Long Time Lurker

Lunch in the Kenobi-Skywalker-Tano-and-secretly-also-Fett quarters

(not pictured: one knight Skywalker, a togruta padawan, and a good dozen clone troopers in a variety of jedi clothes playing space-mariokart at increasingly high volumes)

[image ID: a digital drawing centred on Jango Fett, a Maori man in his late thirties, in matching mauve sweatpants and cropped shirt adding chilly powder to a big pan filled with a mushy red rice dish. His hair is greying at the temples and he is smiling slightly. On the left behind him is Obi-wan Kenobi, a pale ginger in his late thirties, wearing a blue cropped shirt and beige wrapped pants, who is walking past Jango while smiling at him, a hand on his arm. At the bottom right of the frame there is Boba Fett, a child looking like Jango at about twelve years old, in a matching blue pullover to Obi-wan's, holding up a flashing datapad, taking a photo. He is scoffing softly at his father. In the background, which is slightly blurry, there is a glass teapot and cups, a hanging multi-tier fruit basket and cabinets. Sunlight is flooding the room. end ID]

Ok so i love this prompt but it took forever to get to. And as soon as I did its like suddenly I was swamped with everything. So frustrating. But I finally finished it. And I love it. @vixen-uchiha​

              Marinette was six-years-old when her parents died in a car crash. She had been at school when the vice principle, Mrs. Valmontes, stopped by and pulled her out of class. The little black haired girl had known something was wrong instantly as Valmontes had smiled just a little hard at her and much more gently than what she was known for.

“So, am I allowed to talk?” Annabelle gave an awkward little laugh, that she immediately wanted to stuff back into her mouth. “I’ve never done this before!”

“You can talk.” Julian flashed her a quick, reassuring smile. “At least until I tell you not to.”

They both laughed, then. Julian’s laugh was not awkward.

It was six months until her thirtieth birthday.

She had met him at her girlfriend Camille’s twenty-ninth birthday party, a few weeks ago, only to be surprised that they’d somehow never crossed paths before. London was big, but it wasn’t that big surely, and Julian was an artist.

Annabelle felt like she spent half her free time at artsy bohemian parties and amateur gallery openings, though maybe that was why. He wasn’t an amateur, was he?

She’d looked him up online after and seen several shining reviews of his first exhibition, and a rosy buzz of anticipation at what he’d do next.

She remembered that buzz. People used to get that buzz when they talked about her. Apparently, his work was ‘visceral’ and ‘felt startlingly alive’.

It seemed impossible that he wanted to paint her, of all people.

Annabelle shifted on the stool, glancing around Julian’s studio space as he finished setting up his easel and paints. Oils. He’d said he was using oils. That mattered in painting, didn’t it?

The studio was everything she’d always imagined a professional artist’s studio to be. It was quite large, with clean wooden floors and white walls crowded with stacks of sheet-covered canvases in progress.

There was only one that was ready and visible; a painting of a beautiful blond man, probably nearing thirty too, lounging on the same stool that Annabelle was perched upon. He gazed out at the viewer with a hungry sort of hope. Like they were the best thing he had ever seen.

The studio smelled like drying paint and the sandalwood diffuser wafting its calming scent from the window sill. Sunlight coated the room like honey, or gold.

“You’re not going to make me look ugly, are you?” she asked.

He smiled again, meeting her eyes. “I couldn’t possibly.”

He probably flirted with all of his models, but she still felt a blush of heat rise to her face.

He looked like he could be in a painting, or one of those classical sculptures still concerned with archetypal ideals of beauty. Of course, she was with Camille, so nothing would happen…but still. The attention made her heart pound. Camille was usually too tired from work to flirt with her anymore.

Annabelle wasn’t sure how good she’d be at seeing a painting of herself that she hated, and not letting it show on her face. She’d probably tear up. It would be embarrassing for both of them. She shifted on the stool once more, and tugged at the hem of her summer dress.

