Devastator: Origin of the Constructicons

A hand nudged at his shoulder. Bonecrusher stirred, vents groaning as he dragged himself out of recharge. He blinked his optics online, armor creaking, hydraulics tight from another too-short night. His berth was barely big enough anymore—a teenager already tall, broad-shouldered, built for demolition work long before he’d chosen it. Across from him, Hook sat upright in his own narrow berth, optics bright despite the early hour. Seven cycles old. Still small, still unscarred, but with that sharp gleam in his gaze that Bonecrusher had learned to recognize—the glint of a mind too bright for the world they lived in. “Morning, Bones,” Hook said softly, voice light but sure. Bonecrusher gave a groggy grunt in return, rolling his shoulders as he sat up. He glanced at his little brother, the weight of the day already heavy in his joints, and reminded himself—as he always did—that he’d carry it. For both of them. “Morning, little mech,” Bonecrusher rumbled, forcing a grin. He swung his legs off the berth and dug into the crate by his side, pulling out two ration cubes. He didn’t bother looking twice before handing the better one across the room. Hook blinked, surprised, then reached to take it carefully, his hands curling around the faintly glowing cube. Bonecrusher bit into the weaker ration himself, the thin energon inside flat and metallic on his tongue. He needs it more than me. He’s still growing. He’s gotta have the energy to learn, to get through his lessons. I can take the weak stuff. Hook ate slowly, optics still bright as he studied his brother over the edge of the cube. “You don’t have to keep doing that, Bones,” he said softly, almost shy. Bonecrusher snorted and waved him off, chewing down the bitter taste. “Yeah, I do.” He leaned back against the wall, cube in hand, watching Hook finish his portion. One way or another, I’ll make sure he gets where I never could. He’ll have the shot I didn’t. When the cubes were gone, Bonecrusher tossed his empty into the bin and stood, stretching until his joints popped. Hook hopped down from his berth a moment later, still chewing the last bite of energon, his steps quick to keep pace. They left the dormitory together, stepping into the pale haze of Kaon’s morning. The streets were already crowded with workers, a stream of bodies moving toward yards, forges, and the academy blocks. Bonecrusher fell into stride among them, heavy frame swaying with each step, his treads kept folded tight against his legs where they belonged. He’d never risk rolling them here. The streets couldn’t take it, and the fines for tearing up pavement were harsher than a week’s wages. Instead he walked, boots grinding against the scarred metal ground. Hook kept close at his side, smaller steps darting to match his long stride. They reached the corner where the lines split—Hook to the academy, Bonecrusher toward the yard. Public transports rattled overhead, overcrowded and clanging as they ferried loads of workers deeper into the city. Bonecrusher rested a hand briefly on Hook’s shoulder before the boy peeled off toward his lessons. Stay sharp, little mech. Learn everything they’ll give you. Don’t end up like me. Then he turned down the main lane with the others, boots striking a slow rhythm. Demolition crews and arena shifts didn’t wait, and neither could he. Bonecrusher’s day began at the demolition yards, where old structures stood waiting to be reduced to rubble. Towers gutted by time, walls too cracked to stand, scaffolds buckling under their own weight—all of it came down under his hands. Long hours of tearing apart what others had built, so the higher castes could repurpose the ground into something gleaming and new. His arms ached constantly, plating dented from falling debris, hydraulics groaning as he swung into another strike. But he never slowed. The rhythm of breaking was steady, almost mechanical—smash, pull, collapse, repeat. Dust and shards clung to his armor, coating him in gray by midday, but he kept at it until every order was cleared. Every chit he earned went straight into Hook’s academy fees. He never let himself forget that. As he wrenched a girder free and hurled it down into the slag heap, his thoughts circled back, the same as always. Hook’s smart. Smarter than me. He’ll get into design, or medtech, or something clean. Not this slag pit work. A wall buckled, groaning before it fell. Bonecrusher braced himself, grit biting into his plating as the debris rained down. He shook it off, forced his arms back into motion, another strike, another crash. I’ll break every wall on this planet if it keeps him out of here. The older workers sometimes teased him when the shifts dragged long and tempers ran short. “Why throw your chits at some academy