The arena was louder than Scrapper expected. The roar of the crowd still bled through the walls even after the fight was finished, a thunder that rattled the plating under his pedes and echoed in his head. It wasn’t the clean collapse of a demolition site, where steel screamed and then went quiet. This was constant, a pulse that never let up.
The service bay reeked of smoke, coolant, and the sharp copper tang of energon. The stench clung to everything—the walls, the floor, the tools scattered across benches—and it hit his vents like a fist. He wrinkled his nose, but he didn’t slow. He’d already committed, the chit for his new work assignment clutched tight in his hand.
The paper-thin promise of better pay. Faster credits. Supplies that did not have to be scavenged. Maybe, eventually, a better place to live than the cramped berth where every sketch had to be hidden before someone else saw it.
The only reason he was here.
Scrapper’s optics swept the bay, tracking the shadows of other workers moving in the haze—haulers, sweepers, medics rushing toward the pits. His hands flexed at his sides. This wasn’t demolition. This wasn’t what he wanted. But it was what he could get.
A foremech intercepted him before he’d even gotten his bearings, optics narrowing in a look Scrapper knew too well. The sneer was automatic, like he’d been waiting all night for someone new to shove around.
“Loader frame?” the foremech barked, gaze flicking over Scrapper’s broad shoulders and heavy arms as if he were nothing more than a checklist. He gave a curt nod. “Good. You’ll clear fast.”
Before Scrapper could get a word in, a data-slate was slammed into his chest. The foremech leaned in close, breath stinking of stale energon.
“Get on the floor, don’t get in the way, and don’t ask questions.”
He jerked a thumb toward the yawning arch at the far end of the bay. The roar of the crowd leaked through louder there, accompanied by the hiss of steam and the crackle of still-cooling wreckage.
“Pile goes to the south gate,” the foremech snapped. “Haul picks it up.”
Then he was gone, already turning to berate someone else, leaving Scrapper standing there with the slate clutched tight in his hands.
Just another tool slotted into place.
Scrapper’s jaw tightened as he glanced down at the assignment, then toward the arena floor beyond.
Don’t ask questions. Don’t get in the way. That’s all they see me as. Always.
Scrapper grunted, irritation already grinding through his vents, but he squared his shoulders and shoved through the heavy doors onto the arena floor.
The sight that hit him made him falter for just a breath. The sand was torn up in deep gouges, blackened with scorch marks that crawled up the walls like burn-scars. Shattered plating lay scattered across the ground, weapons broken and twisted where they’d fallen. The sharp tang of energon mixed with coolant hung in the air, thicker here than anywhere he’d worked before.
And in the middle of it all, a frame lay twisted and still, optics dark. Another worker moved in without hesitation, hooking the limp body under the arms and dragging it toward the gates. Scrapper’s gaze caught on it for a second too long, processor snagging on the silence of it.
He forced himself to look away, jaw tight, hands clenching around the slate until the edges bit into his palms.
The fight would have happened whether he stood on the sand or not. The frame would have fallen. The crowd would have roared. The foremechs would have found someone to drag the wreckage clear.
If the pits were going to keep eating mechs, Scrapper might as well take the better pay for cleaning up after them.
Not my business. Not why I’m here. Work’s work.
He stepped forward onto the sand, the grit crunching under his pedes, and set his sights on the first wreckage pile waiting for him.
A familiar figure moved ahead of him, already dragging a slab of twisted barricade across the sand. Broad frame, heavy arms, massive shoulders hunched under the weight. Plating streaked with dust and grime, vents rasping loud enough to cut through the background roar.
Bonecrusher.
Scrapper hadn’t seen him since the night at the smelting pool, but the recognition came quick, sharp as a hammer strike. He slowed for half a step, watching the other mech’s back as he heaved the load toward the south gate.
Bonecrusher’s head turned just enough to catch him in his optics. For a moment, the world narrowed to that look—the arena dust swirling, the clang of debris falling, the stink of scorched energon.
Then Bonecrusher gave a short, almost imperceptible nod.