“This is for your next exhibition?”

“I think I’m going to call it ‘The Art of Turning 30’.”

“Explains why I’m your muse instead of some gorgeous twenty two year old ingenue.” She laughed again. He did not. She continued, even as she willed herself to stop babbling, because he wasn’t looking at her with the expectation that she do anything. He plucked up a pencil, beginning his work. “It’s like, when you’re a woman, after you turn thirty your life is over, right? It’s like with my acting. And then by the time you’re forty all of a sudden all you can possibly be is, like, a mother or a witch. Or, you know, the dead wife. It’s all downhill.”

“You wouldn’t want to be a witch?” He raised a brow. “They always seemed pretty powerful to me. I could see you as a witch.”

“But do you know what I mean?”

“Can you turn your head a little the left, please?”

“What? Oh. Yes.”

She turned her head to the side, towards the window, and hoped the sunshine made her seem younger rather than highlighting every growing crag and wrinkle.

She could only watch him out of her periphery vision now; a wistful muse, seemingly unaware that she was being observed. She tried to look deep and mysterious.

“Perfect,” he said. “Thanks. You’re just perfect.”

The canvas of the blond man fell to the floor with a soft thump.

Annabelle jumped.

“Sorry.” Julian shook his head, another easy laugh on his breath. “The landlord never lets me put proper hangings on the wall here. Says it wrecks them. I guess so long as they don’t do that at the exhibition?”

“I don’t know, you could probably play it off as a stunt…lean into the photorealism.”

“Now, there’s an idea. Genius.” 

She probably didn’t look deep and mysterious. She probably just looked smitten.

At The Bottom

One of the first signs we get that something's off is Debbie's hobby of watercolour painting. She's got some of her art on display in her shop, and they're all perfectly nice pictures of flowers and puppies and kittens; a bit on the saccarine side perhaps, but nothing that'd strike you as odd about any of them. Not unless you happened across the closet full of all the complex, subtle, thought-provoking pieces of art she was creating up until last year.

And the pattern repeats everywhere: actions and incidents that look fine on the surface, but take on a much darker tone if you compare them in context.

"Hey, FormerClassmate, how's the activism going? I've always admired the way you survived your genuinely shitty childhood and dedicated your life to fighting for a more humane approach to addiction!" —"Oh, that. Well, the Christmas lights competition is really more important, don't you think? We need to keep standards high for the holidays!"

"Hey, ChildhoodFriend, I'm really sorry we've lost touch this past year. By the way, are you really going to buy a Christmas tree from Bob, after the shit he said when you came out?" —"Oh, that. No, Bob and I are actually getting married in a week; personal identity is all very well, but how could I miss out on a real, straight, Christmas romance?"

(Hey, Main Character, don't you have a loving, fulfilling relationship with your partner back in the city? Well, yes, but... haven't they been working lately? Wouldn't it just make so much more sense to find out the name of that farmer who picked up your books when you crashed into each other at the pine cone shop? Wouldn't you be happier if you just. Stay here.

He's not clean-shaven and dresses like a hobo, but he doesn't smell bad. The rest of the town grumbles about him being a Scrooge and scornfully tell the protagonist to keep her distance.

The protagonist witnesses him tear down the garlands in town square and decides she needs to talk with the one sane person left in town.

Together they investigate what's going on and take their frustration out on the Christmas displays when nobody is around.

They grow closer and closer, eventually being able to laugh at the ridiculous holiday wreath that keeps appearing on his door and getting tossed into the street every morning.

She feels herself falling for him and thinks back to how they met and how their relationship has progressed.

The way that they shared so many interests despite moving in completely different crowds before all this happened.

The sarcastic and playfully grumpy, but still generally cheerful demeanor that made him so fun to be around.

The silent streets and abandoned courtyards whenever the two of them decided to go destroy something, no matter the time of day.

a match made in hell

snow's story

That’s why you know the woman in the glass coffin isn’t dead.