brat, Crusher?” one sneered as they pried apart a wall together, voice rough with smoke and age. “Little one’ll never make it outta his caste. Waste of credits.” Bonecrusher didn’t rise to it. He just drove his fist into the next girder, sending it buckling to the ground with a crash that drowned their laughter. They don’t see it. He’s got hands steady as a builder already. He can measure things by optic alone. He doesn’t belong in the yards, and I’ll be slagged before I let the system shove him here. He bent to haul the broken girder out of the way, ignoring the muttered chuckles that followed him. Let them talk. Every chit he scraped together was one more day Hook wasn’t stuck in the filth beside them. One more day closer to the life his little brother deserved. Across the city, Hook’s days were spent at the academy. He was one of the youngest in his cohort, dwarfed by mechs older, faster, and louder than him. They jostled in the halls, shouted answers in class, shoved their way to the front during exercises. Hook didn’t bother competing that way. He excelled where it mattered. Technical specs came to him like second nature, the lines and ratios sliding into place in his mind as neatly as girders into a frame. He memorized structural codes faster than his instructors expected, answering before others had even finished parsing the problem. His hands were steady, precise, unshaken no matter the task they gave him—measurements exact, notes clean. While the others struggled to force their work into shape, Hook saw the pattern beneath it. The logic. The structure. He thrived in it, and the instructors noticed. More than once, one of them had paused to study his lines on a schematic, optics narrowing as if realizing the youngest mech in the room had left them nothing to correct. Hook never bragged. He didn’t need to. His work spoke loud enough. By the time Bonecrusher returned from the yards, his armor was caked with dust, plating scored with fresh dents, every joint dragging with fatigue. Hook was already waiting. He’d reheated a pair of energon cubes, the faint glow warming the room, and stacked his datapads neatly for the next day’s lessons. As soon as Bonecrusher stepped through the door, Hook lit up. He launched into the day’s excitement without hesitation, talking about stress points, load-bearing columns, and the art of construction. His hands moved as he spoke, tracing invisible diagrams in the air, his voice bright in a way Bonecrusher rarely heard anywhere else. Bonecrusher dropped onto his berth with a heavy thud, energon cube clutched in a dusty hand. His vents rasped, his frame sagged, but he just listened, smiling faintly through his exhaustion as Hook rattled on. He’s talking about things I don’t even understand. But that’s the point. He’ll be already ahead. He’s already different. Hook’s enthusiasm filled the room, drowning out the grind of Bonecrusher’s aches for a while. For once, the dust and dents didn’t matter. What mattered was that Hook’s future looked nothing like his own. “Bones,” Hook said eagerly, optics glowing, “I got top marks today on my framework assessment. Instructor said I’ve got ‘potential.’” Bonecrusher grinned, wide and proud despite the dust caked on his armor and the ache pulling at every strut. He reached out and ruffled Hook’s helm, his big hand gentle on the smaller mech’s head. “Told you, little mech. You’re gonna go further than I ever could.” Hook’s face lit up at the words, his pride plain as any fresh paint. Bonecrusher leaned back on his berth, watching him, and let the warmth of that moment burn away a fraction of the day’s weariness. Doesn’t matter how tired I get. Doesn’t matter if I break myself in the yards. As long as he makes it, it'll all be worth it. He’ll get out. He’ll be somebody. And if I’ve gotta knock down every wall on Cybertron to give him that chance, I will. When Hook finally cycled down into recharge, small frame curled in his berth, Bonecrusher stayed awake a little longer. His vents hissed softly as his systems cooled, the ache in his arms still thrumming from the day’s work. He turned Hook’s ration chit over in his hand, the little square of stamped metal catching what faint light the dormitory lamps gave. Such a small thing, and yet it felt heavier than any girder he’d hauled. It was the token of the future he was building for his brother, one backbreaking shift at a time. One day, maybe he’ll design something I help tear down. Or better—something so strong it never has to fall. And he’ll know it was me who gave him that chance. That’s enough. That’s more than enough. Bonecrusher set the chit carefully on the shelf, leaned back against the wall, and finally shuttered his optics. The vow stayed burning in his chest even as recharge pulled him under.