the last of the wreckage had been cleared and the arena floor lay bare again, the others peeled off toward their quarters. Bonecrusher trailed behind, shoulders low with exhaustion, Long Haul steady at his side. Scrapper lingered at the edge of the group, and when they turned down the main road, he didn’t follow.
Instead, he cut into a side hall, steps quiet, optics narrowed. He’d seen something earlier, just a flicker—a slim shape slipping away in that direction while the work had still been going. Academy plating catching the light for half a second before vanishing into the dark.
Scrapper didn’t believe in coincidences.
He found Hook in the medics’ alcove, tucked away behind rows of supply racks where the lamps burned low and the noise of the arena barely reached. The air smelled of solvent and scorched metal, sharp and clean compared to the dust of the pits.
Hook sat at a narrow bench, his small frame hunched forward but steady, every line of him taut with focus. A severed hydraulic line lay across the table, clamps and sealant scattered around it. His hands moved carefully over the damage, not fumbling, not guessing—guided, precise.
Beside him, the arena medic leaned close, voice quiet but firm.
“No. Not there. You clamp it there, pressure builds wrong and blows the seal again.”
Hook nodded quickly, absorbing every word.
The medic tapped the damaged line with the end of his tool. “Find the stress point first. Then decide where the repair goes. Don’t just patch what’s leaking. Understand why it failed.”
Hook’s optics burned with that same bright intensity Scrapper had seen the night Bonecrusher nearly went under. The boy’s fingers tightened around the clamp as he locked it into place, sealing the leak with a hiss. His shoulders rose with the effort, then eased as the medic gave a small, approving grunt.
“Better,” the medic said. Not warm. Not gentle. Just honest enough to count. “Again. Faster this time.”
Hook exhaled slowly, satisfaction flickering across his faceplate plain as day before he reached toward his subspace pocket. His repair kit snapped back into his hand with practiced ease—small, academy-grade, but organized exactly how he needed it. He selected another clamp without looking long, fingers already knowing where it rested, and turned back to the next damaged line.
From the shadows by the racks, Scrapper watched in silence.
Not mockery.
Not judgment.
Just recognition.
The kid wasn’t sneaking here out of rebellion. He was here because this was where he belonged.
Scrapper leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, dust still clinging to his plating from the floor. He didn’t say a word at first. Just watched.
Hook’s small hands moved with steady purpose, far steadier than any young mech his size had a right to. He bent over the conduit, patching the frayed line with a clamp from his kit, tightening it with careful turns. The sealant tube hissed softly as he smoothed it across the seam, every motion practiced though Scrapper knew he hadn’t been doing this long.
The kit stayed close at Hook’s side, pulled from subspace and laid open across the bench only as much as the narrow workspace allowed. Nothing extra. Nothing scattered without purpose. Every tool had a place, and Hook’s hands returned to each one as if the order had already been burned into him.
The medic, looming just behind him, gave another short nod before stepping away to rummage through a crate of fresh parts.
In that quiet moment, Hook’s expression shifted—serious and intent fading into a grin he couldn’t hide. Like he’d just proven something, not only to the medic, but to himself.
Scrapper’s mouth tugged faintly at the corner.
The kid had it. Instinct, focus, drive. He’d seen it once before, in the chaos of the collapse, but here it was undeniable. Bonecrusher thought he was carrying Hook’s future on his back.
Truth was, Hook was already carving it out himself.
Scrapper pushed off the doorway with a low grunt, boots ringing dully on the metal floor.
Hook startled, twisting toward the sound. The grin vanished at once, replaced by wide optics and a flash of panic.
“Scrapper.”
Scrapper didn’t come any closer. He let the shadows stretch between them, optics narrowed, unreadable.
Hook’s hand moved instinctively toward the open kit, not to hide it, but to steady himself on the familiar order of tools and clamps. “Please,” he said quickly. “Don’t tell him.”
Scrapper said nothing.
Hook’s fingers curled around one of the smaller tools.
“If he finds out I’ve been coming here, he’ll drag me back.” His voice dropped, quieter now, but steadier than before. “He thinks I’m too young. He thinks…” The words caught for a moment, then forced themselves through. “He thinks I still need him to carry me.”