It still takes a long time to convince yourself to kiss her. It’s been…years? Yes, it must have been years since you last saw those ruby red lips and that cloud of raven-black hair. Her eyelashes fan across her cheeks and there’s a red rose carefully clasped between her still hands.  Those hands once reached for you, accompanied by her sweet voice, inviting you to grab hold lest you stay trapped in the tunnel forever. The longer you stare, the easier it is to see her pulse in the basin of her throat and the shallow rise of her chest.

Of all the lands you’ve traveled, there hasn’t been a single one where kissing a sleeping woman on the lips was considered appropriate.

“You can do this, Lexi,” you whisper. The trees over the glen murmur quiet agreement. It’s nearing the end of golden hour – the next procession will be here soon. The fairytale lighting is the only thing keeping the worst of your anxiety away. It’s like a dream this early in the morning. Only a dream. You twist your travel cap in your hands, squeezing your eyes tight. “You can apologize after.”

When you open them, the first notes of birdsong pierce the air.

You drop your cap and grab the edge of the glass. You’ve always been slow to decide and quick to act. If you just keep moving, you won’t have to think about how she might be mad or offended or disgusted—

You miscalculate the lid. You’re a jack of all trades and you assumed something as expensive as a gilt glass coffin would have hinges. It doesn’t. The lid slides off the edge of the platform. Your nails don’t find purchase on glass, of course. There’re flowers scattered all around her resting place, there’s a chance it won’t—

Crash!

The birdsong chokes off. A man yells from the woods behind you. Someone clicks and the pounding of hooves draws closer and closer—

You swoop down and press your lips to hers. They’re cold and unyielding for one moment, two moments—

Then her mouth softens and you pull back as she gasps for air.

Breaking an enchantment feels a bit like falling through a frozen pond. Snow White breathes like a diver surfacing for air and then exhales a frost so bitter that it freezes the breath in your lungs. The spell she was under wasn’t done by accident like you’d hoped. There’s malice in the bite of cold that lingers against your skin. You drink it down in painful sips, pulling the shroud from her aura until her eyes begin to flutter open.

You want to run. You’ve whispered enough twinkling knowledge to her that she’ll know what you did to free her. There are only two antidotes in the world and you whispered their recipes to her over and over until she could recite them from memory. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, about to leave her in a prickling castle with that thing for a stepmother—

You don’t run. You’ve done that all over the world to see every sight you ever dreamed of. Only when one wonder remained in your heart did you finally return to see it.

Come on, darling. Show me what I’ve been dreaming of. Then punch me in the face.

Snow White breathes. Her eyelashes quiver. Her lips close and then part. Is she saying your name? You lean close. Le—Le—

The world plunges into darkness. At the same time, the smell of onions fills your nose. Fuck. You’ve been trapped in enough produce bags to know what’s happened. Your hands fly up to the mouth of the bag that’s been thrown over your head, and you wedge your fingers between it and your neck just in time before the villain behind you cinches it too tightly. That’s the only reason you don’t suffocate as rough hands yank you away from Snow White and throw you onto a hard, wooden surface.

“Take her back to the castle,” a man growls.

Another asks, “The castle? Wouldn’t it be better if she gets lost in the woods--?”

“What happened the last time you let someone get lost in the woods, Huntsman?”

“…yes, sir.”

The Huntsman. His name is the only thing that stills the syllables twisting between your teeth. You chew them as the cart lurches into motion. How is he still alive?

You imagined Snow White would have taken care of him already.

----.

The children of your family often get swept away in stories. All the ancient knowledge is heavy against the thin crucible of a baby’s mind – it’s not uncommon to hear of a cousin or sibling dissolving between dusk and dawn.

