The little room smelled of solvent and polish, sharp and heady in the vents, clinging to every surface until it felt like the air itself had been scrubbed clean. The half-working lamps cast a pale glow across them, light striking polished plating that gleamed brighter than it ever had before.
For the first time in their lives, none of them looked like pit-haulers or scrap-pickers dragged in from the yards. The dents that had once marked them as expendable had been hammered smooth. Weak joints braced and replaced until they held steady under weight. Vents tuned and balanced so their frames cycled clean, no longer rasping with the grind of years.
Hook had overseen every adjustment himself, datapad in hand, stylus flashing with neat precision. One by one he had ticked names from his list, optics narrowing until each stood straighter, cleaner, sharper. His touch was clinical, exact, but beneath it ran the pride of a mech shaping more than repairs.
He was reforging them.
And the paint—Primus, the paint.
It transformed them.
Lime green plating caught the light in sharp planes, bright and bold as industrial hazard paint, screaming visibility and defiance both. The shade was unignorable, the color of mechs who built foundations and moved steel, but now it blazed across warriors-to-be.
Purple trimmed the edges, deep and commanding, cutting hard lines against the green. It was the same color that gleamed on Megatron’s chestplate, the same shade that seared in memory every time the insignia burned beneath the arena lights.
At first, it was jarring—loud where they had been shadows, brilliant where they had once tried to disappear.
But as they looked at one another, seeing the reflection of those colors echoed back frame after frame, the unease shifted. The green tied them together, the purple anchored them, and the combination made them unmistakable.
Undeniable.
For the first time, when they saw each other, they didn’t see workers left to rust.
They saw a unit.
They saw a team.
They saw something new.
Now they sat or stood around the battered table, polishing cloths in hand, the quiet rasp of fabric against metal filling the room. Their plating gleamed brighter with every stroke, solvents still sharp in the air. There was something almost reverent about it—six mechs who had been treated like junk for vorns, now deciding for themselves how they would stand before the world.
Not as haulers.
Not as scavengers.
Not as demolitionists.
As a unit.
The comlink buzzed.
Every optic turned. Scrapper grabbed it without hesitation, fingers clicking against the casing as he flipped it open. The glow lit his face in sharp planes as he read aloud, voice low but carrying through the cramped space.
[Fight tonight.]
[Medic on duty: 6 PM.]
For a breath, silence held.
Then, as if pulled by the same current, every optic in the room lifted at once, bright and burning.
Hook froze for only a second, cloth still clutched in his hand. Then he set it down with careful precision, the motion deliberate, final. He rose, shoulders square, posture steady, as though he had always known this moment would come.
His optics gleamed sharp beneath the pale lamp glow.
“That’s me.”
The words rang through the room like the strike of a chisel, carving a new truth into steel.
Bonecrusher’s vents rasped, the sound rough but steady, pride and worry tangled in his chest like a weld that hadn’t cooled yet. His optics lingered on Hook, the mech who had always seemed fragile in his care and who now stood straighter than any of them.
“You’ll be ready,” he said, voice low but weighted with conviction.
Long Haul leaned forward, the scuffed edge of his bucket catching the dim light as he shifted. A grunt rolled out of him, solid as stone.
“Not just you,” he added, visor glinting as he looked down the line of green and purple gleaming mechs. “We’ll all be there.”
Mixmaster’s optics gleamed, the restless energy in him twitching through his frame like an overcharged circuit. His fingers tapped against his leg, sharp and uneven, as if he could already hear the roar of the pit in his processor.
“First time Megatron steps back into that pit with us at his side,” he said, voice pitched quick and eager. “He’ll see the colors. He’ll see we’re not the same mechs he picked up out of the slag.”
Scavenger rubbed his hands together, fingers clicking in nervous staccato, but the grin stretching across his face wouldn’t leave. His vents hitched with a mix of jitters and pride, optics shining as if he could already see it too.
“And everyone else will see too,” he muttered, the words carrying more conviction than his tone had ever held before.
Scrapper set the comlink back on the table, firm enough that the sharp sound echoed against the thin walls of the rented room. The glow of its screen dimmed, but the weight of the words it had carried still lingered. His fingers curled once against the metal before he spoke, his voice steady and rough with certainty.
“Then it’s settled. Tonight we show up as a team. Fresh paint. No mistakes.”
The others sat in silence, polishing cloths still in their hands, the gleam of lime green and purple catching faint light from the flickering lamps. The image of them walking into the pit together was no longer just something imagined.
It was imminent.
A reality waiting in hours instead of days.
Hook’s hand dipped into subspace by instinct, checking the familiar place where his repair kit rested. It answered the motion like part of him, ready and ordered, every tool where it belonged. His optics flashed steady.
“Then let’s make sure Megatron walks out of that fight standing,” he said, tone clipped but unshakable. “That’s our job now.”
The words settled over the table like another layer of steel, binding them tighter, not as laborers, not as castoffs, but as the unit they had chosen to become.
They looked at one another—lime green, purple, gleaming under the flicker of the half-working lamps—and for the first time, they didn’t just feel like six mechs surviving together.
They looked like the future Megatron had promised them.
The sharp colors bound them as tight as welds, the polish catching on their frames turning scars and patched dents into something purposeful. They were no longer shadows in the slag; they were a vision hammered into steel.
The comlink’s glow finally faded, its last trace vanishing into the dim light, leaving the room quiet but for the soft, rhythmic scrape of cloth over polished armor. The sound was steady, grounding, like the heartbeat of a unit in sync.
