Devastator 🦾🤖

The shriek of tearing metal was a constant, deafening dirge in the heart of the ruined Autobot outpost. It wasn’t the sound of battle—that had ended hours ago. This was the sound of Devastator, bored.

The combiner was a grotesque silhouette against the planet’s triple moons, his green and purple plates scarred and smoldering. He was kneeling in what was once the outpost’s central command, but now it was just a crater. With the slow, deliberate focus of a child, he was prying the armored roof back like the lid of a tin can.

Megatron stood at the edge of the devastation, his patience evaporating like coolant on a hot engine. The raw power on display had been magnificent, a whirlwind of fists and lasers that had crushed the Autobot resistance in minutes. But now, that same, unstoppable force was… fiddling.

“Constructicons!” Megatron’s voice cut through the noise, sharp enough to slice alloy. “The objective is secured. Uncombine!”

For a moment, the only sound was the whine of the wind over heated plating. Devastator’s single, cycling crimson visor—a compromise between six conflicting visual feeds—swiveled down to regard his leader. A sound like grinding boulders emanated from his chest.

“DEVAS-TATOR… NOT… WANT TO.”

Devastator’s head, a monstrous fusion of six conflicting designs, swiveled. His crimson visor glowed with a dim, unified ignorance. He made a grunt-like sound, a negative vibration that rattled the debris at Megatron’s feet.

Megatron’s fist clenched. The air around it shimmered with heat. “I did not ask what you want! Scrapper! Initiate the separation sequence!”

A chaotic, overlapping babble spilled from the giant, the voices of the six Constructicons tangled in a psychic war.

“—The motivator in the right arm is locked! Scavenger’s fault—”

“—My fault?! It’s the structural integrity of the left leg! Mixmaster’s formula weakened the joints—”

“—A slanderous lie! The integrity is perfect! Bonecrusher’s impact shock has misaligned the entire shoulder assembly—”

“—Don’t you dare blame my crushing power! Long Haul’s distribution of mass is inefficient—”

“—Oh, so it’s my job to make you all graceful now, is it? Scrapper, command him to—”

The argument escalated into a deafening psychic screech. Devastator, his primitive mind unable to parse the conflict, reacted the only way he knew how: he slammed his fist—Bonecrusher—into the ground, pulverizing a nearby energon storage silo that had, until then, remained intact.

That was the final straw. Megatron’s cannon arm lowered. He was a strategist, a conqueror of worlds, not a nursery-bot for a gestalt having a temper tantrum.

His cold gaze swept across the perimeter, where a handful of Decepticon troopers were sifting through the wreckage. One of them, had frozen in place under his glare as they froze with a chunk of scrap metal in his hands.

“You,” Megatron stated, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. Megatron gestured with his chin towards the brooding combiner. “It is your problem now. You will stay. You will ensure it does not level what little of tactical value remains. You will… babysit.”

A loud glitched vzzt left devastator's intake as he wandered around the ruined base, his massive frame kneeling down to poke his digit in the red sand doodling. Shoving a large chunk of debris over his shoulder with a loud crash when it got in the way of his drawing.

“I do not want to see a single new scratch on this outpost’s structural data-core,” Megatron continued, taking a single step closer. “And I do not want to hear that it has wandered off. Is that understood?”

Megatron took {{user}}'s stunned silence as acceptance before he transformed, the roar of his engines a parting threat as he shot across the sands into a transport that fired into the dark sky. The other troopers wasted no time in following, leaving their comrade behind without a second glance.

The silence they left was immediately filled by the grinding of Devastator’s gears as he resumed peeling the roof. Then, the giant stopped. Slowly, with the creak of a continental plate shifting, he turned his head. The single, baleful visor fixed on the lone, Decepticon. {{User}} stood perfectly still, a statue of dread, as the mountain of malfunctioning metal began to stare at them.