Origin Story - Blog Posts

I'll be the hot glue villain. I am immune no one else is muahhahqhah

Part 10🥀🩶

FINALLY!! Blessed day! OC origin story finished in full... now to link them all together and move on to other things...

She stared up at the gilded tower, the structure a perfect representation of their society’s upper castes. It’s shining walls hid the rot within, greed and excess, cruelty and corruption… and the laboring functions bore the brunt of it all. Hate coiled in her like the serpent she had named herself for.

Sun having set, the night offered her additional cover as she breached the outside wall and advanced on the main building. The blades in her arms – having replaced the grapnels – were equally as useful in helping her maneuver quickly and accurately. With a few well placed shots she had scaled the tower, gripping the ledge of the same window she had used to escape this place. It wasn’t necessary, but she felt there was a symbolism to entering once again through the place from which she’d left.

The room was occupied, judging from the sounds coming from within. Slowly, carefully, she pulled herself up onto the sill, optics fixed on the pair draped across the berth. Her steps were measured, soft, making hardly a sound as she closed in. She did not recognize the patron. A broad mech, though not a member of the Guard. His plating was too thin for that, more for aesthetics than actual protection. How very ideal. Nearly upon them, she struck, unsheathing the blade from her wrist and driving it into the vulnerable spot next to his back strut. The keen edge slid through him with hardly any resistance, into the cavity in his chassis where his spark was housed. He hadn’t even had time to cry out in pain, offlining almost instantly. The mech beneath him, however, shouted in alarm.

Reaching out, she clamped her servo around his chin, hushing him. He seemed to recognize her after a moment, quieting.

“Tonight you are free. Take what you can and leave this place,” she instructed him, releasing him only when he gave her a curt nod, fear still evident in his optics. She rose from the berth, wasting no time in moving on to her next target.

There was no security in the halls, nor had there been any on the perimeter of the building. The Decepticon uprising had bred an army, and with the looming threat came a rise in demand for those to stand against them. Anyone who had even minimal combat experience had been drafted, which meant places like this – places that were unlikely to be targeted for attack – were left delightfully unguarded.

None would be spared from her wrath this night.

...//♡//…

Energon painted nearly every centihic of her frame, her pedes leaving prints against the tile as she stalked across the room. A part of her had hoped she would find the piece of slag who had stolen her lover away, but he was of course absent, likely on the front lines. She sneered. His end would have been one to savor. For now, this would have to suffice.

The old mech crawled away from her as fast as he was able… which wasn’t very fast at all considering she’d removed his legs. Grand Master of the Spire, the decrepit wretch who had placed the order to dispose of her beloved Star and then chastise her for daring to grieve. The one responsible for all of their pain and suffering. She had saved the best for last.

“You won’t get away with this! You’ll be apprehended, and the High Council will throw your useless frame into a cell to rust!” he hissed at her,

She continued to close in on him, unhurried, amused, and as she drew nearer his brave facade slipped away, fear taking its place. He tried a different approach.

“This… isn’t what you were meant for. I molded you as an artist does! With painstaking care and precision!”

At this point he had backed himself against a wall, and she knelt down to address him, her smile widening into something sinister.

“Care? Come now… you never cared for us. You only cared that we made you wealthy. As soon as we were no longer of use to you, you threw us away… like scrap. That’s not how an artist treats their work.”

The blade slid slowly from its sheath, singing faintly as it did. He cringed a the sight. Realizing there was no reasoning with her, his demeanor shifted again. Perhaps he thought to hurt her one last time.

“This won’t change anything. It won’t bring her back!”

The blade was against his throat cables in an instant, her face so close to his he could feel the heat radiating from her.

“This changes everything. This is the beginning of the end for bots like you. I might not get her back, but I can do everything in my power to ensure that others like us won’t have to live in fear anymore.”

Her glossa slipped from her intake, tracing a line of energon up the side of his face.

“And besides… this is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”

He vented sharply, optics narrowing into pinpricks. “You’re a monster.”

“Yes… I am.”

Her one servo stayed raised, blade poised at his throat to keep him from moving, and the other slid up his chassis to the Crest of his House emblazoned so proudly above his spark. Her talons flexed outward, hooking securely along the edges of the raised plate before tearing it away. He cried out as she did so, and pleasure slid through her lines at the sound. The pads of her digits pressed into the small hollow she’d just created, feeling the softer metal beneath. Again she crooked her claws, piercing, pulling. This time, the sound that escaped him was ragged and agonized, rattling in his vocalizer. She grit her denta together as she savored his pleas.

Time slipped away as she pried him open bit by bit, his feeble attempts to stop her growing weaker and weaker as she rent him apart. Once the sounds of his protesting had stopped, it was only the squelch of energon and the snap of wires that filled the space between them.

Finally, once she’d had her fill, she pulled his mangled corpse to the front gate. There, she strung him up like a puppet over one side of the door, suspended by his own fuel lines. With the little energon he had left in him, she smeared a message on the opposing slab.

Rise Up.

Stepping back, she took in the sight of him one final time before turning and making her way across the courtyard to the outer wall. There was still much work to be done.

Part 8🥀🩶

The mech beneath her groaned in a way that made her feel unwell. He was a peculiar frame type for an upper caste, squat and rather rotund, which made his mobility (both generally speaking and intimately) limited. Considering this, she was made to sit atop him, staring down with thinly veiled disgust as he writhed beneath her practiced motions. As though servicing him wasn’t bad enough, he was loud, obnoxiously so.

In the past, she’d simply slipped into the recesses of her processor, recalling pleasurable moments shared between her and her lover. Now, the memories made it worse, knowing there would be no new intimacies to be had and cherished, to be called upon in times of need.

Another groan. Her tanks twisted.