So that’s what you’re doing the eve you turn twelve after learning about the razor edge between night and abyss.  You’re dissolving. The night drips like syrup from your ears and abyss flows out from between your lips in thin rivulets. Your eyes are trained on the stars as you stagger through the woods, pulled and spun around by the knowledge your brain can’t quite accept.

(Like a lunatic, you will one day say fondly. Foaming at the mouth.

Like a fairy, she will correct. A long pause. A rather messy one.)

The little girl crouched between tree roots is the only thing that doesn’t run when you lurch into the clearing. She’s wearing a silver nightgown that catches every bit of the moon’s light but still doesn’t compare to the radiance of her face. It’s shocking enough that you stop and let your head fall onto your shoulder so your eyes can fix on her rather than the sky.

“I think I should eat you,” you say in a language you don’t remember learning. “Both nights and abysses eat stars.”

“Stars chew through both,” the little girl says. For cowering alone in the woods, she doesn’t sound very afraid. Her voice is strident. Confident. “And even if it were true, little girls don’t eat other little girls.”

Your eyes fix on hers. (They’re a beautiful deep b--) “Is that what I am?”

“Yes,” she says. She scoots over so there is room in the cocoon of her roots for another body. “Little girls are afraid of the dark.”

It’s easier to sew yourself together with the echo of her voice ringing in your ears. You’re young, a child, a girl. You might even be afraid of the dark, though she doesn’t sound very sure of that point. You gingerly pick your way through puddles of mud and brambles to wedge yourself between the roots. Her body is cold against yours. How long has she been out here?

“Did you run away from home?” she asks.

You shrug.

“I did,” she says. Without asking, she tucks her cold fingers under your arm, hugging the appendage to herself like one would a teddy bear. “My father married a woman who hates me.”

“Why did he do that?” you ask.

“Because he’s weak,” she says immediately. Her fingers wiggle as if she’s counting on them. “Too weak to be alone. Too weak to rule alone. Weak to a pretty face. Weak in the face of death. Too weak to believe I’ll be fine when he’s gone.”

The part of you that might actually be a person is swimming to the surface. You examine how deep and warm your skin tone is against the paleness of hers. You know what it’s like to feel fabric and water, and heat on this skin. Now you also know what it’s like to feel the touch of someone close to hypothermia.

“Tell me how you’ll be fine,” you say.

And Snow White, who just needs someone to believe in her, tells you - someone who needs something to believe in- all about being a Princess in a castle after the first queen’s death.

“Someday she’ll kill me,” Snow White says. “Dad or me. One of us will be first.”

“How will she do it?” you ask.

Snow White thinks for a long time. “Poison. Like she did with my mom.”

You’re relieved. This is how you can help the girl who kept you from dissolving. “Oh, that’s easy. There are only two antidotes in the world, you know. Those derived from the World Tree or concocted to mimic it, or—”

-----.

True Love’s Kiss.

In your cell, you cover your face with your hands. The worst part is that it doesn’t have to be both parties in love – it can only just be one. Which is clearly you. Because you’re an idiot and there’s no way Snow White would love you after you left her to face her stepmother alone. And then kissed her without permission.

“Do you mind waiting to off yourself until the execution?” the Huntsman asks. He’s seated directly across from your cell, anxiously twirling a dagger between his hands. “I’ll get in trouble otherwise.”

You ease your hands away from your neck. The half-moon imprints of your nails against your throat throb. “Why are they even keeping me alive?”

“In case you need to wake the Princess up again,” he says. He shrugs. “You know…since one of the princes didn’t do the trick.”

“The princes?” A newspaper article you read several weeks ago comes to mind. Your lip curls. “Oh, you mean the opportunists trying to claim the throne for themselves.”

“The throne needs a ruler,” the Huntsman says simply.

The dungeon is drier than you imagined. You sit up into a cross-legged position and rub at the dust on the cobblestones. “They have one. Snow White.”

“The nobles aren’t eager to have another solo ruler after the former Queen,” the Huntsman says. “Most think it’ll…smooth things out if one of the princes rules alongside her.”

