Devastator: Origin of the Constructicons

They lingered in the glow of the arena lamps, six silhouettes cut against the smog, the comlink still heavy in Scrapper’s belt. None of them spoke at first. The roar of the crowd had dulled behind the walls, but it still seemed to hang in their plating, a reminder of what had just shifted. Hook was the first to break the silence, his voice quiet but firm. “Bones and I… we’ve got a room. Small, but it’s better than scattering. If we’ve only got one comlink, we need to stay close. Together.” Scrapper nodded slowly, tugging the device tighter against his belt as though afraid it might vanish. “Makes sense. Soundwave’s not the type to repeat himself. If we miss the call, we don’t get another chance.” Bonecrusher shifted his weight beside Hook, his massive frame tense, protective, pride and worry tangled together. Long Haul said nothing, loader racks creaking as he leaned forward slightly, a steady anchor even here in the uncertainty. Mixmaster tapped restless fingers against his leg, already calculating variables none of them could name. Scavenger’s optics darted between them all, hands twitching with a nervous energy, but brighter than they’d ever seen before. Scavenger’s hands clicked anxiously, his fidgeting almost too quick to follow—but his optics lit with a brightness that betrayed him. “Better than going back to the yard. Boss would just ask why I’m smiling like I’ve got a secret.” His voice wavered between nerves and something new—something like hope. Mixmaster gave a short, low mutter, his arms folded tight across his chest. “Same with me. If I show up at the cement plant grinning, someone’ll knock it out of me.” There was no humor in his tone, only a blunt truth, but the restless tap of his fingers suggested the thought of leaving that behind didn’t sting at all. Their gazes drifted to Bonecrusher. He stood with arms folded across his chest, broad shoulders shadowing Hook at his side. He let the silence drag until it pressed heavier than his frame, then gave a single shrug. “Room’s not fancy,” he said, gravel in his voice, “but Hook’s right. Safer together.” The decision settled between them like shared weight. For the first time, none of them were walking back alone into Kaon’s smoke. Long Haul straightened from the wall with a low creak of armor, stretching his arms until the joints popped. A groan rumbled out of his chest as if he were working loose more than just tension. “Frag this,” he muttered, voice rolling like gravel. “I’m done standing around. I’m getting a drink.” His visor glinted as he jabbed a thick finger toward Bonecrusher, the motion sudden enough to cut across the quiet like a strike. “And you—no more excuses. I’ve let you dodge me for vorns, but tonight you’re coming with me. No arguments.” Bonecrusher’s brow plates drew tight, mouth already shaping the protest he always used. But Long Haul’s glare hit him like a weight, daring him to spit it out. The hauler’s voice dropped heavier, iron-edged and blunt. “Don’t even try that ‘Hook needs me home’ line. Look at him. He’s right here, solid on his own feet. He doesn’t need you to hover anymore. You’ve earned yourself one cube. Just one.” Hook leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk flickering across his mouth. The tilt of his head, the steady gleam in his optics—it was the expression of someone who had grown up enough to turn the tables. “He’s right, Bones,” he said, tone light but sure. “I’m standing here, aren’t I? You can’t use me as your shield anymore. Not tonight.” Bonecrusher’s scowl faltered, caught between disbelief and a reluctant pride that twisted in his chest. His little brother—once the excuse he lived behind—was now grinning at him, calling him out with the same sharpness he once feared Hook would never find. For a moment Bonecrusher just stood there, caught between pride and habit. His hands curled and uncurled at his sides, armor shifting as if every joint was arguing against the idea. He had leaned on excuses for so long they felt like armor plates he didn’t know how to shed. Pride wanted him to refuse. Habit begged him to. But Hook’s smirk and Long Haul’s unyielding stare pinned him in place. With a low rumble he finally shook his head, vents rattling. “Fine. One drink.” Long Haul’s visor brightened with satisfaction. “Good mech,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to make Bonecrusher’s vents jolt. The sound rang through the narrow space, loud as a hammer strike. “We’ll have a cube, then we’ll head to your place and figure the rest in the morning.” His voice had the casual certainty of someone who expected no refusal, as though the night’s plan was already carved in stone. Scrapper, leaning nearby with arms folded, let a faint smirk tug at his mouth. His optics gleamed sharp as glass in the dim light. “Well slag… that almost sounds organized.” His tone was dry, but the hint of approval threaded through it was