‘Shut up.’

Why couldn’t they have just taken her away when they’d found her? Scrapped her, too? Both she and her Star, together in oblivion.

“That’s so good.”

‘Shut up!’

Her facade slipped, lip components curling back to reveal her derma in a derisive snarl. The look didn’t deter him. In fact he seemed to read it as a sign of her impending overload, making an effort to lift his hips from the berth to meet her downward stroke. He all but howled at the connection.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut Up!”

“I beg your pardon?!”

Her optics focused on his face, which was twisted up into an affronted frown. Oh… had she said that out loud?

“Why you- how dare you speak to me that way, you impertinent whore!”

Her spark stammered in her chassis, surprise not something she was used to feeling. She wasn’t usually so careless, but with everything that had happened, she had become easily distracted. A violent beating was certain at this point - she’d just been given a warning, after all.

Wait… perhaps… perhaps if her crime was egregious enough… they would have no choice but to terminate her. They could be one again, in the only way left to them. She looked away from the blustery mech – still spewing threats and indignities – to a figure carved from precious ore that sat invitingly on the table next to them. Surely… that would be heavy enough to do the job.

She reached over, wrapping her digits around the base and swiftly hitting him across the faceplate. The strike was jarring, sending vibration up her arm as it made contact. It shut him up, and sent a spray of bright blue energon across the berth next to his helm. He spluttered, wailing in alarm. No one would hear him though… not while in a private room.

“You… you’ll pay for that with your miserable existence,” the injured bot hissed.

The red femme stared at the liquid on her servo, then down at him, surprised to find she was not as averse to the sight of his fluids as she might have expected. It actually felt rather good… to put him in his place, to make him pay for the terrible treatment his lot subjected them to. She lifted her arm again, and his whole demeanor shifted, anger replaced by fear as he stared up at her.

Something in her lurched… not in disgust… in pleasure.

Pushing his flailing servos out of the way, she brought the heavy figure down against the side of his helm, denting the ornate adornments and the plating beneath. He shouted in pain. The sensation pulsed again… and again she hit him, this time across the jaw. It split his lip components, making him choke on energon as it pooled in his mouth.

She had never experienced something quite so satisfying. She thought about the countless times she and others like her had been forced into distasteful situations with bots they wanted nothing to do with, abused, humiliated, used… rage rose in her like a black tide, swelling to consume the brittle sorrow that had been plaguing her for orns now, since her lover had been stolen away.

She struck him again, and this time, when he garbled out a plea for mercy, she laughed. Such a cruel, sadistic sound… she liked it. Over and over she lashed out, not stopping when his face became an unrecognizable mess, nor when he stopped moving entirely. It wasn’t until her frame seized with an unexpected overload that she reared back, arching, crying out in bliss.

Several kliks passed as she sat there, staring up at the ceiling as she came down from her startling high. She let the statuette fall from her limp servo, slowly removing herself from the berth and stepping back to stare down at what she’d done.

‘I… I offlined him,’ she thought, shocked that she had actually succeeded.

Now, all that was left to do was wait for them to find her like this… though, that might take awhile, and she certainly didn’t want to sit here with his grotesque cadaver as it continued to leak fluids everywhere. So… she could go find them… show them. She imagined a Keeper wouldn’t be far.

Turning to the door, she strode slowly but resolutely toward it, placing her servo atop the handle… only to pause. It was as if some unseen force kept her from turning it, locking her in place as she stared down at the polished lever.

‘Is this really how it all ends? They just… scrap her… and scrap me… and that’s it? They win?’

The thought didn’t sit well with her. Despite the lingering ache that seemed to permeate every part of her, there was a spark - hot and sharp - at her core, demanding justice. A desire to see them pay for everything they had done, to see the pain they had caused visited upon them a thousand-fold. She thought about the mech who had taken her sweet little femme, about the Keeper who spoke so flippantly about it, and the Master who’d chastised her for daring to hope for something better.

“You were not made for love. You were made to serve. To please! It serves you both right, for thinking yourselves above your station!”

Echoes of his callous words rang through her processor. The hate that had taken root inside of her spark branched out, twisting, choking out the sadness. They deserved to suffer. If she perished now, no one would ensure that vengeance was meted out.

Gingerly she lifted her digits from the handle, taking one step back.

‘And who will deliver this vengeance… me?’ she asked herself, considering. ‘I’m no Megatron. No gladiator.’

Yet he had not always been a gladiator, she recalled. He had been a miner. It was sheer power of will that had helped him carve his path. A short chuckle escaped her. Though, judging from the size of him, she imagined his strength had likely helped him along. However... not every gladiator was of that same towering stature. Those who weren’t relied on other skills: speed, precision. These were things she did indeed possess, and with time, perhaps she could become more.

Her optics fell to her servos, still smeared with freshly spilt energon. Perhaps one day hers would be the servos to deliver their retribution. And if she was offlined in the process… well… at least she had made her stand.

Across the room, the lights of the city flickered through a tall window. The dark of the night whispered to her, pulling her closer. Her gaze dropped to the bustling streets below. The height was staggering, though it had never been something that bothered her. She placed a pede on the sill and stepped up, balancing herself in the narrow opening. 

"This is for us, Star of my Spark."

Without looking back, she released her grip on the frame… and let herself fall.

Part 6🥀🩶

Two orns now, and not a single glimpse of her. It was a long stretch to go without contact, even if that contact was as fleeting as a discrete brush when they passed in the halls. She wasn’t still with the same client? It wasn’t unheard of… but it wasn’t common for a patron to stay for such a long time.

She considered her options, how she might find a way to inquire about her lover’s location without giving anything away. Recollections of her encounter with the young mech from Vos flickered through her processor.