You snort. “You mean control her.”

The Huntsman inclines his head.

They’re all so stupid.

“Why didn’t you take her heart?” you ask. You remember that particular letter as if you read it yesterday; Snow White nonchalantly telling you all about how she escaped certain death by following the paths in the woods you taught her. Your nails draw divots in the cobblestone. “Back then.”

The Huntsman fumbles his dagger. It clatters to the ground and rings like a bell, over and over again. He stares at you for a long moment before he speaks through bloodless lips. “H-how did you—”

You stare at him.

He breathes in deeply. “I wouldn’t have. I couldn’t have. A young girl—”

You snort again.

“—the daughter of the King I served—”

You laugh. He wouldn’t have taken her to the woods at all if that were true.

“—I…I was—That was—”

“You’re a hunter,” you say. You point to the dagger on the floor, and it lifts slowly, like a feather caught in an updraft. He’s still and wide-eyed as you beckon it towards you. “You don’t carry a knife without the conviction to kill. You don’t lure a young girl into the woods at night without the conviction to harm. You just don’t. You do.”

The dagger falls into your palm with a slap.

The silence stretches.

The Huntsman breaks first.

“She told me I was the villain,” the Huntsman says. He swallows audibly. The beard covering the lower half of his face does little to hide the tremble of his lips. “Alright? A 15-year-old girl told me that if I cut out her heart, I would be the villain for the rest of my life. She said that my daughter would hug me and know, that my wife would kiss me and know, that the brothers and sisters I fought alongside would meet my gaze and know. And I—I—”

You twirl the dagger, leaning back against the cold stone wall. “You believed her.”

The Huntsman shudders. “She said it and it was true.”

“Before, when you were first ordered, it wasn’t.”

“Yes. Yes. It was just a job. But she looked at me with those cold eyes, those cold b—”

The dagger thuds into the wooden back of his chair, just an inch from his arm.  His teeth click together. He stares at you like a startled horse, chest heaving and hands clenched around his knees so tightly you can hear the leather of his pants creak.

“Why hasn’t she killed you yet?” you ask.

To his credit, he doesn’t feign confusion. You’d wondered why he didn’t react to how you levitated the dagger. There’s a knowing in his eyes.

“Because I sent the letters,” he breathes. “I risked everything to send them.”

You pause. That made it sound like…like the letters were important. Your heart skips a beat. “Just for that? She let you live?”

When he nods, you swear you can hear birdsong.

----.

The first time Snow White asks about love, she doesn’t ask the usual question.

“What would you do,” she starts carefully, “if you loved me?”

You’re surprised enough to look up from your latest reading assignment. Your elders want you to know about the depths of caves after your latest expedition into them. You can feel your ears morphing the longer you read, lengthening and widening to better capture the echoes of sound from objects far away. It takes a moment to remember your human ears and, when you do, you ask, “Pardon?”

Snow White watches you from where she’s lounging on her bed. Her eyes are level on you, but you can’t see much else. The rising sun is coming in from the window behind her, backlighting her so you can only see her like a shadow. “What would you do if you loved me?”

“Um…panic?”

A flash and the sun crests the canopies of the forest. She asks in the same tone, “Why?”

“Because I don’t know who I am,” you say, honest as always. At this age, you’re supposed to be keeping a diary that you study alongside your texts. Your elders tell you that is how your kind develops a personality. Your diary is Snow White. “You’re—well. I hope the person who falls in love with you is capable of supporting someone like you. I’m  too…I’m floppy. I’m not real. Not yet.”

Her breath is soft. “So you don’t love me.”

“…Do you want me to?” you ask.

“Do you want to?”

“Yes,” you say. And then, “But the person who loves you should be—”

“You should go on your trip,” she interrupts. She stands and her silhouette is lined in gold. “Now.”

