Devastator: Origin of the Constructicons

The roar of the crowd above rolled like thunder, a ceaseless chant that rattled through the walls and shook dust loose from the rafters. Hungry. Insistent. Demanding blood. But in the chamber below, something else shifted—quieter, but heavier. For the six mechs gathered there, it wasn’t just about keeping Megatron upright anymore. They could feel it in the way they stood together, in the gleam of their paint, in the rhythm of their movements. They weren’t just holding him steady. They were lifting him higher. The arena floor trembled with the pounding of feet and the clash of voices, the sound of a city demanding its spectacle. Megatron rolled his shoulders, joints clean and strong, no resistance left to hold him back. He was fully repaired, the last trace of weakness burned away, and the hunger in him now was unmistakable. He stepped forward toward the fight, and the ground itself seemed to brace for impact. And the six didn’t fade into the shadows this time. They stood together in the wings, paint bright under the pit-lights, lime green burning like hazard signs, purple striking sharp as any insignia. For once, they weren’t unseen tools behind the spectacle. They were part of it. Unified. Undeniable. High above, in one of the shadowed observation platforms, Shockwave stood apart from the press of others. His single optic glowed a steady, cold yellow, unblinking as it tracked them. He didn’t watch the crowd. He didn’t even watch the gladiator striding toward the pit. His attention lingered on the six in the wings—the way Hook gave a clipped instruction and they moved without hesitation. The way Scrapper and Bonecrusher traded half-sentences, yet always finished the thought in sync. The way Mixmaster hovered restless, ready to produce a compound at a moment’s notice, his optics sparking with anticipation. The way Scavenger clutched spares and tools close like treasure, every motion sharp with purpose. And Long Haul, immovable behind them all, steady as bedrock, his sheer presence anchoring the line. To the crowd, they were painted workers standing behind a gladiator. But to Shockwave, through the cold precision of his optic, they looked like something else entirely. A formation. A machine already running, each part defined, each motion accounted for. A unit. Scavenger crouched low at the edge of the prep alcove, fingers twitching, optics drawn upward. The gleam of a single yellow optic burned down from the shadows of the observation platform, steady and dissecting. He leaned close to Scrapper, voice low, uneasy. “We’re being watched.” Scrapper followed the angle without raising his head, his jaw tightening when he caught the sight of it. “Shockwave,” he muttered. The others shifted subtly at the name. Bonecrusher’s vents rasped, shoulders squaring. Long Haul’s visor narrowed, the faint rumble in his chest betraying tension. Hook’s optics sharpened, mouth pressed into a thin line. Even Mixmaster stilled, datapad lowering, restless energy tightening into focus. Together they felt the weight of that yellow optic, dissecting their every motion—their paint, their formation, the way they moved without hesitation when Hook gave a clipped word. The roar of the crowd above swelled as the fight began, drowning the uneasy silence between them. But Megatron had heard enough before the gates finished opening. As he strode past the alcove toward the pit, he caught the low words, the way the six stared upward toward the decks. His optics narrowed, following their line of sight until he saw it too—that single, cold gaze fixed on them. “Shockwave,” Megatron said, voice rough with anticipation but carrying iron certainty. He bared his denta in a sharp grin, dangerous and approving. “Good. Let him watch.” The six exchanged uneasy glances, but none spoke. Megatron’s words hung heavy, turning the weight of scrutiny into something else entirely. A challenge. A promise. Then he strode into the light, and the crowd roared his name—an avalanche of sound that shook the walls and sent dust raining from the girders. The arena swallowed him whole, brutal and magnificent, every step a challenge hurled at the caste watching above. Behind him, six mechs stood silent in lime green and purple, their plating still gleaming from Hook’s polish, their dents smoothed, their frames braced and tuned. They were no longer shadows in Kaon’s gutters, no longer scrap-pickers or pit-haulers dragging chains behind them. They realized, with the crowd’s roar echoing through their frames, that they were no longer just a team. They were becoming part of something far larger. The fight ended the way most of Megatron’s did—sudden, brutal, undeniable. His opponent lay broken