Devastator: Origin of the Constructicons

Two days blurred past in a fever of motion, the cramped room transforming into a workshop of half-sketched lines and restless energy. Scrapper etched scrap sketches into dented plating until every loose surface was more blueprint than metal, every line a frantic attempt to catch up with the fire in his processor. Mixmaster muttered formulas under his vents like prayers, scrawling notes in shaky handwriting that smudged with chemical stains. He brewed compounds in scavenged flasks, fumes sharp in the air, the glow of reactions flickering like unstable lightning. Scavenger slipped in and out of yards and dumps like a shadow, hands full of pieces no one else would have thought useful—hinges with rusted edges, braces pulled from broken frames, supports cut from slag piles and discarded molds. He returned each time with a nervous brightness in his optics, pride threaded through the jitter in his hands as he laid his finds on the floor like offerings. Bonecrusher and Long Haul moved like machines of habit, their bulk too obvious to be subtle, but their silence too determined to be stopped. They spent their nights hauling discarded girders and twisted plates through Kaon’s alleys, the clang of metal echoing off the walls as they vanished into the dark with another load. Their frames ached, their armor scraped raw, but they didn’t stop. And Hook turned the idea of a medic station over in his processor until it became something real enough to build. His kit stayed in subspace where it always rested, ready when his hand needed it, but the plan itself spread across scraps and datapad notes—compact, efficient, collapsible. His optics never dulled, each adjustment made with the certainty of someone who refused to yield. They hadn’t slept much. Their vents rasped with exhaustion, plating dulled with grime, energon levels running lean. But when the comlink buzzed again, every optic in the room snapped toward it at once. Scrapper snatched it up before the second buzz finished, his vents catching hard as the text scrolled across the screen, stark and unyielding: [Location: Kaon Outskirts. Old smelting yard.] [Directive: Build it.] [Supplies on site.] The glow of the words lit his optics, hard and sharp, reflecting across the tired faces around him. In the silence that followed, the comlink’s message seemed louder than any order they had ever been given. The six of them fell silent, the comlink’s glow washing the cramped room in a pale light that seemed to press against their plating. The message was simple, stripped of flourish, but it thrummed through their processors louder than a shouted command. Scavenger shifted first, hands clicking like loose rivets. His voice pitched too high in the stillness. “That’s it? Just—‘build it’?” The words carried a fragile edge, half protest, half awe, like even saying them aloud risked breaking something that had only just begun. “Supplies on site,” Mixmaster repeated, the phrase rasped under his vents as though he were already dissolving it into parts, analyzing its acid truth. His optics narrowed, datapad glowing faint against his thigh. “Means he wants us to prove we can use what’s given. No excuses. No time for second runs. It holds, or it fails.” His fingers twitched against the edge of the pad, restless with half-formed equations. Long Haul shifted against the wall, loader racks groaning low in the dim. He grunted, the sound rough as stone dragged across steel. “I told you it was a test.” His visor reflected the sharp glow of the screen, cutting pale across the shadows of his faceplate. “And now we’ve run out of time.” The words didn’t rise, didn’t thunder. They landed heavy and flat, like the toll of a final bell. His helm tilted toward Scrapper, visor flaring faint. “Well?” The weight in his voice pressed the silence back against the others. “You’ve got the plan. Lead us.” Scrapper stared down at the comlink, the glow burning into his optics, processor already firing so fast it felt like the edges of his frame were humming. His hand hovered, fingers twitching with the urge to drag more lines, to carve another sketch, to pin down every angle of what came next. But the words in his chest beat louder than the scrape of metal. *You are a team now.* He looked up, gaze cutting across each of them in turn—Long Haul steady as a wall, Bonecrusher scowling but ready, Mixmaster twitching with volatile thought, Scavenger clutching his hands tight to keep them still, Hook calm with his repair kit waiting in subspace. The weight of Megatron’s words pressed heavy, sharper than any command from a foreman, heavier than any load they had ever hauled. “Then we go,” Scrapper said at last, voice rough but sure. The simple declaration carried the weight of steel set into place. “One shot to prove it.” Hook’s fingers brushed once near the subspace pocket where his kit rested, a habit more than a need. His optics gleamed steady in the dim light, sharp as a surgeon’s blade. “Let’s make it count,” he said, tone calm but unyielding. They filed out into the Kaon night, armor dull under the fractured glow of neon