Scrapper tilted his head, studying him like he might study a cracked beam—measuring where the stress lay, where it might give way.
“You are young,” he said.
Hook’s jaw tightened.
“But you’re good,” Scrapper added, voice flat but not unkind. “Better than half the medics I’ve seen patching after fights. Bones might not see it yet. But I do.”
Hook’s optics widened further, the fear in them flickering into something else—hope, maybe, or relief.
“It’s not like I’m just hiding,” Hook said, rushing now, as if he needed Scrapper to understand before judgment could fall. “They let me watch first. Then the medic started handing me broken lines. Then clamps. Then sealant. I only touch what he tells me to touch.”
Scrapper’s gaze flicked toward the medic, who was now pretending not to listen while sorting parts with deliberate slowness.
“Convenient,” Scrapper said dryly.
Hook’s expression tightened, because he understood. Maybe not all of it, not yet, but enough. The arena had not opened a door for him out of kindness. It had found another pair of useful hands.
Still, Hook lifted his chin.
“I’m learning.”
“That you are.”
Scrapper’s arms crossed again, his voice low and firm. “Your brother breaks himself to keep you out of the pits. You keep working like this? One day you’ll be the one keeping him standing.”
Hook’s hands curled around the tool, no longer just from fear.
“That’s why I’m here,” he said.
The defiance in his voice cracked through the nervous edge, and Scrapper saw it clear: not just a kid sneaking lessons, but a mech who already had the fire to stand in the line beside them.
“He carries everything,” Hook said, quieter now. “All the weight, all the work. If I can do this—if I can fix him, fix any of you—then maybe he won’t have to.”
Scrapper’s expression shifted slightly, something rare and steady settling beneath the usual edge.
Respect.
“You sound just like him,” he said at last. His mouth pulled into something between a smirk and a grimace. “Stubborn to the point of breaking.”
Hook bristled. “It’s not the same.”
“No,” Scrapper agreed. “It isn’t. He breaks himself hauling. You’ll break yourself trying to hold everyone together if you’re not careful.”
Hook’s optics stayed steady, bright with the same sharp focus that had driven him here in secret. “I don’t care. If it means he won’t break alone, I’ll do it.”
Scrapper crouched a little, bringing his optics closer to Hook’s level. His tone stayed quiet, but there was no softness in the warning.
“Then keep learning. Don’t waste time waiting for permission. But don’t think this is easy. You’re stepping into work that’ll break you in different ways than it breaks him.”
Hook swallowed once, but he didn’t look away.
Scrapper gave a short grunt and straightened again.
“Just make sure when the time comes, you’re ready. He won’t forgive you if you try half-prepared.”
Hook nodded quickly, almost stumbling over his words in his rush. “Thanks. And… thanks for not telling him.”
Scrapper shrugged.
“Not my secret to tell.”
He turned toward the hall, then paused at the threshold, voice dropping lower.
“But when the time comes, you’d better show him what you’ve been doing. He deserves to know you’re not just his burden anymore.”
Hook’s optics softened, relief and determination mixing in his face. He clutched the tool tighter for a moment, then set it back into its place in the kit with careful precision.
“One day,” he whispered, mostly to himself. “When I’m ready.”
Scrapper studied him for one last moment, then gave a small grunt. “Keep at it, kid. Just don’t burn yourself out before you’re ready.”
Then he pushed off into the dim hall and left Hook to the low lamps, the solvent scent, and the broken lines waiting on the bench.
Hook sat back for a moment, energon smudged across his fingers, his kit open beside him. The datapads back at the academy suddenly felt distant, like shadows of what he was really meant for. Here, in the heat of the pits, with the clang of steel and the stench of coolant still in the air, he could see it clearly.
His path wasn’t just theory.
It was this.
Watching mechs bleed and break.
Learning how to set them right again.
Not just studying what repair meant, but living it.
The medic returned and dropped another damaged line onto the bench.
“Again,” he said.
Hook looked down at it, then selected the clamp from his kit without hesitation.
For the first time, he felt the shape of his future settle into place—not a dream written in code, but a purpose forged in the grit and grime of Kaon itself.