Sun of a Higher Grade

AN: Special note at the end. Please read and if so inclined, pass on to your own friends and lists.

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"I don't like this," Prowl said. His voice was unusually curt and insubordinate.

"It will be good for morale."

"Isn't that what Jazz and Blaster are for?" Prowl asked, scowling at the proposal on the datapad.

Prime offered a half shrug. A quirk he adopted from humans. "Music and drinking only go so far."

"But this gives them a reason TO drink and play loud obnoxious music." Prowl always saw the dark side of the storm clouds. The silver lining was battleship grey.

"Come on, Prowl, everyone needs a chance to unwind," Prime said, hiding the smirk that his second had yet to resort to a formal attitude. Now it was like two mechs, meeting anyone on Cybertron and arranging a time and place for a communal get together.

"But… accommodations?" Prowl looked up to his superior, his normally passive expression now blown with the incredulous look. "It's their jobs. There shouldn't have to be congratulations for doing their jobs."

"You forget how much of their job entails them getting maimed, shot, burned, and possibly terminated. And they do this willingly, without complaint."

"They complain all the time." Prowl amended, his face still sullen.

"About monitor duty and patrol, but never battle. How many times have they saved your aft, Prowl?" Prime asked.

Prowl started, having rarely heard his leader use any crude language. Prime was once a dock worker so he had an extensive vocabulary at his disposal, but since he took the Matrix, he never resorted to such language unless he was pushed to his limits or wanting to make a point.

"I... am unsure," Prowl admitted, his battle computer running the many times he had been saved by the twins. Some of his calculations were higher than others, but then again, he also factored in the circumstances of each 'rescue' and the damage incurred by the twins' own friendly fire. "Are you sure it's wise allowing such uncontrollable unknown anomalies to be acknowledge for their disregard to orders and the inevitable high grade that will flow for the after party?"

"So? Let it flow," Prime said.

Prowl scowled in dislike, clearly not buying in to the idea of allowing everyone to indulge until they were strategically at a disadvantage.

"Megatron was defeated two days ago but escaped with enough energon to keep his soldiers fed for at least two weeks."

Prowl's scowl became deeper, his optics boring into the gentle blue of his mentor. "You allowed them to escape with the fuel?"

"They do not possess the resources that we do, Prowl. Though I do not agree with the Decepticon cause, I can not, in good faith, allow them to starve simply because their leader is too stubborn to call a truce or allow a gift of an energon converter."

Prowl frowned, remembering Prime having Wheeljack to make a portable generator unit and sending it to the shore for the Decepticons. Every time they had captured hostages, Ratchet reported obvious signs of starvation, prompting Prime to take action. The cons were his enemies, but they were still his people. He was obligated to help them, even if they did try to kill him. Some of the cons had looked elated to receive such a thing but Megatron, ever the tyrant and wanting to keep his soldiers subjugated to him, blew the device up. As the cons retreated from the temporary ceasefire, Prime had pleaded with a loud voice to accept the fuel dispensers so no one would have to go without fuel.

Some of the cons had looked interested in the prospect of having a steady fuel supply. Prime didn't want to raise any hopes, but he thought he saw something flicker across Soundwave's visage, though it was had to tell. He was just as passive as Prowl. Both could engage in hand to hand combat and neither would even grimace or grunt.

"Come on, Prowl. Even you have to unwind sometimes."

"I fail to see how that reflects my ability to perform my job."

"Prowl, you're wound so tight right now, you're making MY gears hurt." Prime confided. "If I have to make it an order I will. But you are to attend this party after the ceremony and you will enjoy yourself."

"Only if there are datapads involved." Prowl grumbled not liking the idea of being forced to socialize in activities.

Prime motioned to the datapad in Prowl's grip. "I wish to have the ceremony set for tomorrow evening, if possible, with the party to follow."

"That the twins will no doubt host and give them a chance to flaunt their flagrant high grade."

"Relax," Prime said. "I've sanctioned the still, so you don't need to continue twisting your circuits looking for it."

"Oh, I've known its location all along," Prowl said, smug look highlighting his features and causing Prime to take pause. "But it's like you said, it's good for morale and as long as the two don't drink while on duty, then they may continue to brew in secrecy."

"How long have you known?" Prime wondered.

"Since they joined up," Prowl said. "They think they're clever, but I have been performing my job a lot longer then they have been functioning." He gave Prime a skeptical glare. "You honestly believe that with my training and investigative skills, I couldn't track down one illegal high grade still?"

Prime was left speechless.

"I shall rearrange the duty schedule to ensure everyone may be included in the...," Prowl paused, looking like he was struggling to form the word. "Festivities."

"Very well." Prime gave a nod and took his leave, calling over his shoulder. "And so you don't try to get out of attending, you are hereby ordered to attend."

Prowl allowed his doorwings to droop in defeat. He offered a muffled noise through his vents and whirled, marching to his office. He had a lot of shuffling of the schedules to make sure everyone could be included in what he considered a frivolous waste of time and resources.

Since he was ordered to 'socialize,' Prowl locked himself up in his office, enjoying the peace and quiet that would elude him tomorrow. He preferred the solitude, but since Prime had ordered his attendance, Prowl would have to endure the noise and stupidity of his overcharged comrades. It would take several days of seclusion in his office to throw off the ill effects of socializing and the processor ache that came with obnoxiously loud music.