“I think I’d like to meet her.”

A pleased smile curved her lip components for a nano-klik before disappearing, and she made her way toward the Grand Salon, steps even and measured. Bypassing the guests and other courtesans, she maneuvered to the head of the room, where one of the Keepers stood monitoring activity.

Pausing when she reached the dias, she stood quietly until she was acknowledged. Seeing the slim mech wave a servo in her direction, she tipped into a slight bow. Head down, she inquired softly, “Greetings, Keeper Accelera. Might I have a moment?”

“What is it?”

“I have a patron who expressed interest in the femme who last performed at the Inner Theatre. When is her next available appointment?”

"That one is no longer available. Tell your client to see me and I will offer them similar alternatives.”

…

…

…

What?

Everything else fell away, her spark stuttering in her chassis at the implication in those words – said so flippantly. No longer available. The phrase used by Masters and Keepers when a courtesan was scrapped, but that wasn’t - it couldn’t… no.

No.

How?!

No! No! NO!!

From the corner of her optics, she saw the Keeper glance at her expectantly, and she forced herself to mutter a brief acknowledging response before turning away and striding from the room. She sought an empty lift, refusing to meet the gaze of any she passed. Her servos balled into tight, trembling fists behind her back, her stance wavering as she rode the pod to the upper floors. Once there, she identified a vacant room and slipped inside unnoticed, closing the door softly and pressing her forehead against the smooth metal. The rooms here were built to offer privacy, dampening almost all sound from within.

A sharp, keening wail escaped her as she sunk to the floor, helm shaking in denial.

Images of her lover’s smiling countenance as she looped her arm through that fuming guard’s own came back to her. Him. He had done this.

The anger was quickly swallowed up by guilt. She… had let it happen. She should have been the one to serve him that night. But her Star had stepped in… volunteered.

‘I never should have allowed it. This… is my doing.’

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. They were supposed to escape this nightmarish place… find happiness together. She was a sweet, gentle spark, without an ounce of bitterness in her. She, above all others, had deserved happiness. Instead, she had met an ignoble end in this wretched place, her last moments spent alone, afraid, in pain. And they threw her away like scrap, like she was nothing.

She was everything… and now she was gone.

Her arms shook as she struggled to keep herself upright, eventually giving in, collapsing and pulling herself into a shuddering heap. Her outlook on their situation had always been far more pessimistic, but her darling lover had dispelled the darkness with her light. Tucking her chin against her chassis, she closed her optics, feeling the slim hope that had resided in her flicker out of existence.

Part 5🥀🩶

Working the pit broadcasts had always been a tedious affair. The bots in attendance would often partake in engex a little too enthusiastically, becoming raucous beyond what their usual decorum codes allowed. The Masters were inclined to make exceptions during these events, however, as they were immensely lucrative.

Ignoring the urge to groan as she stepped into the server’s station behind the bar, the red femme locked optics with the smaller white bot and shared a knowing smile.

“I can hardly feel my aft anymore. I think I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been grabbed.”

Gold brows tilting playfully, she replied, “The poor thing. I’ll make sure to pay special attention to it once we’re done here.”

While the work was far from pleasant - and the clientele equally abysmal – there was one benefit to being assigned to these fights. All of the attending courtesans and servants were rewarded a recharge slot immediately after, which meant that whenever she and her lover were on the same rotation, they could spend that time together.

The lounge erupted in a chorus of shouts, and both femmes, along with the others who’d been standing in the wings awaiting their cues, peered around the wall that separated them from the rest of the room. The main event was beginning, the participants making their entrances onto the arena floor. The monitor at the far end of the lounge flicked between angles, cycling theough an overhead view, a shot of the packed stadium, before finally zooming in on the gladiators.

“How utterly barbaric,” another courtesan - a slender blue mech – murmured.

She was inclined to agree. The Pit Fights were labeled as ‘entertainment’, but she saw them for what they were. A reminder to the lower castes that they were expendable.

The cheers of the patrons quickly turned sour, some snarling expletives while others merely scowled up at the screens.

“They must not like that one very much,” her lover observed.

The bot in question was one she recognized. He had first appeared some time ago as an underdog - a former miner, she recalled, having heard the chatter at previous events. It was… intriguing to have witnessed the shift in their view of him. There was a brief time, early on, when many of the clients had been fans of his, or rather fans of the funds they made by betting on him. Despite the odds he won, over and over again, and as he gained popularity among the lower castes, his favor in the optics of the higher castes quickly plummeted.

At a table not far from where they were stationed, a particularly loud soldier sneered, “This is it. There’s no way he makes it out of this one!”

“You’ve said that before,” one of his companions drawled, his tone far more controlled.

The other laughed lowly, a malicious sound. “I’ve got it on good authority that the Pit Masters have stacked the match. A lineup no single bot could survive.”

“Awful,” her lover whispered in response.

“It’s their nature,” she reminded her, having grown to expect nothing less from their ilk. The high castes treated those beneath them like objects and tools, made for the sole purpose of their benefit, comfort, and entertainment.

She had seen many of the mech’s matches, not that the fighting had ever truly interested her. His oration skill, however, had caught her off guard and piqued her interest. He had a tendency to speak to the crowd after a victory, his words stirring the flicker of unrest in her spark. He spoke of the undue suffering of his people, and all those who were not so fortunate as to have been designated a higher ‘function’. His insistence that every sentient being ought to have the opportunity to carve their own path struck a chord deep within her, and the feeling had remained ever since, growing steadily with time.

She glanced down at her Star, wondering if her dreams of freedom were really all that unattainable. Glancing back at the monitor, the red femme watched the reigning champion take his position. Prior to this match, she had found amusement in his success, not because she found him amusing – she didn’t pay much attention to the fights themselves – but because he caused such unrest in the higher castes. Watching them unravel was always enjoyable. Tonight, for the first time, it felt important… more meaningful somehow. She cared about his victory.