in the sand, energon staining the arena floor, the crowd chanting his name so loud it rattled the very girders above. The sound carried like a living thing, pounding through the walls as if Kaon itself roared with him. Megatron raised a fist once, a gesture of dominance and promise both, before turning on his heel. He stalked from the arena floor with the heavy stride of a victor, energon dripping from his shoulder where a blade had nicked him deep. The wound steamed faintly against the heat of his vents, but it did not slow him. Every step he took toward the gates was steady, controlled, a march that declared the fight had never been in doubt. In the wings, six mechs in lime green and purple stood waiting—not hidden, not cowering, but plainly visible. They were no longer just workers watching a champion. They were the unit that had put him back together, the hands that had made sure he walked into the pit whole. And as he strode back toward them, energon streaking across plating but power still radiating from every line of his frame, they knew the crowd had seen more than Megatron’s victory tonight. The six were already waiting in the prep bay, their paint catching the glow of the pit-lamps like a banner of lime and purple. Hook’s hand dipped into subspace, and his repair kit snapped into his grip with practiced ease. He set it open in front of him, the precise array of tools gleaming, each one laid in place as if set for a surgical theater. Behind him, the others had formed an instinctive wall—shoulder to shoulder, ready before their champion even crossed the threshold. When Megatron stepped inside, victory still clinging to him in energon and sand, they caught him as though the moment had been rehearsed. Bonecrusher moved first, bracing the massive frame with both arms, his vents rasping steady as he anchored the weight. Hook was there a breath later, one hand pressing at Megatron’s side, the other guiding him toward the bench with practiced urgency. The younger medic’s hands flew, every motion sharp and exact. He was already cleaning the energon that ran hot from the shoulder nick before Megatron even sat fully, sealing edges as fast as they opened. Scrapper stood close, not idle, a clean brace ready in his hands, the steel catching the lamplight. Long Haul, steady as bedrock, swung a crate into place, the impact ringing low as he set it down within Hook’s reach. Scavenger crouched at the medic’s side, hands uncharacteristically steady, digging through clamps and spare fittings until he held out exactly what was needed, no hesitation. Mixmaster hovered at the other flank, vial already uncapped, the acrid hiss of his quick sealant filling the air as he held it poised for Hook’s signal. Together they moved as though it had all been drilled into them—six mechs acting not in pieces but in rhythm. Each step and motion slotted into the next until it was seamless, their cohesion sharper than any crowd had seen. In that prep bay, there was no pit crew and champion. There was a machine of six, each gear turning, each part essential, already more than what the caste believed possible. Megatron watched them as Hook set the final patch, optics burning through the haze of pain. His massive frame had stilled, but the intensity in his gaze hadn’t dimmed. “Efficient,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Cohesive.” A shadow fell across the prep bay. Shockwave stepped forward from the corridor, his single yellow optic glowing steady and cold. He hadn’t descended with the cheering crowd or the overseers. He had waited until the fight was done, until he could watch not the spectacle, but the aftermath. His long stride carried him into the alcove with a presence that made the walls seem narrower. “You function as a singular organism,” Shockwave observed. His voice was measured, clinical, each word dropping like a precise cut of steel, yet the weight of it filled the room. “Separate frames. Separate purposes. Yet your actions are seamless.” His optic swept across them, taking in every synchronized motion, every unspoken exchange of tools and gestures. “This was not trained. It is instinctual. Rare. Valuable.” The six stilled under his scrutiny, the smell of sealant and energon thick in the air, every optic bright in the glow of the lamps. Megatron sat silent on the bench, crimson gaze burning as the words settled, his repaired frame radiating power. Between Megatron’s approval and Shockwave’s cold assessment, the truth had become inescapable. What they had forged was more than a team. Scavenger twitched, his hands clicking together in quick, staccato bursts, vents hitching as he muttered under his breath, “Told you we were being watched.” Shockwave’s optic