You splutter. She’d been against the pilgrimage your elders were trying to send you on. She said she needed you, she said she couldn’t fight alone against her stepmother—

Snow White knows what you’re thinking. “You can come back when you’ve seen everything you want to see.”

“But I don’t want anything—”

“When you’ve seen it all, you’ll come home,” she commands. Her voice rings like it did the night she declared little girls didn’t eat other little girls. “Understood?”

And what could you do in the face of her conviction?

You leave the next morning.

---------------.

Snow White comes to get you on the seventh day. The Huntsman won’t meet your eyes anymore, choosing to spend his time huddled in the corner with his hands over his ears. Like a child afraid of the dark.

You savor the irony of it.

When she enters, the torches flare to life, flooding the room with light. The first thing you notice is the crown on her head. The second is the lack of ring on her finger. The third is her eyes—

The first thing the Huntsman notices is the blood staining the hem of her dress. “I congratulate the Queen,” he croaks. His hands shake as he bows. “The King…?”

“There is no King,” Snow White says. The torchlight is pulled into her crown and is reflected in her eyes.

“Oh,” the Huntsman says and pales.

“You’re dismissed,” Snow White says, not unkindly.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” He edges towards the stairs, eyes darting from the fire to the Queen and you.

“Do see the nobles out,” she says as he reaches the base of the stairs. A smirk tugs at her ruby red lips. “Perhaps they’ll enjoy a jaunt in the woods…?”

The Huntsman still. “Yes…” He climbs the first steps, receding into darkness as he leaves the circle of the firelight. As he climbs, his gait turns predatory. “Yes, your majesty.”

Only when the door swings shut behind him does Snow White turn to you.

There is no silence here. Only the hum of your awareness of her and the steady beating of your heart.

“You returned,” she says.

You stand. The dust has settled along your arms and legs, and it falls like snow when you do. You forgot to move as you waited. “I did.”

She stops short of your cell doors. The shadows wrap around her eyes. “Did you see everything you wanted?”

You lick your lips. “No.”

Her lips thin. “I told you not to come back—”

“I saw the pyramids,” you say. You step forward so you are only a few feet apart. You stare at her through your bars. “I saw the valleys of the deep and the mountains beyond the veil. I met the people who live inside the World Tree and I slayed those who tried to escape from beyond the end. It was beautiful, but it wasn’t everything. No matter what I saw, there was one sight I yearned to see again.”

“Yearned,” she repeats. This time, she’s the one who steps closer. She doesn’t protest when you reach out to brush your fingers alongside hers. “You yearned?”

“I did,” you say. She’s warm. You coax her hand to twine around yours. “I came back to see it. But I don’t think once will be enough. A whole lifetime may not be enough.”

Her eyes are black like the night sky. Like the abyss you once lost yourself to, like the shadows that gather around you. “What sight might that be?”

“You.”

It is hard to say how the bars disappear. Maybe she whispered that they never existed in the first place. Maybe you cursed them out of existence. Either way, they disappear, and there is nothing between you and Snow White.

And you live Happily Ever After.

---

Thanks for reading! If you're a fan of my superhero works, there's a new flashfiction about Heroes on Tiktok posted to my Patreon which will be up on Tumblr next week :)

The business in question is more of a cheat since being king of the infinite Realms means he is fluent in any language to exist. Safe, dead, or extinct the status of a language doesn't matter to him. With Technus's help he sets up and online portal where people can submit pictures or copies of stuff for him to translate at a premium price. He refuses to take any money from the fruit loop and the money he learns will go towards his clone's schooling when she gets to that point. Right now she is using it for her travels and sending them postcards.

People who claim his translations as their own get black listed with a huge fee coming out of their bank account for the breach of contract. He is trying to keep his business on the down low so those breakthroughs that get on the news are not what he is looking for. His main demographic is rich snobs with private art collections. What Danny doesn't know is that his main customers are the Justice League.