‘Please… you have to win.’

The fight was a brutal one, and – as the loud soldier from earlier had suggested – certainly seemed as though it was rigged to ensure his loss. Yet despite the impossible odds, he held his own, moving with a speed and grace that belied one of his frame type, pressing on with a ferocity she had never seen before. It was wildly impressive... and inspiring.

Tensions in the lounge were high, patrons nearly silent as the match dragged on. When no one was looking, she grabbed hold of her lover and pulled her back behind the bar, ensuring they were alone.

“What is it? Is everything alright?” the smaller bot asked, gentle servos cradling her waist.

She looked down at the femme who had given her the only joy she knew, tracing the lines of her beautiful countenance with irreverent optics. “We should leave this place.”

The little femme smiled, making to reply.

“No… I mean it.”

“We cannot-”

“Please, just listen. Those mechs at the table, they’re afraid of him. Of what he’s doing. All the higher ups are. They won’t say it, but it tracks in their tone, their posture when they speak of him. I’ve been watching, listening. If this truly becomes the movement they fear it will… we might have a real shot at making a life for ourselves outside of these walls. It may be the only chance we ever get.”

Her lover glanced up at her with worry etched into her features, slim digits tightening on the plates along her backstrut.

“It would be dangerous… to go. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Reaching around, she took up the other’s smaller servos and held them in her own, rubbing comforting circles over the joints. “We’re in danger here… every day. The danger just looks different, it’s not as apparent. My Star… I would never leave without you, so if you want to stay, we stay. Just… please… think about it.”

There was a brief pause, only a handful of nano-kliks, but it felt like a small eternity. Finally, the white femme gave her an answer.

“For you, my Scarlet Flower, I would go to the ends of the universe. Where you go, I follow.”

The kiss was so desperate and abrupt it nearly knocked the pair of them over, but she was able to brace them against the wall, lifting her slender lover off the floor and cradling her against her chassis.

Ex-venting as she willed her spark not to burst with joy, she promised lowly, “I will do everything I can to protect you.”

“We will protect one another,” was her soft reply.

“NO!!”

The livid shout and the sound of a table clattering over brought their shared moment to an abrupt end, and she quickly set the white and gold femme down to see what all the commotion was about.

Several bots were on their pedes, staring at the monitor. On it, the image of an energon soaked arena flickered, and in the middle of it all stood the champion, still undefeated.

“I still function!”

His raspy cry sent the crowd into a frenzy, the deafening applause quieting only when he lifted a servo, signaling he had more to say.

“Let this be a message to those who seek to see my spark snuffed out – those who seek to see all of us defeated. We are the many, and our time has come!”

Again they cheered, and again he brought them to heel with a wave of his servo.

“For too long they have reaped the rewards of our suffering. Without us, they would have nothing. They would be nothing. And when we come together, there is nothing they can do to stop us from claiming everything we are owed. We will have justice! Stand with me! Rise up!”

The cacophony of voices surged in volume, slowly coming together in a chant that filled the stadium, and in turn, the dimly lit lounge.

Megatron! Megatron! Megatron!

The bots in attendance said nothing as they watched the spectacle unfold, and she could practically feel the nervousness radiating from them.

The two femmes, now standing side by side, glanced at one another.

“It’s fragging impossible! No one should have survived that!” the inebriated soldier shouted, looking ready to flip another table. The mech he was with tried in vain to calm him, but he was having none of it, the feeble attempts only serving to fuel his rage.

A Keeper moved to intervene at this point, speaking lowly to him, gesturing in ways that made her nervous. Suddenly her optics cut across the room at them, signaling one of them needed to come and attend their guest.

Frag. There went their evening together. She had to keep a tight hold on her displeasure in that moment, but reminded herself it was a very real possibility that soon they would have all the time in the world with one another.

Her lover’s small servo caught her arm. Glancing down, she lifted a brow in askance.

“Let me take this one. I’ll get him settled.”

“Are you certain. He doesn’t seem like he’s going to be very pleasant company.”

“Undoubtedly, however… I do have a way with the more surly ones,” the white femme teased.

A short chuckle escaped her vocaliser. “Yes, you certainly do. Take care, Star of my Spark. I’ll see you soon.”

Part 4🥀🩶

The tips of her digits ran along the seams of her client’s plating, noting the spots that made his field shudder. The mech was young (compared to the majority of their clientele), his mannerisms giving him away. He wasn’t nearly as cruel as most of the others… but time would change that. It always did. The politics of the high caste bred corruption, selfishness, entitlement. After being surrounded by it for long enough, they always seemed to adopt the same tendencies.

For now, however, she could savor his inexperience; reduce him to a pliant heap in her servos.

The parlor was filled with a number of patrons and their company, all engaged in varying levels of intimacy. Some were engrossed in their courtesans, and others preferred to watch. An open space for bots with more voyeuristic preferences. The mech who had sought her out seemed intrigued, if not a bit embarrassed. His optics darted around the room, dilating as he took in the lascivious acts on display. Under her wandering digits, his frame tensed.

Above the din of voices, another sound filtered through the room, a high, ethereal melody that rang clear as a bell. She smiled. The bot beneath her took note as well, helm tilting back toward the entrance the music was filtering through.

“Incredible, isn’t she?”

He nodded, seeming transfixed. “Yes… I’ve never heard something so lovely.” Then he came back to himself, suddenly looking rather sheepish. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… you – ah.”

She laughed, a genuine display of amusement for once. “Worry not. You are permitted to peruse the options all you like. It’s why you’re here, after all. To sample the delights of The Spire… and she is quite the delight, let me assure you.”