Hook stood in the middle of them, shoulders squared, optics burning with memory. His kit waited in subspace where it always rested, ready the moment his hand called for it. He let the silence hold for a beat longer before he spoke, his voice measured, each word weighted with the kind of truth that couldn’t be softened.
“When I cleared him before his last fight,” Hook said slowly, “I told Megatron about three things. Fracture in his leg strut. A weakened shoulder joint. A frayed energon line.”
His fingers tapped once against the datapad still open on the table, the sound sharp as a scalpel striking metal.
“He let it slide then, but he won’t walk into tonight’s arena with those weaknesses again. Not now. Not with us watching.”
His gaze swept across them, steady and unflinching.
“He won’t enter anything less than one hundred percent.”
Bonecrusher’s vents flared, his voice a rough grind of disbelief and dawning resolve.
“You’re saying we patch him up before the match.”
Hook didn’t hesitate. He gave one curt nod, the light from the lamp catching sharp across his polished plating.
“Not patch,” he corrected, tone edged with the kind of finality that cut deeper than a scalpel. “Fix. Permanently. He deserves better than workarounds.”
His optics narrowed as he shifted his gaze to Scavenger.
“Scav, you’re fastest with finding what we need. You know the yards better than anyone. We need a strut, a shoulder actuator, and a fresh energon line—high quality, not refuse.”
His finger tapped once against the datapad, marking each item like a line in a surgical plan.
“If we have to purchase them, then we purchase them. We can afford it now.”
Hook’s chin lifted, his optics gleaming sharp, voice low but ringing in the tight room with the weight of certainty.
“In fact, it’s probably best we do. I doubt Megatron would allow us to hand him anything less.”
Scavenger blinked, hands clicking nervously in that restless rhythm of his—but then, slowly, a grin spread across his face. It wasn’t the shaky, uncertain one he wore when caught out, but something sharper, faint yet fierce. His optics gleamed with the kind of determination that came when someone finally trusted him to do more than sift through refuse.
“I know what to look for,” he said, the words rough but steadying as they left him. “Real parts. Not cheap copies. A strut’s a strut if it’s genuine, doesn’t matter if it came from a vendor shelf or the back of a storage rack.”
His grin widened, teeth flashing beneath the flicker of the lamp.
“I can tell the difference. Always could.”
His fingers flexed unconsciously, already feeling the weight of new parts in his grip.
“If he’s trusting me to procure, then I’ll bring the best. Doesn’t matter if I have to buy it, bargain for it, or dig it out from somewhere no one bothered checking. I'll have them.”
Hook inclined his head once, slow and deliberate, optics narrowing as he locked Scavenger with his gaze. There was no softness in him now, only the iron steadiness of a medic who had just laid down an oath.
“Meet us at the arena by five,” he said firmly, voice carrying the precision of a final diagnosis. “That gives me time to prep the replacements and install them before six.”
His hand rested briefly near the subspace pocket where his kit waited, a gesture both possessive and certain.
“Megatron will walk into that pit whole.”
The words hung in the cramped room, ringing sharper than the scrape of cloth over armor, sharper than the hum of the lamps above.
For the first time, it wasn’t just about the arena they had built, or the colors they now wore.
It was about the mech who had given them purpose.
And they would not let him walk into that fight with anything less than their best.
Scrapper smirked faintly, arms folding across his chest with a rasp of metal on metal.
“Sounds like orders, not requests,” he said, voice low, roughened from exhaustion but edged with a flicker of humor. His optics narrowed, catching the gleam of the lamps. “You’re starting to sound like him.”
Hook didn’t flinch. His posture stayed steady, optics gleaming cold and certain.
“He put me in charge of keeping him alive,” he said evenly, each word clipped with precision. “That means I don’t let him step out there wounded. Not ever again.”
The tone carried no room for argument.
It was a vow hammered flat.
Long Haul’s deep voice rumbled in the small room, steady as stone settling into place. He leaned forward, bucket angled toward the floor, his gaze fixed squarely on Hook.
“Then it’s settled,” he said, the weight of certainty in his tone pressing the silence down. “Scavenger gets the parts. The rest of us stand with you when you put him back together.”
Mixmaster’s optics gleamed, restless light flickering in them even as his plating shone sharp from polish. He leaned forward, fingers twitching as though already reshaping alloys in his processor.
“And if the pieces don’t fit?” His vents hitched, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ll make them fit.”
The words came quick, unshaken, carrying the same reckless certainty as his chemistry—volatile, but unbreakable.
Bonecrusher’s vents rasped deep in his chest, a growl turned into something steadier. He reached out, his heavy hand clapping down on Hook’s shoulder. The weight of it was solid, grounding, but not crushing. Proud.
“You’ve come a long way, kid,” he said, his voice rough but clear. His optics glinted faintly, warm beneath the grit. “Megatron picked the right mech.”
Hook didn’t flinch under the strike of hand or words. His jaw tightened, and his optics flashed with sharp determination, cutting through the room like a scalpel edge.
“No,” he said, firm enough that even the hum of the lamps seemed to pause around him.
“He picked the right team.”
By five, the arena’s lower halls were already alive.
The little rented room still smelled of polish and solvent, but outside, the world had moved toward the fight. The clang of weapons being readied rang like distant bells, echoing against steel walls. The rumble of the crowd above drifted down through vents, low and hungry. Coolant lines hissed somewhere deeper in the complex, carrying the tang of scorched metal that clings sharp to every intake.
The arena was waking.
The world was moving toward Megatron’s fight.
And the six of them were moving with it.