Not a greeting. Not warmth.
Just acknowledgment.
I see you. You’re here too.
And then he bent without pause, massive hands closing around another slab, hauling it up with the practiced ease of someone who’d been breaking himself this way for far too long.
Scrapper let out a rough breath through his vents, the weight of his slate suddenly heavier in his grip. The pits hadn’t changed what they were—just thrown them together again, side by side.
He moved toward the nearest section of collapsed barricade, optics narrowing automatically. Even here, even in this, his processor did what it always did. The wreckage showed him its shape. The bend in the plating. The stress point where the support had failed. The angle that would let it come loose without dragging half the pile with it.
He hooked his hands under the right edge and lifted.
The slab came free cleaner than expected, sand sliding off in gritty sheets. Bonecrusher glanced over once, optics flicking from the clean break to Scrapper’s grip, then back to the next piece.
He said nothing.
Scrapper took that for approval enough.
Closer to the gate, Long Haul was waiting with his bucket tilted low, steady as ever. He looked up when Scrapper approached with his first load, optics narrowing faintly in recognition. His tone was flat, but not unkind.
“Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Didn’t expect to be here,” Scrapper muttered back, letting the chunk of barricade fall into the bucket with a heavy clang. The sound rattled through his frame, louder than it should have been. He straightened slowly, vents rasping from the heat and the weight. “But it pays better than tearing down houses for half the rate. Work’s work.”
Bonecrusher, not far behind, gave a sharp snort as he heaved another girder into place, his hydraulics whining in protest.
“Yeah,” he rumbled, voice edged with exhaustion that felt older than his frame. “That’s what I told myself the first night too.”
He set the girder down hard, dust bursting up around his legs.
The three of them stood there for a beat in the haze of the arena gate—one unloading, one hauling, one steady as stone—bound not by pride in the work, but by the weight of knowing it was all the system had left them.
Scrapper didn’t answer Bonecrusher. He bent instead, hauling another slab across the wreckage-strewn floor. Every step ground the truth deeper into his chest. This wasn’t building. It wasn’t design. It was destruction all over again—different walls, different ruins, but the same bitter taste.
Still, the pay chit in his pocket pressed heavy against him, undeniable.
He told himself the same thing the others had told themselves.
Work’s work.
By the third load, Scrapper had started reading the arena floor the way he read demolition sites. Not because he wanted to, but because it was the only way to make the work bearable. The broken barricades had patterns. The shattered weapon mounts had failure points. The ruined wall sections could be freed cleanly if he struck the right angle first.
Bonecrusher noticed.
Of course he did.
The next time Scrapper cut a slab loose before Bonecrusher had to wrench it free by force, Bonecrusher paused just long enough to glance at the break.
“Good cut,” he grunted.
Scrapper looked up, caught off guard by the plain acknowledgement. There was no mockery in it. No challenge. Just the simple recognition of one worker seeing another make the job easier.
He gave a short nod. “Less strain if it breaks where it already wants to.”
Bonecrusher huffed, almost amused, and bent for the next piece. “Then keep doing that.”
So Scrapper did.
Bonecrusher broke the heavy pieces free.
Scrapper found the fault lines and made the wreckage give way cleanly.
Long Haul carried what neither of them could afford to leave behind.
No one called it teamwork. Not yet. Not out loud.
But the work moved smoother after that.
When the last of the debris was finally stacked into Long Haul’s bucket, the big hauler locked the load down with practiced ease. His movements were steady, efficient, almost quiet in the way only routine could be. But when he glanced at Scrapper, his optics lingered.
Not with judgment.
Not even curiosity.
Something closer to understanding.
“See you tomorrow, then?” Long Haul asked, voice low, even.
Scrapper hesitated, brushing grit and grime from his hands, fighting the instinct to deny it. But the chit in his pocket said otherwise.
So did the cleanly stacked load.
So did Bonecrusher, already turning back toward the gate like Scrapper’s presence there had become one more fact of the night.
Scrapper met Long Haul’s gaze just long enough to give his answer.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Tomorrow.”