Devastator: Origin of the Constructicons

Bonecrusher leaned heavier into the gate wall than usual, vents dragging harsh and uneven through his chest. Another night, another heap of wreckage dragged from the pits—but this time he wasn’t just waiting for Hook to finish. He was listening. The medics’ alcove glowed faintly down the hall, voices carrying low over the clatter of tools. He could pick Hook’s out instantly—steady, focused, nothing like the nervous boy who once hid his hands behind datapads. Time in the pits had hardened him, and with it came a voice that knew what it was doing. Bonecrusher’s fists tightened at his sides. The crowd above had gone, the air still vibrating faintly from their thunder. But down here, the quiet weight pressed harder. Hook wasn’t just visiting the alcove anymore; he belonged in it. The difference tonight wasn’t the noise, or the ache in Bonecrusher’s hydraulics—it was the realization that his brother wasn’t waiting on him to carry the future alone. And that truth sat heavier than all the debris he’d hauled that night. Inside, the head medic—a broad, worn mech with plating burnished by cycles of the pits—clapped a hand onto Hook’s shoulder. “You’ve put in your time, kid,” the old mech said, voice gravel-thick. “Finished the academy work. Finished the exams. Spent your nights down here patching gladiators when most would’ve locked up and gotten in the way.” Hook’s optics widened, vents catching, but his frame held steady. The medic’s hand stayed firm on his shoulder. “You’ve seen enough broken frames to know what this work costs. Schooling’s done. Now comes the part no datapad can teach you.” His optics narrowed, not unkindly, but with the hard practicality of a mech who had seen too many repairs come too late. “From tonight on, you’re on practical rotation. Arena medics stand together, and you stand with us now.” For a heartbeat, Hook felt like the boy he used to be—waiting in a dorm for Bonecrusher to come home, clutching datapads too big for his hands, hoping he was doing enough to make every late night worth it. But that moment passed. His back straightened. His hand settled briefly near the subspace pocket where his kit rested, not because he needed it, but because the weight of it had become part of him. Always there. Always ready. He bowed his head once, sharp and certain. “Thank you,” he said. “I won’t let you down.” “You already haven’t,” the medic replied, releasing him. The others nodded in quiet agreement, some with tired smiles, the kind that only came from cycles of surviving the pits. Hook stood among them, hands shaking just a little—not with fear, but with the weight of what it meant. He wasn’t just studying anymore. Wasn’t sneaking scraps of knowledge. Wasn’t waiting for permission. He had been recognized. Accepted. Not gently. Not ceremonially. Not as some sparkling to be praised for trying. As useful. As capable. As one of them. The glow in his optics, the way he held his shoulders, spoke louder than any vow. He wasn’t just Bonecrusher’s future anymore. He was his own—an arena medic forged in blood and dust, standing with them now. When Hook stepped out of the alcove, Bonecrusher straightened from the wall, arms folded across his chest. “You’re late,” he grumbled, the words coming out more from habit than anger. But then he caught it—the look in his brother’s optics. Not the bright curiosity of a student. Not the nervous guilt of a boy sneaking into places he shouldn’t. This was different. A glow of pride. Certainty. Belonging. Bonecrusher’s vents stilled, his stance loosening as something in his chest pulled tight. His voice dropped, rougher now, edged with a strange caution. “…What happened?” Hook set his tools away without looking, his hand moving to subspace with the ease of habit. The kit vanished into the pocket it always occupied, no bag to gather, nothing to forget, nothing to leave behind. He carried repair with him now. Then he straightened, shoulders squared despite the grime streaking his plating, and met his brother’s gaze head-on. “They accepted me,” he said, voice steady in a way that sounded older than his frame. “The academy work is finished. All of it. No more exams. No more waiting on instructors to decide if I’m ready.” The declaration hung in the air, heavy as steel. Hook’s optics burned with quiet pride, and still he went on, softer now, the edge of vulnerability breaking through. “The medics accepted me tonight. Practical rotation. Arena floor.” His hands still