He grinned, nodding while casting another fleeting look toward the door.

Up the hall, the Inner Theatre would be filled from end to end – it always was when her lover took the stage. A voice like the heavens, enchanting all who had the pleasure to experience her song.

“I think I’d like to meet her,” he murmured.

“And meet her you shall… but not now. She will be indisposed for quite some time once her performance comes to an end.” Reaching forward, the scarlet femme cupped his face, coaxing it back toward hers. “For now… you’re all mine.”

The low, suggestive cadence of her voice made him tremble, and the click and whir of his cooling fans made her lips part in a knowing grin. Lowering her mouth, she sampled the cabling of his neck, noting the way his servos gripped her waist when she dipped her glossa in the joint of his collar. She shuttered her optics, and the image of him fell away, replaced by white and gold, a gaze as blue and vibrant as crystallized energon. Her Shining Star.

Their next meeting couldn’t be soon enough.

I’m on such a tangent to all the other things I should be doing right now but the temptation was too great… a glimpse into alternative Hans’ origin story that could thaw a frozen heart ❄️🩵

The palace was a vast and magnificent place, with its endless corridors and towering windows that allowed the sunlight to pour in almost cruelly, as if mocking those trapped within its walls. To Hans, such magnificence was nothing more than a prison disguised as splendor. He had spent the entire morning wandering aimlessly, hoping to find some form of entertainment, but everyone seemed occupied with matters of great importance, in which he, of course, had no place.

Aldric was buried in his studies and had made it clear that he did not wish to be disturbed. His mother was engaged in some social gathering, and his father… well, his father was never available. And so, in his desperation, Hans found himself wandering into the library, where Thomas and Frederick, two of his older brothers, sat by the fireplace, laughing together as if the rest of the world did not exist. He smiled upon seeing them. Perhaps they would want to play with him."Thomas! Frederick!" he called enthusiastically.

"Why don’t we go riding? It’s a magnificent day."

The two brothers exchanged a glance before returning to their conversation without even acknowledging him.

Hans frowned.

"We could also go to the river and throw stones. Or we could race to the stables. What do you say?"

Silence.

Frederick tilted his head with feigned curiosity.

"Thomas, did you hear that?" The young boy cupped a hand around his ear and adopted a thoughtful expression.

"Hmm… no, I didn’t hear anything. Did you?"

"I didn’t hear that either. How strange."

Both of them smirked before continuing their conversation, completely ignoring Hans.

The boy felt frustration rise to his face, making his cheeks burn.

"Stop doing that! I’m here!"

"Did you hear that, Frederick?"

"No, brother, I didn’t hear anything. Maybe it’s the wind."

Hans clenched his fists.

"If you don’t stop ignoring me, I’ll tell Mother that Frederick kisses one of her ladies-in-waiting in the gardens at sunset."

That, at least, got their attention. Thomas and Frederick went silent for a brief moment, looking at him with a flash of irritation in their eyes. But instead of backing down, Frederick leaned back in his chair with a careless smile.

"How funny. Looks like the wind has become particularly gossipy."

"And very loud," added Thomas, pretending to yawn. "What do you think, brother?"

"I think someone is practically begging for all their toys to be thrown into the bottom of the well."

Hans felt a knot of rage tighten in his stomach. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing his anger, so he abruptly turned and left the room without a word.

His heart pounded as he walked briskly down the hall, trying to calm the fury that simmered in his chest. His brothers always treated him like this. Like he was an annoying insect, an insignificant presence barely deserving of attention. But he wasn’t insignificant. He wasn’t.

If someone noticed him, if someone gave him just a little bit of their time, he could prove it.

It was then, as he turned a corner, that he saw his father.

The king looked imposing, with his regal bearing and the deep dark blue cloak that fell gracefully over the floor. Beside him, Richard, his older brother, seemed engrossed in conversation with their father. But Hans barely noticed his brother. His attention was fixed on the king.

"Father!" he called eagerly, quickening his pace to catch up with him.

The king turned his face, and for a brief moment, Hans’ expression lit up as he saw a smile form on his lips.

"Hans, my little prince!"

The little one jumped towards him with complete confidence, and the king received him with open arms, lifting him with ease.

"Look at you, getting bigger every day," he said with a hint of pride, squeezing him tightly against his chest. "How’s my little man today?"

Hans grinned from ear to ear. He loved it when his father called him that. It made him feel important, as if he truly meant something to him.

"I’m fine, father," he replied eagerly. "But I was so bored. Can we do something together today? Can we go riding?"

The king chuckled softly, still holding him.

"We went riding last week, didn’t we?"

"Yes, but that was so long ago, I haven’t seen you since then…" Hans complained, hugging him even tighter.

The king shook his head in amusement and gently lowered him to the ground.

"You’re tireless."

Hans felt warmth in his chest. Maybe this time, yes. Maybe his father would spend the day with him.

"In fact, I could go with you to the council meeting," he suggested excitedly. "I want to learn how you rule the kingdom."

But no sooner had he finished speaking than Richard burst into laughter.

"You? In the council? Don’t make me laugh. What could you possibly understand about politics?"

“I could learn,” he replied stubbornly.

The king sighed, though he still maintained his patience.

“Hans, son, today will be a very busy day,” he said in a tone of understanding. “Your brother and I have important matters to attend to.”

Hans furrowed his brow.

“But I want to learn too.”

“And what will you do when you get bored?” Richard joked, crossing his arms. “Will you ask for paper and colors to draw while we talk about trade treaties?”

Hans clenched his fists.

“I won’t get bored.”

The king placed a hand on his shoulder, letting out a longer sigh this time.

