The underground complex had begun to take on a shape that had not existed in any scrap-yard schematic: order pressed into stone.
Where once cold slag walls had simply held back the cavern, mechs had driven girders into seams, bolted plates to anchor points, and wrestled forgotten pipes into new routes. The air still smelled faintly of rust and old fires, but over it now lay the sharper tang of fresh metal and hot flux. Lamps had been strung in chains from overhead ribs, their yellow pools cutting the dark into workrooms and corridors, each illuminated square a small claim on permanence.
Hook’s medbay gleamed under one of those lamps like a small, clinical moon. The station was compact but thoughtful—recharge berths recessed against a reinforced wall, quick-access trays latched in place, and a fold-down surgical table that snapped into position with a smooth, satisfying clack. Crates Scavenger had pried open lay in neat rows: sealed energon canisters stacked like ration bricks, sterile wraps bundled tight, instrument cases lined and labeled.
Hook had been precise in his placement, fitting clamps and pumps within a hand’s reach so triage could move as cleanly as a dance. The lamp above the medbay made the polished surfaces gleam, and the small fan in the decon antechamber hummed with life.
Beside the medbay, the war room had begun to loom, less a single room than a fortress of panels. Armored walls had been welded and braced around a square of cleared floor; consoles had been bolted into frames, their awaiting sockets open like empty eyes. Scrapper had drawn the command layout across a whiteboard bolted fast to the innermost wall, lines and arrows connecting feed routes, surveillance nodes, and fallback choke points.
Long Haul and Bonecrusher had wrestled heavy mounts into place, groaning with the effort as they set the backplane where the main power would feed the consoles. Wherever a seam showed vulnerability, Mixmaster’s notes had been stuck with a clip—filters here, dampers there—things that would keep a war room listening and speaking when others could not.
Along the far side of the chamber, the first outlines of the central labs had taken shape, a row of benches and racks that promised method more than improvisation. Workbenches had been framed with reinforced rails, faces scarred already by temporary vice-mounts and holes hammered to accept jigs. Storage racks had been bolted into the bedrock, each labeled in Scrapper’s crisp hand: alloys, sealants, fasteners, volatile compounds, containment units.
Mixmaster had claimed one corner as his own, cordoning it with a strip of hazard tape and setting down a tray of graduated vials and a battered but spotless heating mantle. He arranged his bottles with possessive care, optics bright, already whispering combinations under his breath only he could follow.
Scrapper stood at the hub of it all, slate in hand, the centerpoint of organized chaos. He barked orders that sounded like geometry—angles, load tolerances, tight allowances to the millimeter—while Bonecrusher and Long Haul shifted and manhandled struts as if the iron obeyed only their will. Scavenger whispered where to cut and where to pry, his fingers striking sparks against old rails as he carved new space for expansion.
Dust hung and swirled in the lamplight where they had opened cavities, each moted swirl catching and revealing the lines of their labor like stars pulled into constellations. The hum of their work—welder sputters, the rhythm of hammers, Mixmaster’s quiet muttering—filled the cavern with a living sound.
The sound of a place being born.
That hum died when Megatron’s footsteps echoed through the entry tunnel.
He strode in with Soundwave at his side, Shockwave behind them, his optics sweeping across the progress in silence. The six froze mid-motion—Mixmaster setting down his vial, Hook straightening from a half-finished energon line, Scrapper snapping his slate shut. Sparks hung in the lamplight like suspended embers; the lab benches and the war room consoles waited, tools mid-reach.
For a long moment, Megatron said nothing.
His shadow stretched over the benches and the stacked crates, and his presence tightened the air until even the fans in Mixmaster’s corner sounded loud. Then his voice rolled through the chamber, low but carrying, the kind of voice that left no room for misinterpretation.
“You have done well.”
The words landed like a struck anvil, an approval that made something in their cores ease. His gaze lingered on the war room—on the armored walls and the bolted consoles—then on the medbay, bright and clinical beneath its lamp, then on the sturdy outlines of the labs where Mixmaster’s corner had begun to bloom.
Pride flashed through them.
Small.
Fierce.
Then Megatron’s optics narrowed, the light in them sharpening into a blade.
“But next time, boarding first.”