signs, shadows stretching long across cracked pavement. The air was thick with the tang of smelted metal, the low thrum of furnaces buried in the city’s bones, and the distant calls of mechs still haunting the alleys. But the six of them walked with a rhythm that cut through it all, steps steady, frames aligned without needing words. They weren’t bound by caste anymore, nor by the yoke of overseers who had always weighed them down with quotas and chains. What held them together now was heavier and sharper—a command that had already reshaped them, welding them into something stronger than they had been apart. Kaon’s outskirts loomed ahead, a jagged horizon of slag heaps and broken girders, rusted yards left to rot when the caste deemed them no longer profitable. The night air was cooler out there, touched by the bitter bite of old smoke. The old smelting yard sat beyond the usual patrol routes, screened by dead stacks and collapsing walls, too obsolete for the Senate to watch closely and too worthless for overseers to guard. That was why it mattered. Hidden enough to work. Wide enough to build. And waiting among that ruin, somewhere in the husk of the dead yard, were the supplies Megatron had promised. They didn’t know what they would find. Scrap? Castoffs? The barest fragments of a challenge? It didn’t matter. Whatever waited in those shadows, they would turn it into a mobile arena—or fail trying. The old smelting yard sprawled across the Kaon outskirts like the carcass of some long-dead machine—vast furnaces rusted to hollow shells, slag heaps hardened into glassy ridges, walls leaning inward as though the entire place had collapsed under the weight of its own history. Twisted girders jutted from the ground like broken ribs, and the air smelled faintly of old ash, a bitterness that clung to every surface. In the wind’s low whistle through cracked walls, the place almost groaned, a reminder of the cycles when its fires had once roared. It was silent now but for that wind. No guards. No overseers. No chains rattling or orders barked. Only six mechs standing at the gate, their frames thrown into sharp silhouette against the sagging yard. The night pressed close around them, neon light from Kaon’s distant towers paling against the dark, leaving them alone before what looked, at first glance, like ruin. But inside, the silence shifted. Scrapper stepped forward first. Stacked neat and deliberate in the belly of that hollow carcass were supplies: modular struts arranged in careful rows, prefab wall sections leaning in precise formation, crates stamped with energon reserves, and tools sharper and finer than anything they had ever been trusted to touch before. No junk. No slag. No rusted leftovers scavenged from the pits. These were new. Untouched. Waiting. The contrast hit like a blow. Outside, the yard sagged with decay, its bones collapsing inward, forgotten and cast aside. Inside, the order was absolute—every crate aligned, every strut placed with purpose, as if the space had been remade into a hidden armory of possibility. The six stood frozen at the threshold, the reflection of those gleaming supplies catching in their red optics. For vorns they had been given only rust, only the refuse of a system that saw them as expendable. Yet here, in the husk of Kaon’s dead industry, lay proof that someone—Megatron—wanted to see what they could do when they were not starved for material, not forced to build from scraps, not reduced to making miracles out of castoffs. He wanted their best. And he had paid for the chance to demand it. Not workers shoving slag into furnaces. Not laborers breaking under quotas. Builders. Engineers. Architects of something new. The yard loomed like a carcass, but within its hollowed ribs lay the raw bones of the future, waiting for six mechs to assemble it into life. The comlink in Scrapper’s hand buzzed, the sound sharp in the dead air of the yard. He flicked it open with a snap, optics narrowing as the pale glow burned across his faceplate. [Timeline: 3 days.] [Directive: Complete the build.] The words landed like hammer strikes, each one locking tighter into the silence. He hadn’t even raised his head to tell the others when their comm units chimed in unison, the sudden chorus loud enough to jolt through their frames. [Transfer complete.] [Credited: 3000 shanix.] [Title: Advanced Payment.] Every mech froze where he stood. For a moment, even the wind seemed to die in the wrecked yard. The glow of their units reflected off tired plating, digits too stark to be mistaken, too sharp to dismiss. Scavenger fumbled his slate, nearly dropping it in his rush to check again. His hands clicked against the casing, nervous and eager all at once. Optics wide and round, he reread the digits, vents hitching. “Another payment…” he muttered, voice caught between disbelief and awe. “Bigger than before.” The numbers shimmered back at him, solid, undeniable, carrying more weight than any overseer’s ledger ever had. Three thousand shanix each. Not just wages. Not survival scraps. Incentive. Investment. Proof. The crates stacked around them no longer looked like supplies