The Rise of Darctavious Prime Prologue Before the War of Brothers
Before the Autobots. Before the Decepticons. Before Cybertron tore itself apart in a war that would scar reality itself.
There was Primus.
And from Primus, there was design.
The All-Spark pulsed at the planet's core, its light threading through Cybertron like a living nervous system. The Primes had been born of that light warriors, leaders, builders each embodying an aspect of existence. Yet even they were bound by time, by fate, by the inevitability of conflict.
Primus saw further.
He foresaw a future where Cybertron would not merely fall to war, but to forces older than hatred entropy, extinction, and predation from beyond the stars. The coming war between Autobots and Decepticons would not be the end. It would be the opening wound.
Thus, in secrecy, before Megatron's name became a banner and Optimus Prime took up the Matrix, Primus acted.
From the deepest strata of Cybertron's core, where space folded inward and time flowed like molten metal, Primus forged a singular spark.
Not Autobot. Not Decepticon.
A Prime of balance and preservation.
A being infused not only with the knowledge of Cybertron's history, but with awareness of possible futures. A guardian whose power did not rely on brute force alone, but on dominion over space, time, and the material realm itself.
His purpose was clear.
Preserve the Cybertronian race.
Prevent extinction.
Find a path where none should exist.
His name was encoded into reality itself.
Darctavious Prime.
Emmanuel Will was, by every measurable definition, ordinary.
He was a programmer by trade lines of code, logic trees, late-night debugging sessions fuelled by caffeine and stubbornness. Outside of work, he relaxed the way millions did: movies, games, and stories that let him forget the weight of deadlines.
Transformers had always been his favourite.
He had watched every movie, read the comics, memorized the lore. Primes, the All-Spark, Cybertron's tragedy he knew it all. The eternal war fascinated him, not for the explosions, but for the loss beneath it. A civilization tearing itself apart because it could no longer agree on what it should be.
Today, though, none of that mattered.
He wasn't in the office. He wasn't staring at a screen.
He was on a boat, out at sea, surrounded by friends. Sunlight glittered across the water as waves rolled lazily beneath them a rare moment of peace.
The fishing rod bent suddenly.
A sharp tug.
Then another far stronger.
"Holy—!" Emmanuel tightened his grip as the line screamed, the reel spinning violently. Whatever was on the other end wasn't normal.
The pull became relentless.
The boat lurched.
"Let it go!" someone shouted.
But Emmanuel didn't.
The rod jerked hard, and the next thing he knew, the world flipped.
Cold.
Pressure.
Water rushed past him as he was dragged beneath the surface.
He opened his eyes just in time to see it.
A massive shape.
A cavernous maw.
Rows of teeth descending like a living gate.
His final thought was unfiltered and painfully calm.
Fuck. Here we go again.
Darkness swallowed him whole.