impossible to miss. The words hung in the air, charged with something heavier than just a promise of cubes. It was the shape of a new rhythm forming between them—awkward, rough-edged, but steady. For once, the silence that followed wasn’t the gulf it used to be. Together they turned toward the neon-lit streets, six mechs with a secret heavier than any load they’d carried before, walking into the Kaon night to share a drink before the world changed. Long Haul lifted his cube. “To new problems.” No one argued. One cube became two. For Bonecrusher, that was more than he had allowed himself in longer than he cared to count. For Long Haul, it was victory enough that Bonecrusher was still sitting there instead of inventing another reason to leave. The two of them leaned heavy at the end of the table, shoulders nearly touching, their voices rougher and looser than usual as the low burn of over-energized systems softened the hard edges they normally carried. Bonecrusher’s laugh came out like gravel breaking loose in a chute, rare and startled out of him by something Long Haul muttered too low for the others to catch. Long Haul answered with a slow, pleased rumble, visor dim but warm in the bar’s flickering light. Hook watched them from across the table, chin propped on one hand, amused despite himself. “You said one cube,” he reminded Bonecrusher. Bonecrusher pointed at him with exaggerated seriousness. “You said I couldn’t use you as a shield. Didn’t say anything about counting.” “That is not how that works.” Long Haul’s rumble deepened, almost a laugh. “Medic’s got you.” Bonecrusher grunted, then looked at Hook with a crooked pride that softened the whole line of his face. “Yeah. He usually does.” Hook looked away first, but the small smile stayed. Scavenger nursed his cube like something precious, optics bright as he listened to the others talk around him. Mixmaster kept tapping notes into his datapad between drinks, ideas spilling out faster than the mild energon haze could slow them. Scrapper barely touched his own cube after the first half. He kept glancing at the comlink at his belt, as if he could feel Soundwave’s silence pressing through the casing. The bar had thinned out by the time they finally staggered into the night air. The Kaon streets were quieter now, neon signs humming overhead, their glow catching on tired plating and painting their frames in shifting washes of violet and blue. Faint tremors from deep sub-level machinery shook through the pavement, a constant reminder of the city’s unrest even in its still hours. They hadn’t drunk heavily, not truly, but it was more than most of them had allowed themselves in cycles. The faint buzz of it curled through their systems, loosening armor seams and softening edges that had long been kept sharp. For the first time in a long time, the weight on their backs had felt lighter. By the time they crowded into Bonecrusher and Hook’s cramped room, the exhaustion caught up all at once. The space smelled faintly of old weld and cleaning solvents, cramped but familiar, the sort of place worn by cycles of shared routine. Hook checked the kit in his subspace pocket by habit before settling near the berth, then folded himself down with the tired precision of someone who had learned to rest wherever rest could be taken. Scavenger curled onto the floor with his hands tucked under him, optics dimming as though the ground itself had called him to recharge. Mixmaster half-dozed with his datapad still glowing faintly in his lap, lines of half-finished formulas running across the screen before fading into standby. Long Haul leaned against the wall, arms folded, visor dull but frame steady, as if he could hold the whole room upright by sheer will even half over-energized. Bonecrusher dropped down nearby with a heavy vent, one arm braced over his knee, his optics dim but not entirely dark. Scrapper sat at the small table, hunched just enough that the dim light caught on the angles of his faceplate, the comlink resting in front of him like it was a live charge. The silence between them was not empty but weighted, filled with the quiet hum of vents and the unspoken knowledge that they were standing on the edge of something none of them could name aloud. One by one, they slipped into recharge. Scrapper did not. Not fully. His optics dimmed to a thin glow, his frame still and lowered as if rest had finally taken him, but his awareness stayed hooked to the comlink on the table. He had been named leader before he understood what that meant. Given a team before he had learned how to hold one. Given a device that would speak with Soundwave’s precision and Megatron’s expectation behind it. He would not miss the call. Not after everything they had decided. Not after all of them had chosen to stay. Outside, Kaon hummed in its restless sleep. Inside, the room held six mechs, one comlink, and the first fragile shape of a future waiting to be called into motion.