alone. With that transfer humming in their accounts, it all sharpened into something heavier: responsibility, expectation, and the unspoken promise that this time, failure would cost more than just their pride. Mixmaster muttered under his vents, words spilling out fast, half to himself, half to the room. His fingers twitched against his datapad like he wanted to start mixing compounds that instant, restless with the weight of ideas he couldn’t bottle. “He’s buying us time,” he said, optics darting as if he could see the equations written in the air. Then his voice sharpened, more certain. “No—he’s buying our focus. We finish this, we’re not just workers anymore. We’re builders of something new.” Bonecrusher let out a low whistle, a sound that cut through the hum of vents. His gaze shifted toward Hook, expression caught between awe and unease. “That’s more than I made in half a lifetime,” he muttered, his voice trailing with disbelief. Then it hardened, heavy as slag dropped into a mold. “But it means we can’t afford to fail.” Long Haul shifted. His visor gleamed with the reflection of the stacked crates, pale light sparking across the worn metal of his frame. “Three days,” he rumbled, voice like gravel dragged over steel. “That’s not much. Scrapper—this is yours now. Tell us where to start.” Scrapper’s optics cut from one face to the next—Hook steady with his kit ready in subspace, Bonecrusher’s scowl hiding unease, Mixmaster twitching with the need to work, Scavenger wringing his hands though pride flickered underneath, Long Haul himself standing like a wall that refused to fall. Finally his gaze dropped to the crates: modular struts glinting faintly under dust, fresh-cut walls leaned in waiting stacks, tools gleaming sharper than anything the caste had ever trusted in their hands. Untouched. Untainted. He could almost hear Megatron’s voice in the back of his processor, that growl that had rattled the pits and marked them all. *You are the leader. Design the team and everything they build.* Scrapper’s fingers flexed over empty air, itching to draw lines, to mark schematics on the ground itself if he had to. The weight pressed down heavy, but it wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t the overseers’ chain—it was something raw, something sharper, something that told him this load was his to lift. The dust around the crates swirled faint in the night air, and in it, he saw not ruin but the shape of a frame waiting to rise. His hand tightened on the comlink, metal creaking faintly under the pressure. Scrapper’s voice cut through the dim stillness, rough but certain, each order falling like a rivet hammered into place. “Alright. First we map the ground—Bones, clear the slag heaps so we’ve got room to set the floor.” His optics flashed toward Bonecrusher, the words more command than suggestion. He turned, sharp and deliberate. “Long Haul, you haul those crates into position. Get everything staged where we need it.” The gleam of untouched materials stacked against the ruined yard made his next words feel heavier, as though the future itself depended on how they were moved. “Mix—check what binding agents we’ve got and start brewing something to hold the stands steady. Doesn’t matter if it’s ugly; it just has to set and keep.” Then his gaze landed on Scavenger, and the smallest pause held before he spoke, like he knew the mech needed the anchor of being named. “Scav—dig through the spare crates. Hinges, braces, supports. If anything’s missing, you find it. Doesn’t matter if it’s slag heaps or forge rejects—you bring it, we use it.” He looked last at Hook, who stood steady at his side, frame square and balanced like the weight of expectation couldn’t shift him. Scrapper’s voice dropped low but carried the same iron edge as before. “And you—you lay out the medical station first. If this works, we’ll need it before the end.” Hook’s optics caught the dim yard-light, gleaming with a steadiness that was almost unsettling in its certainty. His answer came smooth, precise, unshaken. “Already thought of that.” His hand dipped into subspace, and his repair kit snapped into his grip with practiced ease. The moment broke, and the six of them spread out across the smelting yard. Metal groaned under heavy steps, crates thudded as they were shifted, tools clinked against armor, and the hiss of vents quickened as they set themselves into motion. Each mech moved with a speed none of them had expected, as if the weight of command had stripped away hesitation and left only momentum. For the first time, the caste hadn’t told them what to do. No overseer shouted, no whip cracked, no quotas chained their labor. Megatron had given the order, but the design, the roles, the execution—those were theirs. And for the first time, their hands weren’t tearing something down to be forgotten in slag heaps. They were building—constructing something new out of ruin, shaping steel into purpose, carving their future out of the bones of the yard. The clang of girders, the scrape of fingers over plating, the spark of tools—it all rang like the first heartbeat of what they were becoming.