There are some clues but he kinda ignores them. Like when a document submitted is a summoning ritual he sends back a partial translation since the summoning is not good (there are worst beings they could summon but it will still be a hassle) however revealing knowledge of the banishment is harmless.

Gotham cultists hate him because they know he can translate the whole document/book but all of their attempts to trace the sage of tongues (trying to give invisobill kinda vibes) they find a dead end. They try submitting from different computers, locations, routers, anything, but just end up giving Danny more money lol

The Justice League is almost in tears because the jusyice league dark could not agree on the translation of the banishment ritual and everything they tried before had failed.

His favorite translations are the stories that give alien vibes. They talk about certain structures (he thinks it might be structures) as if they are common knowledge. Unknown to him those are Kryptonian fairy tales that Lois submitted. She didn't want to give Jon a funny accent so Clark can read them in Kryptonian while she does the English.

Duke having a hard time with an assignment, sends an inquiry asking if he offers homework help (he wouldn't be using it for career advancement which is against the terms of service BUT he would be claiming it for points so he asked) and that is how Tim finds out about this sketchy website that can translate anything. Danny feels the sincerity and sleep deprivation in the inquiry so he replies back "I admire your courage and will do you a solid but only if your promise to sleep a minimum of 8 hours. I'll know if you don't and snitch so go to sleep 😴" The translation is attached and already in the format his teacher requested.

Steph: How is he gonna know?

Duke: Idk but he is a life saver!

Tim: Duke, did you just sell your soul for a homework assignment?

Duke: Let me sleep and then we'll see what happens 🥱

Tim is driven crazy because he needs to know who is behind the website. And also because Constantine was kinda in the area and said no. Duke has his soul even if he doesn't sleep, lucky bugger.

For Primus, being a god was a lot like playing a simulator game. He could control some things about the environment, but ultimately his creations did what they wanted.

He'd wake up, check in with his Prime, make some adjustments, and then go back to trying to recover from his fight with his brother.

He had a weird headache when waking from this particular nap. It seems he was asleep for a bit longer than usual so let's see what the logs say..

Theres a war?! What!

Why?

Who the frag introduced them to the concept of slavery?!

I finally got around to writing something for this :3

Primus loved his creations. He was too tired and weak now after his last fight with his brother to be there for his creations all the time. His long and frequent sleeps kept him from seeing what his ceations were doing, but he would always make sure to check in with the current Prime and make adjustments to the world for when he slept.

But when Primus woke up from his latest nap with a headache that wasn’t what happened.

He had slept longer than normal. He always read the logs what happened while sleeping before speaking to his latest Prime. It was best to be prepared after all. But as he read the latest logs, Primus was sure he was hallucinating.

There was a war going on.

A war that had already killed most Cybertronians, and caused many others to flee the planet.

How the frag did that happen?

Primus desperately scrolled back through the logs, trying to find the start of the war, only to feel sick the more he read.

The war started as a revolution.

The Senate’s power grew out of control as they forced mechs to do dangerous work for them for barely any pay—and Primus wanted to have words with whoever introduced them to the concept of slavery. Violent words.

The oppressed mechs (who named themselves the Decepticons) got fed up with their treatment and began wiping out the Senate and all mechs related to it which Primus thought was a reasonable response. Unfortunately, the newest Prime who gained his title in the middle of the fighting did not agree with this and started fighting the Decepticons to minimize the destruction. This then spiraled out into a full-on war.

That wouldn’t do.

It had been a long time since Primus had interacted with any of his creations other than the Prime, but it seemed like he would have to do exactly that and mediate between the Autobots and Decepticons. Normally, Primus was happy to let his creations do as they wanted, their antics were always delightful giving him a joy that was much rarer since he last fought his brother. He couldn’t let them tear themselves apart in a war.

Yes, what happened to the Decepticons was terrible, but according to the logs all the mechs behind that were dead now. There was no reason for them to fight anymore other than fear of what the winning side would do to the losers.