Scrapper has a natural skill at design that is heightened by a mastery of engineering. He is physically strong. His shovel can slice through 12″ of steel plating and lift up to 30 tn. He's armed with a laser pistol in robot mode.
Finally at the end of my constructicon series, we have the leader of the gestalt, Scrapper! A modest builder who delights in using his enemies as materials for the foundations of his buildings! Usually he gets a little sidelined compared to other Constructicons, but Scrapper occupies a dear spot in my heart! He is a wonderful leader, and is considered by Megatron to be the best of the constructicons.
After a meeting post battle, Scrapper can get quite overwhelmed—dealing with a high command that is made up of screaming fools can grate on even the most patient of officers. Fortunately for him, his second in command is wiling to provide comfort.
Scrapper finds his teammates to be beautiful. Not necessarily born out of lust nor romance, but a certain appreciation he has for their frames. Every scar and every dent means another battle won, another day they get to survive— how could he ever find them to be anything less than perfect?
He believes wholeheartedly that their image deserves to be preserved not only in his memory, but in his art as well. To him, his gestalt are the most beautiful mechs in the galaxy, not just in the outside, but in their core. He finds that he could stare at them forever and never grow bored, and by now he knows their armor, every cable and joint, by heart.
It’s a high honor to be found to be so beautiful by him, I think.
Thinking of the headcanon of Scrapper having scars under his face guard. Under the cut is the introduction of a fic I’m working on, but decided to share this part as it’s own standalone thing to fit the drawing.
Warning: contains description injuries like acid damage and other lacerations. If you believe there is something else I missed and that I must add another warning for, please let me know 🙏
There was only smoke.
As he onlined his optics, Scrapper was hit with a wave of disorientation. His processor felt hazy, and his frame was trapped under a cloud of numbness which was interrupted by an occasional tingle of feeling he could not quite identify, but knew it had to be important. Most of his senses were off, all he could rely on were his fuzzy optics, which were bombarded by warnings that popped up on his HUD, yet he couldn’t quite make out what he was being alerted about— as if the glyphs in the messages were nothing but scribbles.
He couldn’t understand what was happening, could barely even process a single coherent thought. Where was he? What was going on? Why were his main systems inactive? He hated feeling so helpless. But the mere fact of not being able to even move a finger filled him with an indescribable terror, a helplessness that made his circuits twitch. Scrapper was one of the most feared and respected Deceptics, the leader of a gestalt, but at that moment he felt like nothing more than a rookie suffering his first injury during training.
Something in his core told him that he couldn’t just lay down and feel sorry for himself.
With great effort, he slowly began to boot up the rest of his main systems. As soon as they came online, his optics darted frantically all over, and he cycled them over and over to try and clear up his vision. With this, he finally managed to process his surroundings.
The sky had a grayish hue, and he vaguely noticed it was becoming increasingly cloudy. But he didn't waste time worrying about the weather, instead he was more preoccupied with the scene happening below it: corpses scattered on the ground, with smoke rising from what he deemed to be bullet holes, as well as a large amount of energon pouring out of those very injuries tainting the earth beneath them.
The grisly scene at least allowed him to become better aware of his predicament, as memories came flooding into his mind, reminding Scrapper of where exactly he was, and why.
It was a battlefield.
Of course, he remembered now— his team’s latest assignment. They had been sent to defend a planet from an Autobot occupation in progress. Scrapper had been assigned to lead a small squad to fight on the front lines and act as a barrier to draw invading troopers away from their fuel factories. This sort of task was commonplace for him; nothing serious, and certainly not important enough to require Devastator's help, so only two constructicons had been selected to carry out the assignment; himself and Bonecrusher.
They had often been tasked several times with operations that ended up separating the constructicons from one another, so when he first received news of their upcoming mission, Scrapper hadn't been worried in the least. He fully trusted his abilities to lead his squadron to victory, even if he lacked Bonecrusher's strength or bloodlust.
So when they had reached and seated themselves inside of the shuttle that would be taking them towards the area to be defended, Scrapper remembered himself telling the bulldozer that there was nothing to worry about; this mission wouldn't be anything special, merely a matter of scaring off the occasional Autobot stupid enough to confront them on the battlefield.
They were going to be ”in and out, then back to headquarters just in time for lunch”, he remembered joking with his gestaltmate in good spirits as they glanced over the shuttle window to take in the view down.
He couldn’t have been so wrong.
As his systems slowly began to stabilize and he began to regain sensation all over his frame, his software working overtime to bring his internal components back into a functional state, a sudden stinging pain hit him like a truck.
The excruciating sensation made him gasp and his vision fill with static momentarily, his breathing becoming rugged as his plating trembled and spasmed from the agony.
The source of the pain came from multiple areas: plasma bullet wounds all over his chassis, missing his key internals by just a few inches, but still incapacitating him— at least now he understood why he was immobile; the ballistic injuries piercing his joints in a way that disabled his movements, leaving him unable to move a single component.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. No, the ache in his frame couldn’t compare to the burning agony coming from his face. The pain was inexplicable, a sensation so extreme it incited unimaginable terror in himself.