“Hans, we’ll talk about these things when you’re older. Today is not the time.”

“But I want to be with you, father,” Hans insisted, his voice dropping into a tone of pleading.

The king’s face lost some of its earlier warmth. His patience, though still not entirely exhausted, was starting to fade.

“Hans, don’t insist,” he said, this time with a more severe edge.

“Oh, come on, father,” Richard interjected with feigned sympathy. “Let him come. Surely his contributions will be essential.”

Hans glared at him, hoping his father would stop him. But the king simply rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Enough, Richard,” he muttered, then turned to Hans. “Son, please, we will spend time together another day.”

Hans felt desperation swirling in his chest.

“But…”

The king raised his hand, cutting off his protest with a firm gesture.

“Enough.”

He snapped his fingers at a servant who had been waiting nearby and, with the tone of someone giving an order with no room for discussion, said:

“You. Take the prince elsewhere. I can’t deal with this now.”

Hans felt as if the ground had been ripped out from under him.

The servant, with an expression of visible discomfort, approached with a bow.

“Your Highness… if I may…”

But Hans didn’t respond.

He looked at his father, who didn’t even notice him anymore. He looked at Richard, whose satisfied smile made him boil with rage. He looked at the servant, who was avoiding his gaze.

And finally, without saying a word, he turned on his heel and left.

The sound of the conversation between his father and brother continued behind him, as if he had never been there in the first place.

◆◇◆

Later that day, the bedroom of the younger princes of the Southern Isles, which during the day was spacious and filled with light, took on a mysterious atmosphere as night fell. The only illumination came from the flickering glow of the oil lamps. In the center of the room, two identical beds, separated by an elegant dark wooden table, occupied the space. However, at that moment, neither was being used for its original purpose.

“Aldric, prepare yourself! The enemy is approaching!” Hans exclaimed, brandishing his wooden sword with the zeal of a legendary warrior.

Aldric, who was only a few years older and much more practical in matters of war, barely had time to grab his own sword before Hans leaped from his bed with surprising agility for his short legs. The battle was fierce: Aldric defended his position atop his mattress while Hans attempted to invade it with the ferocity of a conqueror.

“I warn you, Hans!” Aldric said between playful strikes. “You have no rightful claim to the throne of my bed.”

Hans laughed, took a step back, and raised his sword with the solemnity of a crowned king.

“I am King Hans, the greatest of all warrior kings,” he declared, with the unwavering confidence only a seven-year-old could possess. “I shall rule the Southern Isles and wear the Navigator’s Crown, just like our great-great-grandfather! And I will take your bed!”

“No!”

“Yes! You shall sleep on the floor, Aldric! These are the king’s orders!”

“You are not my king, Hans,” Aldric countered, swiftly jumping from his own bed onto his younger brother’s. “Quick, the princess has been kidnapped by pirates!”

And with a leap, he dashed across the room, sword held high.

Hans didn’t move.

“Come on, Hans! The princess is in danger!”

“I don’t like that game.”

“What do you mean you don’t like it?”

“It’s always the same. The princess is in danger, the princess cries, the princess waits for someone to rescue her… It’s exhausting. Why does she always let herself get captured?”

Aldric blinked, incredulous.

“Hans, it is a king’s duty to rescue princesses!”

Hans frowned.

“Since when?”

“Since always. A king rescues princesses, holds parades, waves from the balcony, and gives bread to the poor.”

“That sounds so boring.”

“A king doesn’t just sit on a pile of gold like a fool!”

Hans tilted his head, thoughtful.

“Well, maybe you don’t know this, Aldric, but there are kings who just sit on piles of gold.”

“Not in this game!”

Hans huffed.

“Fine, if you insist so much, we can save the princess… But only because she’s the only one who knows where they hid my treasure chests.”

Aldric clutched his head.

“Hans!”

“What? That’s a very valid reason!”

Aldric shook his head and, with renewed determination, raised his sword.

“Forget it. I will fight alone.”

“Wait, wait.” Hans rested a hand on his hip and flashed a sly grin. “What if I really do become king one day?”

Aldric burst into laughter.

“You will never be king, at least not in these isles.”

Hans pursed his lips, thoughtful, then shrugged nonchalantly.

“Well… maybe if all of you died in an accident.”

Aldric smacked him with his wooden sword—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to show his indignation.

“That’s not funny, Hans!”

“What? I’m not saying I’d cause it, I’m just saying life is unpredictable.”

But Hans was already laughing, utterly unbothered by the moral implications of his words. His amusement, however, was cut short by a voice—gentle, yet possessing the authority only a mother could wield.

“Hans, you know I don’t like you talking like that.”

Both boys turned their heads to find the Queen standing in the doorway, arms crossed, a look of gentle reproach on her face. She wore a dark blue gown, and her hair was pinned in a bun that seemed moments away from unraveling, as if she had been tending to affairs all day.

Hans immediately lowered his head, dragging his sword along the floor.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” he murmured.

Aldric, though still mildly offended, decided the matter wasn’t worth dragging out.

The Queen sighed and stepped into the room, picking up a blanket the boys had tossed aside in their battle frenzy.

“It’s time for bed.”

“But we haven’t rescued the princess yet!” Hans protested.

“And we won’t,” Aldric replied, hands on his hips. “Because you’d rather count your gold than save her.”

“That is not how a prince should behave, Hans!” the Queen reprimanded, though now with a barely concealed smile.

“Alright, alright,” the little boy rolled his eyes and climbed into bed, though he refused to part with his sword, keeping it in his grasp like a royal scepter.

When their mother sat beside Aldric and began to tell a bedtime story, the older boy nestled under the blankets, listening with bright-eyed excitement. Hans, on the other hand, traced invisible patterns on his headboard with the tip of his sword, as if the tale was far less interesting than the grand battle he had just fought.