shifted, the yellow glow fixing on him for a fraction of a beat before sweeping deliberately across the six. He paused on each in turn—Bonecrusher’s squared shoulders, Long Haul’s massive frame, Mixmaster’s twitching optics, Scrapper’s calculating stare, Hook’s steady posture, Scavenger himself still fidgeting under the weight of that gaze. Each was dissected. Measured. Catalogued. Before Shockwave could continue, a sharp voice cut in from the corridor. “Well,” Starscream said, tone dry as cut glass, “that is an efficient little pack.” The six turned sharply. Starscream stood in the entrance, one shoulder angled near the frame, arms folded, crimson optics bright with interest he was clearly trying to disguise as disdain. He had come to meet Megatron, but his gaze had snagged on the six in lime green and purple instead—on Hook’s clipped commands, Scrapper’s immediate adjustments, Mixmaster’s sealant ready before it was asked for, Scavenger’s hands finding the right tool without looking, Long Haul braced exactly where the weight needed him, and Bonecrusher anchoring the whole repair like a wall. His mouth curled. “Imagine if they were one machine.” The words landed lightly from him. They did not land lightly on Shockwave. His single optic brightened by a fraction, fixed not on Starscream now, but on the six. The silence that followed was not hesitation. It was calculation accelerating. “One machine,” Shockwave repeated, voice flat. Starscream’s smirk faltered slightly. “It was a figure of speech.” “Irrelevant,” Shockwave said without looking at him. “The observation has merit.” Starscream’s optics narrowed, irritation flashing under the surface, but he did not interrupt again. Shockwave stepped closer, optic returning to the six with a new intensity. Not curiosity now. Projection. “Existing precedent: multi-frame Cybertronians. Born configurations. Limited integration. Reflector provides one such model.” Hook’s fingers tightened near the edge of the open kit, his medic’s mind catching the implication before Shockwave fully spoke it. Shockwave continued, voice as exact and merciless as a blade measured to the micrometer. “However, externally engineered synchronization among six independent specialized frames would be unprecedented.” The room seemed to thin around the words. Bonecrusher’s grin faded sharp. Long Haul’s visor lowered, unreadable. Mixmaster muttered a formula too low to follow, energon sparking restless in his optics. Scavenger’s hands clicked together faster than usual, eagerness and nerves braided into the sound. Scrapper’s fingers tapped once against his leg, processor grinding faster. Hook stood very still, already tallying risk, stress, integration, failure points. Shockwave’s optic burned brighter from the shadows of his face, its cold glow steady, dissecting. “Separate frames. Existing cohesion. Instinctive synchronization. Complementary functions.” His gaze moved from Bonecrusher to Long Haul, from Mixmaster to Scavenger, from Scrapper to Hook. “Theoretical compatibility: high.” The words had landed like a hammer blow, and then, quickly, like a spark that leapt from metal to metal. The alcove hummed with the residue of sealant and energon; their vents slowed but did not quiet. Scrapper’s fingers had found the nearest flat surface, tracing angles he had not yet drawn, the structural math already unspooling in his head—frames, joints, balance, power distribution. Mixmaster muttered ratios as if chanting, formulas spilling into his datapad in jagged lines; his optics glowed brighter, hungry for the challenge of bonds and compounds that could hold more than steel. Long Haul shifted his bulk, the idea of carrying not only weight but synergy setting a new rhythm in his limbs. Bonecrusher’s grin died down, replaced by a leveled, dangerous focus; his fists unclenched only when he convinced himself the choice might be worth the risk. Scavenger’s hands trembled, yes, but the tremor split into something fierce—a readiness to hunt the parts or the price needed. Hook’s hand lowered toward the open kit, not clutching it, but grounding himself in the tools he understood. His optics narrowed and hardened, the medic’s tally of danger and sacrifice already running through him in cold, precise increments. Megatron watched them all. The certainty in his tone did not waver. “They are ready,” he said, the words settling across the room like a command and a benediction both. “Their cohesion is proven. They are not castes anymore. They are mine.” His optics burned as he looked across the six. “And together, they will become more than even the pits could imagine.” Shockwave inclined his head, the single yellow optic steady as a clinical blade. “Then we begin the next phase.”