His face was burning. His ventilation was erratic, and his HUD only communicated a constant barrage of warnings about systems and hardware falling apart, but none of that mattered to the construct. No, the only thing occupying his mind was the stinging sensation taking root in his face, specifically the left side of his mouth, he could feel the once soft metal burning and being rapidly eaten away by a substance with which he had become intimately familiar after working besides Mixmaster’s chemicals for vorn…
Acid.
The corrosive substance was relentless in its doing, making quick work of the outer layer and dripping down onto the precious mesh of his mouth until they pierced it open and tore holes which revealed the internal cabling of his jaw, exposing his protoform as well as his denta. Scrapper was so focused on his rapidly deteriorating cheek that he didn’t even get the chance to acknowledge the other lacerations dispersed along the other areas of his profile.
He grimly realized that the smoke he had been gazing at earlier hadn’t actually come from the plasma shots in the surrounded corpses, but it instead originated from himself; rising up from the corrosive agent decimating his features, which he noted had a greenish hue to it, giving it a deadly effect he was not fond of.
As Scrapper laid there, spasming from the mixture of wounds and terror, his helm rested onto the energon-stained ground below him while he looked up at the gloomy sky. His visor at least had provided a decent shield for his optics, which were better off than the vast majority of his body thanks to the protective glass.
Colliding thoughts raced through his mind: But what worried his processor most were thoughts about his team, about how they would react once they learned their leader had perished, accompanied only by the presence of corpses around them and the growing cloudiness of the sky. He was more than certain his gestalt would be hit hard by his absence, because as humble as Scrapper was, he knew very well how much his team cared for him.
Lying there, all he could do was reproach himself for having been so stupid as to end up defeated in such an unforgettable way, with no one to witness his last moments on the planet—another thing that disturbed him, since he wouldn't even have the privilege of dying in his homeland, but would have to pass away on a planet whose name he couldn't even remember. What a mess…
Faintly he noticed that the clouds had darkened, and a light drizzle was falling down on him, which he had to admit felt kinda nice. Even as the rain quickly became a downpour, Scrapper couldn’t find it in himself to be angry nor even the slightest bit bothered, as the unidentifiable liquid helped quell the acidic burn of his wounds. In fact, he found that the acid was slowly but surely cleaning away, no longer threatening to melt down his more precious circuitry. That was a relief, even if he was still certain he would not live to see the end of the storm.
As the damage began to take hold of him, Scrapper began to make peace with his eventual death, his processor still focused on relieving memories of time spent with his team, and just how much he wished he could still be with them, if only for a little while. He would kill for one of Scavenger’s hugs right now, to feel the simpering mech’s arms holding onto him as if to never let him go. Which were usually followed by the two of them being hoisted up into a crushing embrace by Long Haul, who would then effortlessly carry them away to look for another constructicon to join in on the cuddles, usually Mixmaster, with the chemist insisting on going to retrieve Hook from his office so that the grumpy crane could also participate in the impromptu team hug. This usually ended in the medic throwing a fit about being interrupted in the middle of doing some important task only he could find relevance in, such complaining would earn him a smack on the back by Bonecrusher, who was always drawn in by the second in command’s squabbling so that he could mess with him. Then , they would all usually fall into their berth for a nap, with everyone doing their best to hold onto as much plating and kibble as possible, reluctant to let go.
Distantly, Scrapper began to listen as a faint thudding sound began to approach. He didn’t think much of it, too entranced in visions of a happier time back before the war was even a thing, his processor illuminated by warm colors and the bright gleam of the crystals that once surrounded his city, before he had taken part in his destruction.
It wasn't until the noise became louder and got closer to him that Scrapper realized that what he was listening to wasn’t just any background noise, but footsteps, and he suddenly understood what—or rather, who—they belonged to. He would recognize that thundering sound, callously made by someone who didn’t care what he stepped on, anywhere.
And that revelation was made all the more clear by the roaring voice which accompanied it, screaming his name at the top of his mechanical lungs as he bulldozed through the battleground with the sole purpose of reaching him.
Bonecrusher.
The demolition expert had come for him, possibly aided by their gestalt bond—which he had tried to keep closed as hard as he could in an effort to spare his gestalt from experiencing the agony of his own wounds and impending demise— to rescue his team leader.
As Bonecrusher skidded to a halt in front of Scrapper’s injured frame, the bulldozer fell to his knees with a strength that shook the ground beneath him, jostling Scrapper unpleasantly and causing the architect to grunt in pain.
Before Scrapper could say anything—or try to, as his vocalizer could only spew static due to how damaged it was— his optics suddenly flared up then flickered as his processor began to spin uncontrollably, leaving him dizzy. He could still kind of identify the way his gestalt mate began to do something with his body, possibly attempting to pick him up, as a second pair of smaller footsteps he couldn’t recognize also made their way towards him.
Then, as Bonecrusher yelled out a curse for someone to do something, anything… Scrapper’s world suddenly went black.
…
Small sketch of how I think the scars could look like…