The instruction was simple, surgical, and it hit harder than any compliment.
The six blinked at him, startled—the word catching them off guard like an unexpected strike. It was not because they did not understand. It was because they had not expected priority to be given to quarters over hardware and stations. They had been building the machine first.
Megatron had named the people first.
Scrapper’s jaw worked as he reoriented the schematic in his head. Boarding first meant rerouting access, reshaping load plans, sinking berths before benches. Hook’s chest loosened a fraction, relief and responsibility flickering across his face—the medic in him hearing the weight of that order immediately, understanding its single truth.
If the team slept and recharged properly, nothing else would fall apart.
Mixmaster’s restless grin thinned into a quick, sharp nod as he recalculated what to set up where. The compounds and hoods could shift, but living quarters demanded clean air and stable power now. Bonecrusher’s hands stilled on the girder he had been lifting, a new kind of satisfaction moving through him. This was not demolition or muscle.
This was building something steady to sleep inside.
Scavenger’s fingers paused mid-spark, optics bright with the practical math of where to dig the berths; he looked pleased in a way that was almost gratitude. Long Haul’s bucket shifted with a quiet rumble, the logistics in his head already rerouting crates and lift points to carve out space for berths.
Even Shockwave’s optic did not look surprised; the precision of the order matched his own clinical eye. Soundwave remained unreadable at Megatron’s flank, visor bright red and silent, the only sign of approval the faint tilt of his head.
In that pause, the implication sat between them like a newly forged link.
They were not merely to create tools for a fight.
They were to become something that endured the fights.
Boarding first meant care, continuity, and a base that would not be stripped or abandoned. It was a claim as much as a command—a claim of permanence for them as much as for what they were building.
They stood there, lime and purple catching the lamp glow, processing the pivot. The sudden startle softened into a shared, wordless understanding that whatever came next, Megatron had not only wanted a structure.
He wanted them able to live inside it.
The order shifted the work from mere construction to life.
Megatron’s hand trailed along the edge of the bare console like a measuring rod, fingertips catching on bolts and the cold seam of metal. The gesture read less like ownership than like inspection—an appraisal of potential. Soundwave shifted a fraction closer, visor reflecting the bank of empty ports, silent and precise. Shockwave remained still behind them, optic fixed and patient, the single yellow point cutting the cavern into measured slices.
The six watched Megatron watch the work, and in that watching their fatigue folded into purpose again.
Scrapper’s slate came back to life in an instant. He sketched new run lines across the schematic, blocking out the boarding berths first as Megatron had commanded. His hand moved quick and sure, stamping the new priority into the plan with short, efficient strokes.
Long Haul spoke the load sequence aloud, the rhythms of crates and scaffolds lining up in his voice like a set of gears. Hook leaned over his notes, tapping in berths and recharge cycles, counting the hours and energon feeds that would keep them from becoming sloppy.
Bonecrusher and Scavenger exchanged a look that was half grin, half grim calculation. Bonecrusher’s fists loosened into work-ready hands; he stepped toward the east tunnel where earlier clearing had begun. Scavenger’s feet scraped the packed dust as he headed for the nearest stash of brackets, already running the list of what he could pry free without wasting credits.
Mixmaster crouched at the bench, checking the ratings on the temporary power rigs—heat loads, venting, ratios that would keep labs safe while living quarters hummed beside them. His mutterings came quick-fire and practical: what to prioritize for stable air, which pumps needed backups, where to put fail-safes.
Hook called out the first measurable tasks in a voice that was all business now.
“Berth spacing. Redundant feeds. Emergency purge points.”
He moved hands-on, marking panels with sterilization zones and sliding a small bundle of med supplies into the first designated berth, as if proving the space would be functional the moment it existed. Scrapper adjusted his angles to accommodate the plumbing Hook had just scribed. Long Haul counted crate positions and marked where lift points would be bolted to the cavern ribs.
Megatron watched them for a long moment more, then straightened and inclined his head in the fraction of a nod that served as approval.
The sound of their work returned to the cavern like a tide—hammers, the thump of metal, Mixmaster’s low hum—only now each strike and step had a sharper edge.