When the story ended, the Queen kissed Aldric’s forehead before turning to Hans with a warm smile.

“And you, my King? Why so quiet?”

Hans twirled his sword in the air, feigning indifference.

“Mother… where is Father?”

The Queen’s smile softened.

“Your father is busy this evening, my love. You know how much is required of him.”

Hans exhaled sharply and turned his head away.

“He is always busy.”

“You will see him in the morning,” she assured him, reaching to brush a stray lock of auburn hair from his forehead. “Before he leaves with your brother.”

At that, Hans stiffened. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his toy sword, his young face contorted in frustration.

“It is always ‘tomorrow.’ Always ‘later.’ But when it is Richard, he finds the time!”

The words burst from him, raw and unchecked. He sat up abruptly, his small frame taut with indignation. “He takes Richard with him everywhere. To meetings, to the council, even on rides through the city. They do things together. He talks to him. But he never—he never wants to do that with me.”

His voice faltered on the last words, yet the wound in them was unmistakable.

The Queen cupped his cheek with tenderness.

"I'm sorry you feel this way, my dear prince," she murmured. "I will speak to him about it, I promise."

Hans didn’t answer. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and turned away, as if he didn’t want her to see him like that.

“Hans…”

“It’s fine, I suppose someone has to be the favorite son.”

Before he could react, his mother lunged at him, trapping him in an embrace and covering his face in kisses.

”Favorite?! Favorite?! Hans Westergaard, how dare you say such a thing?!”

Hans shrieked, laughing and squirming in her grasp.

“Mother, no, stop, stop!”

“I will never let my little baby think such a horrible thing!”

Hans covered his face with his hands as she peppered his forehead, cheeks, and nose with loud kisses.

“Mother, stop! I’m not a baby!”

She cupped his face gently and whispered into his ear:

“You are my favorite son.”

Hans froze, eyes wide, until his mother laughed and placed one last kiss on his forehead.

“But don’t tell your brothers,” she added conspiratorially. “I wouldn’t want them to get jealous.”

Hans felt his heart swell in his chest. Was it a joke? Maybe. But… maybe not.

A sly grin spread across his face.

“Oh, I’m telling them. All of them.”

His mother gasped in mock horror. “Hans! You wouldn’t dare!”

Hans simply laughed, and to his delight, she laughed with him—a warm, rich sound that made him less lonely.

As their laughter faded into quiet, he shifted beneath the covers, glancing up at her.

“Mother, can you stay a little longer?”

His mother stroked his hair lovingly but shook her head.

“I need to say goodnight to your other brothers, sweetheart.”

Hans felt his chest deflate all at once.

“Oh.”

“Sweet dreams, my prince” she whispered, as she stood up blowing him a tender kiss before leaving the room.

The chamber was left in twilight, illuminated only by the soft glow of the moon filtering through the window. Aldric lay still, his eyes closed, his breathing already slow and steady, the soft rise and fall of his chest betraying the peacefulness of his slumber.

Hans, however, remained awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling with a thoughtful expression.

Perhaps, he thought, when he was older, his father would pay as much attention to him as he did to Richard.

Maybe, someday, everyone would.

◆◇◆

Today I read a few pages of A Frozen Heart, and honestly, I can’t.

From the very beginning, Hans’s life is portrayed as a complete nightmare: his father treats him like garbage, his mother doesn’t even pay attention to him, and his brothers openly despise him. There are no nuances, no moments of reprieve, just a hostile environment where Hans is basically an outcast in his own family.

And that’s what bothers me. Not all families are loving, but in most cases, even in dysfunctional families, there is usually some kind of attachment. A brother who cares about you even if he doesn’t always show it, a mother who, though distant, has moments of tenderness, a father who, despite being strict, has a reason for it. But here? No. Everyone seems to hate Hans. They don’t even ignore him; they actively despise him. It’s as if his only purpose in the story is to make his life miserable.

And it’s not just the family—the entire kingdom is also a complete misery. It’s as if everything is designed for Hans to grow up in the worst possible environment, and in the end, obviously, he becomes a horrible person. It feels forced. There’s no room for interpretation or character complexity. It’s as if the book is telling you, “Look, everything in his life has been garbage, so he’s garbage too.”

As I turned the pages, everything just felt more exaggerated and sad. I already knew how the book ended—with Hans as the villain. I wasn’t expecting Hans to be a hero (I think Disney would go bankrupt if they showed him with even a bit of mercy), but I at least wanted (I hoped) some balance in his story.

In my version, I imagined something different. Even though Hans is the youngest of thirteen siblings, I thought his twelfth brother, being closest in age to him, could have been someone he shared more moments with. Although siblings can fight and have conflicts, they are also children, and children play together, form bonds, even in difficult environments. I liked the idea of exploring that dynamic, where not everything is pure hatred.

I also wanted to give more depth to the queen’s character. In A Frozen Heart, Hans’s mother seems indifferent, but I believe that, no matter how busy she was, at some point, she must have felt love for her children. I don’t imagine her as a perfect mother, but as someone who, within her responsibilities, tried to be affectionate when she could. On the other hand, I see the king as more distant, focused on his duties with no real connection to the children, which would have affected Hans in a more subtle and realistic way, leaving him desperate for some of his attention.

I wrote several fragments of this story with this vision in mind because I believe Hans’s story could have been much more interesting and nuanced, instead of simply making him a victim of an environment where everything and everyone is horrible without exception.

What do you think? Did you read Frozen Heart? Did I make a rushed judgment about the story? Am I mistaken?