shook faintly at his sides—not from fear, but from the immensity of finally being able to say it out loud. “I’m trained, Bones. And I’m here.” Bonecrusher just stared at him. The words seemed to hang in the air longer than they should have, heavier than any girder he’d ever dragged across the pits. His little brother—the kid he’d carried home from the dormitory, the boy he’d broken himself to keep in school—stood taller than he ever had before. No more waiting. No more promises about some distant future. Hook had stepped into it. Real and undeniable. Slowly, Bonecrusher’s hands dropped from their fists to hang open at his sides, like even his frame didn’t know what to do with this shift. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again, but nothing came out at first. All the grit, the arena dust, the cycles of aching hydraulics—none of it had ever left him speechless like this. Finally, rough and low, the words scraped out of him. “Primus, kid…” His optics burned faintly, pride and disbelief clashing together until he couldn’t tell which was stronger. He stepped forward without thinking, big hands gripping Hook’s shoulders as if to ground himself in the reality of it. Careful, but firm. “You did it,” he managed, voice breaking around the edges. Hook’s smile wavered but held steady, his shoulders squared under the weight of his brother’s hands. “No, Bones,” he said softly, the words quiet but certain. “We did.” Down the corridor, a heavy shape paused in the half-light. Scrapper leaned against the corner for a moment, watching the two of them without a word. Then he pushed off the wall and kept walking. Bonecrusher barely noticed. His whole world had narrowed to Hook’s face, to the steadiness in his optics, to the certainty that had not been there when this had all begun. His mind dragged back through the cycles without meaning to: the scrawny kid sneaking ration scraps under a datapad so Bonecrusher wouldn’t worry, the boy who used to tug on his arm and tell him he was working too hard, the wide-eyed little mech who had once believed his older brother could carry the whole world alone. Now here he was. Sharper. Steadier. A mech in his own right, standing in the middle of the place Bonecrusher had once wanted to keep him from forever. Bonecrusher let out a long, rough laugh—less amusement than a release of pressure that had built in his chest for cycles. “Primus, Hook,” he rasped, the sound catching in his throat. “You did it.” “All those nights I thought I was breaking myself to keep you out of here,” he went on, voice low but fierce, “and here you are, standing right in the middle of it.” His grip tightened slightly on Hook’s shoulders, pride and fear twisting together behind his optics. “But you—” Bonecrusher swallowed hard, then forced the words out. “You made it something better. You turned it into more than I ever could.” Hook leaned into the touch, his smile quiet but unshakably sure. “You gave me the chance,” he said. “You carried me long enough for me to find out who I was. Now it’s my turn to carry some of it.” Bonecrusher’s vents hitched. Hook’s voice softened, but it did not lose its strength. “You don’t have to do this alone anymore, Bones.” For cycles, the thought had been the same every night. Whatever it takes. I’ll carry him. I’ll carry it all. But now the boy he had shielded and sacrificed for was standing there, steady and certain, offering to share the burden he had once been desperate to keep off those shoulders. His optics dimmed for a beat, the rough ache in his chest almost too much to speak through. Then he gave a single nod, fierce pride flaring through the exhaustion. “Guess I don’t.” The arena around them clattered and buzzed with the usual end-of-night chaos—haulers shouting, debris groaning, gladiators being dragged from the sand—but for the brothers, it all faded into the background. Bonecrusher’s world narrowed to the weight of his hands on Hook’s shoulders and the certainty in his brother’s eyes. The day shifts could go to someone else now. The yard work. The demolition scraps. The extra loads that had eaten every spare piece of him. The arena paid better, and Hook was here. Bonecrusher didn’t need a foremech’s permission to know where he would be when the next night came. For the first time in cycles, the endless weight pressing down on him eased—not because the work was done, not because the system had changed, and not because the cost had vanished. Because he wasn’t the only one carrying it anymore.