They had begun with boarding first, not because the order was softer, but because each of them understood the reasoning beneath the command.
Stronger foundations came from rested hands.
And whatever they were building beneath Kaon would demand nothing less.
Megatron’s hand fell from the console edge.
“Pay them,” he said, voice flat and absolute.
At once, every comm unit in the room chimed—sharp, simultaneous, a small electronic avalanche that cut through the work. Screens flared to life across their belts and panels, pale light painting lime and purple in hard relief.
The sound was ordinary and enormous at once: the mechanical confirmation of a tether tightened, a promise turned into numbers.
[Transfer complete.]
[Credited: 5000 shanix.]
[Title: Labor Payment.]
Optics snapped to the displays.
Scrapper’s hand hovered over his comlink as the message scrolled, jaw working once before a slow, almost private grin eased his features. Scavenger’s hands clicked so fast they blurred; the nervous energy in him shifted into bright, greedy relief. Hook’s shoulders loosened, the tension in his hands uncoiling like a wound finally let go.
Long Haul’s bucket settled a fraction, a grunt of satisfaction rumbling from his chest. Bonecrusher’s vents flared, the low sound part pride, part incredulous approval. Mixmaster’s optics went sharp, not at the credits themselves but at what they bought—materials in his head already arranging into lists and reactions.
Five thousand shanix each.
Not supply funding.
Not project allocation.
Payment.
Actual payment.
For their labor.
The alcove filled with the tiny, practical noises of confirmation—slate swipes, datapads tucked away, quick recalculations murmured aloud. It felt, in that small, bright instant, as if the weight on their shoulders had been measured and lightened. Not only the currency of shanix, but something less tangible.
Validation.
Investment.
The sense that the choice Megatron had named was becoming reality.
Soundwave’s visor did not change. Shockwave’s optic did not soften. Megatron watched the tiny ripple his order caused and, for the first time that day, something like approval creased his mouth.
The six met one another’s optics, paint catching the lamplight, and in that quick exchange they accepted what the payment meant.
They had been paid to build the future.
And now they had the means to keep building.
Megatron’s optics returned to them, burning with that flat authority that never asked and rarely forgave.
“You have five days.”
The words landed like measured strikes. They were not promises. They were demands with timecodes.
“All of it—labs, war room, boarding, storage.”
His gaze cut across the half-formed base, then back to the team.
“When it is done, you will not linger here. I want the arena rebuilt.”
The faint curve at his mouth read less like a smile than like a gauntlet thrown.
“Soundwave will serve you the location.”
The comlink at Scrapper’s belt pulsed once, an insistent heartbeat against his plating. He let his hand hover over it for a single second, feeling the vibration echo through his fingers, the fresh payment still warm in the accounts like newly forged metal.
Around him, each mech occupied the same narrow moment in a different way.
Scrapper’s mind reordered tasks into a tighter, harsher sequence. Hook calculated recharge cycles and emergency triage into the five-day window. Long Haul ran manifests silently—drop points, crate rotations, lift windows—each number a little law. Bonecrusher tasted the strain and squared his shoulders to carry it. Mixmaster’s optics brightened with formulae and tolerances. Scavenger’s grin stayed, smaller now, threaded with a keen edge of worry and eagerness.
Soundwave stepped forward, silent and precise, the only visible movement in the chamber besides the flicker of lamps. He did not speak. His presence was instruction enough.
Shockwave’s single yellow optic remained cold and steady behind them, the analyst’s appraisal waiting like a weight.
Megatron inclined his head once.
Final.
Then he turned, his steps swallowing the light as he left.
Soundwave followed at his side.
Shockwave followed behind them, measured and silent.
Left in the echo of their exit, the six stood for a long moment, lime and purple catching the lamp-glare and throwing it back in fractured flashes. The cave felt both smaller and taller than before—smaller because the deadline had reduced them to hard tasks, taller because what they had been asked to build would reach farther than any arena they had ever known.
The comlink’s last pulse throbbed at Scrapper’s belt like a metronome.
Five days.
Labs.
War room.
Boarding.
Storage.
Then the arena again, somewhere new.
They had not moved yet, but their vents—small and steady—had already begun to fall into the rhythm of the deadline Megatron had given them.