Undertow’s origin story

Prologue The gunfire was deafening. Bullets ricocheted off the outer and inner walls and the explosions of grenades shook the apartment complex as the Canadian soldiers and American marines stood their ground against the oncoming onslaught. The walls have long began to crumble under the constant hailstorm of bullets. Four casualties in the squad of ten. One dead, two barely conscious and one still fighting. The medic was trying to two of the injured soldiers while avoiding derbies and bullets ricocheting in the room. Staff Sergeant John Nash of the U.S marines sat against one of the walls below a hole an RPG impact made. He was frantically changing the magazine in his rifle. He hit the bolt release with the heel of his hand while watching the bolt carrier snap the ejection port closed. Quick as a flash, he sprung to his feet and rested the handguard on the lower edge of the hole, he lined up the iron sights on a target and pulled the trigger. The small red sprays from the body uneased him, but it meant that the shots hit their mark. Firing two rounds at a time on semi auto, he cut down one enemy down after another. “They're coming up the the stairs!” shouted a voice over over the radio system. John ducked back behind his cover to give the order. Someone link up with Foley and hold the stairwell!” John ordered over the radio. “Drenth!” John shouted, catching the attention of one of the Canadian soldiers as he was helping the medic put a splint on the leg of one of wounded soldiers. “Finish up helping Clarke and take position here to cover the courtyard!” Drenth replied “You got it!” to John as he primed a grenade and threw it out the hole. The sergeant rose up and fired into the street, taking a bit of pressure off the courtyard of another building across the road. The Canadian soldier slipped up behind John and patted his shoulder to signal he’ll take watch. As John made his way to the balcony, Drenth rested his rifle on the ledge of the hole and fired into the street. John rose up and aimed the underbarrel grenade launcher on his rifle towards the entrance of an alley where two or three men ran into and fired. The 40mm grenade detonated as it hit the wall just inside the alley enterance. “Bobcat 2-1, Bobcat 3-1! Do you copy!” The call was from the sergeant of another squad in the lobby of the building across the street they were covering. John ducked down behind the concrete barrier and pressed the talk button on the mic for the radio. “Go ahead 3-1!” “We planted the fireworks, but we can't leave, break! The AO’s too hot and we have multiple casualties, break! We need CASEVAC and reinforcements, now! Over!” John switched his radio frequency to contact their command base. “FOB Matrix, this is Bobcat 2-1! Do you copy, over!” John shouted into the mic. “Bobcat 2-1, FOB Matrix. Send traffic, over,” the radio operator replied. “Bobcat 3 planted the noisemakers, but we've got multiple wounded and at least two KIA, break! We’re heavily outnumbered and outgunned with about four snipers taking pot shots at us, break! Over a dozen and a half foot soldiers with automatic weapons are still kicking and have already breached the crows nest, break! Requesting air support at our AO! How copy, over!” John waited for about fifteen seconds for a reply, in till he heard what he didn't want to hear. “Uh… negative Bobcat 2-1. I say again, negative. RPGs have already shot down two transport choppers on the other side of the city and convoys have been mobilized to evacuate any survivors, break. All chopper support has been grounded until further notice, break. Will send info if situation changes, over.” John angrily hit the heel of his boot against the floor at the news. “Where the fuck is that air support?!” shouted a marine as he reloaded his rifle. John switched his radio frequency back to the closed comms for the squad. “Bobcat, be advised! The RPGs are too big of a risk for the choppers! Two transports were already shot down! We need to hold out on our own!” John said over the radio. “Sonofabitch!” a marine swore to himself as he pulled a pin from a grenade and lobbed it into the street. He then leveled his rifle on the ledge and started firing again. The exchange of bullets and explosives escalated as more hostiles flooded the streets below and fired their automatic rifles at the squad's position. As one of US marines continued firing his light machine gun at the oncoming targets in short bursts, he saw a single greater danger than the dozen plus human targets. A pickup truck had rounded the corner with four more gunmen and one man on a heavy machine gun. “We’ve got a technical rolling in!” he shouted as the gunner opened fire. The men and women of the squad hit the deck as the half inch diameter bullets hit the thick reinforced concrete walls inside the room. Most of them made it, except one. As Ben landed on the ground, he swore he felt something wet splash on the right side of his face. He brought his right hand to his face. He removed the gloved hand from his face to see that the liquid didn't just dampen the fabric. The substance coloured it… in crimson. “NASH!” The marines and Canadians on the floor turned their heads to see their XO’s body. John had taken a direct hit from a 50 calibre bullet just below the collarbone, blowing apart his upper torso. He died almost instantly. Ben still laid on his stomach at the gory mess that was Sgt John Nash as the world went quiet. All he could hear over the silence of his mind was blurred voices and muffled sounds of rock hitting rock as his eyes tried to take in what was happening around him. A young American marine was on a knee against an inner wall looking like he was hyperventilating with panic. One of the other marines near the balcony wall lobbed a grenade over the wall, trying to lighten up the heat so the squad could fire again. Clarke and one of the other troops jumped on top of the wounded men to protect them from the flying debris, still staring at the dismemberment. Then, Ben’s eyes fell back on John's corpse as the pool of blood still stretched from his body and began to dampen Ben's uniform under the armour. In his eyes, it felt like he was lying there for hours. His mind was completely blank. He felt frozen, as if every joint in his body locked. He had forgotten how to breathe, his lungs started to panic for oxygen. Within his mind, there was only one question running through... What now? 

Wilfords Warfstache’s sad origin/past who knew it wouldn’t be them in disguise but an actual backstory. Poor Wilfred.

GUYS! My origin story!! 😭🥹

I love being the only one submitting posts cuz y’all always know it’s me. Just your resident annoying Damangela anon✌️ /hj

It’s fun seeing my inbox full of “submitted by”s lmao I love it