There weren't exactly good days on Prime's ship. For that matter, there weren't really days at all, the complete lack of any kind of predictable routine was one of the worst things about it. But some moments were better than others and this one, well, it was one of the worst.

Glimmer was huddled under the underside edge of the bed, her cape pulled over her head just to try to get some reprieve from the constant searing bright. It was cramped and uncomfortable and for all she knew Prime could see her just as well down here as he could anywhere else in the room but it felt better than lying up on that hard bed. That thing reminded her of a countertop and made her feel like she was a curiosity on display.

Just one of his many trophies.

That room. Haunted. Like a graveyard. She shivered and pulled herself closer into the little bit of shadow under the bed. She could feel sorrow radiating from the weapons, unfamiliar magic signatures frozen in time, the last desperate screams of magic beings just like her, snuffed out. Exactly like Prime was planning to do with her and her friends.

At first, she'd feared that's why he'd brought her there. To end her, finally, make her a ghost like the others. There had been a bow hanging on the wall and her eyes were drawn to it immediately. Not golden or articulated, of course, but for a horrible moment she thought— but of course Prime had even worse surprises up his sleeve.

She smoothed a hand across her leg and began to write, using a single unsteady finger for a pen.

I'm so glad you're alive. I thought… She paused, her hand shaking. I didn't know what had happened to you.

Prime hadn't shown her any of her friends since that first horrible dinner. She probably should have realized that meant they were still fighting. He would have delighted in showing her their broken bodies, making her watch the people she loved die painfully. He loved to show her awful things. Loved nothing more than to watch her heart break over and over. Her planet on fire, cities falling, people running and screaming, Etherian monuments that seemed like they'd stand forever toppling into a heap of broken rock. She'd come to expect any reflective surface on this ship to flash on at any moment, turn into a screen and show her nightmares. She flinched every time one flickered to life, certain this time would be it and she'd see one of her friends for the last time.

When Prime had shown her Bow on the wall of that trophy room, just for a flash— alive and whole and still fighting when for all she'd known he'd died in that battle at the rebel camp, doomed by her reaction like Catra had said— she felt the closest thing to joy since she'd been here. But it only lasted a second before Bow moved aside and the camera focused on a stranger. No, she realized after a moment, not actually a stranger at all.

Dad. No. How? How? Her father was dead! It had to be a trick! She certainly wouldn't put it past Prime to play dirty. But how would Prime even know what her father looked like? Why wouldn't he show her her mother if he could create such illusions, someone she'd do anything to get back? Why her father, who she barely remembered? But if it was her father, where had he come from? Where had he been all these years? And what was he doing with Bow of all people? It didn't make sense!

At the moment, though, she had believed it without question. And still, she'd refused his offer. She'd smashed his precious orb, rash and impulsive as ever, and probably doomed them all. She pushed her face into her knee, letting her tears soak the knees of her tights. It didn't count as crying if none of them actually fell. When she got herself back under control, she started writing again.

So, you and my dad, huh? How's that working out? I'm just teasing, he probably adores you. How could he not?

Bow and her father, fighting side-by-side. Was it weird that the idea was strangely comforting despite the circumstances? They'd watch out for each other, she was sure of it. She tried to imagine them interacting, what that might even be like. The need to see it herself, to be there with them was unbearable.

No, I haven't really been sleeping. It's hard. The lights never go off and my brain never goes off either, you know? Just worrying about all of you and what I've done and… everything.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep herself from crying again. It was stupid because Bow would never actually read this but she didn't want to tell him about the other stuff, not even in a make-believe letter. The way Prime still played games with when she was allowed to take care of necessities, how sometimes it seemed like he only sent someone when she'd finally fallen asleep and how could she rest knowing she might miss her only chance to go the bathroom?

It was why she'd gotten weird about eating too. Sometimes she ate just enough to get rid of the pain in her middle. Other times she had too much, afraid this tray would be the last. There was no pattern to when she was fed. Meals came too close together, or too far apart. Sometimes she thought he made her wait purposely so that she'd eat more the next meal. Other times he seemed to taunt her, bringing meal after meal what seemed like only an hour apart until she got so angry she threw them at the forcefield.

When she'd finally gotten the courage to question Prime about it once, he'd acted like she was the one that was crazy. And maybe she was! That was one of the horrors of this place, how everything had a sort of unreality that made you doubt what was real and what was fake. It was something to do with the way there were no real days or nights, no discernible schedule to when meals came or when you were meant to sleep. The only constant was the fear and shame, the crawling horror of knowing you were being watched like a helpless caged pet while your friends were fighting for their lives.

She leaned into the shade under the bed, trying to make herself as small as possible, closing her eyes, willing herself to believe she really was writing a letter on fancy stationery with her favorite glitter pen back home.

I miss you so much. I hope you're safe and surrounded by friends. I hope Adora's being Adora and Frosta's yelling about punching everything and Mermista and Sea Hawk stop being idiots and just get married already and Perfuma's not trying to act all high and mighty about inner peace or whatever like she isn't the most bloodthirsty of all of us and that someone punched Shadow Weaver in her smug little bitch face. I hope Aunt Casta's not being too insufferable and my dad isn't embarrassing and your dads are safe and someday we can introduce them all and they can form some kind of epic Best Dad Squad. I hope you're resting and eating and holding onto hope and not beating yourself up about everything that happened.

Because I'm not doing any of those things. Not at all.

Anyway, you're probably really busy so I'll wrap this up. I miss you. I say that every time, I know, but still. I do. If I ever get to see you again, I'm going to want so many hugs even you'll be sick of them!

She wiped her eyes against her tights again and thought about adding something hopeful about how they'd get through this or maybe something desperate about she wished someone would come and rescue her but there were limits to her imagination and even she couldn't picture anything that miraculous in their future. Instead, she closed the letter as she always did, taking extra care to draw the heart, as if somehow she could actually send him the message with the surety of her lines.

Then she rested her head against the cold underside of the bed and thought, as she had a million times, that she couldn't take this anymore. Then she composed herself and rose, adjusting her cape and hair, a queen once again, and got ready to continue to take it. Because what option was there? No matter how many times she broke off that damn chair leg or threw a tray or shouted at Catra or lunged at her captors, she couldn't actually escape.

And no one was going to save her.