The next morning the Ark was in a state of excitement. The word had leaked out that Prime was going to allow unlimited high grade and the twins had been brewing all morning to ensure a steady supply. There was also a rumor that they were breaking out some of the good stuff that had been in storage for some time.

Red Alert was spazzing out and by noon, had to be escorted to the medical wing. Two hours later, he was released, hanging off of Inferno's arm as the fire truck steered his friend toward the rec room to oversee the decorating for the evening ceremony.

Come sundown, everyone started to filter into the rec room. The dividing partition was pushed back, allowing the room to be used to its fullest and accommodate all of the Autobot forces. There was a long table on the upper platform that allowed view of the assemblage. A lectern was placed in the middle of the table, the Autobot sigil gleaming silver. A single chair flanked each side of the podium. Jazz and Blaster were doing the finishing touches on the sound system, checking the podium for Prime's speech, and more importantly, the DJ station where the two were to take turns spinning.

Prowl diligently checked over the Ark's systems, making sure the automated defenses were in top operation. He delayed his arrival, hoping to miss the majority of the festivities so he wouldn't have to endure the loud music and overly charged comrades who repeated the same war stories and resorted to crude jokes and languages. Prowl didn't appreciate the vulgarity when he first heard them, and time had not endeared him since.

He thought he was alone. Until a voice made him start.

"Prowl?" Prime wasn't surprised the Praxian was still on the bridge. He knew the ship was going on automated systems and Prowl had already checked the same consol twice. He was procrastinating.

"Going over final shut down sequences and double checking the systems before the party," Prowl said, checking the security feed for a third time.

Prowl hissed when he felt a sharp pinch to his left doorwing. He rose on his pedes, hoping to ease the upward pull Prime now had on the sensitive appendage. Prime removed the datapad from Prowl's grip and placed it on the consol while maintaining his hold on the flighty Praxian

"The Ark is secured. Get your aft to the rec room. Party starts in two minutes."

Prowl grumbled, glaring sullenly at the datapad as he was marched out of the room by his doorwing, Prime holding it slightly aloft to force Prowl to nearly tiptoe in the wake of his leader. They entered the rec room together, Prime releasing his captor to take his place at the main table. Prowl flicked his doorwings, scowling after Prime as he walked up to the podium to address his troops. Jazz clapped Prowl on the back, nearly sending the Praxian to the ground. Prowl shrugged out of his friend's grip and glanced around the room. Everyone was present, including Red Alert, who was rubbing his helm. All the tables were polished and arranged around the room to face the main table on the dais. The sound system was already set up to the far left, Blaster standing smugly by a speaker, his arms crossed over his chest. Apparently he had won a bet against Jazz and would be starting off the music portion of their evening. The chairs flanking the podium were occupied by Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, both displaying polar opposite emotions.

Sideswipe looked ecstatic, Sunstreaker murderous.

Prime stood at the podium and raised his hand for silence. The low murmur of voices died down, all optics on the Matrix Bearer.

"Autobots, we gather here to recognize the contributions of two of our own," Prime began, "A recognition that is long overdue. For millennia we have been under the constant protection of two who have laid down their lives for ours, sometimes enduring grievous injury and teetering on the brink of termination."

Sideswipe's grin broadened, threatening to split his face. Sunstreaker rolled his optics, tightening his crossed arms and sinking a little lower in his seat.

"I think it only fitting that we honor those two here tonight, by celebrating their triumphs, thanking them for their selfless sacrifices, for going above and beyond in the call of duty, and to show our appreciation for the dangerous task they undertake. Let us lift our voices, and our glasses, and honor Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, for all they do and continue to do without complaint."

"We complain all the time," Sunstreaker muttered. He thought this whole thing was a bad idea. He didn't even like most of his fellow Autobots, let alone want to be in the same room with them, accepting their praises and enduring their stupidity when inebriated.

Prime held up his hand in a symbol of honor and respect amongst the warrior class. Everyone else followed suit. When they started clapping and cheering for the two, Prime stepped back and gestured to the podium, expecting the two guests of honor to give speeches.

Sideswipe bounced out of his chair, soaking in the adulation, bowing and grinning to the cheering crowd. He flooded the bond with excitement and happiness, basking in the attention like a Hollywood star.

Sunstreaker reluctantly rose, standing in his brother's shadow, scowling at the amassed Autobots. His first thought was the best possible way to take out as many bots as possible in one or two strategically placed strikes.

"Thank you, thank you all," Sideswipe said, waving to his audience to get their silence. "We appreciate the fact that you ingrates recognize our sacrifice."

Sideswipe's optics lingered on a couple of bots in particular, earning rolled optics and a rude gesture. The action earned a round of laughter from the ruby Lamborghini.

"We'd lay down our sparks for every one of you, and though we may not get along all the time," Sideswipe's gaze drifted to a couple of minibots, "But we're on the same side. Fighting to survive and wipe the Cons out of existence."

Several hoots of agreement went out through the crowd.

"Thank you for finally realizing how invaluable we are," Sideswipe crowed, earning snorts and snickers, "And that you rivetheads would be lost without us. You adore us, knowing that if something happened to us, not only would you not have skilled bots to watch your back, but you wouldn't have anything so gorgeous to gaze upon and try to emulate."

Prime rolled his optics to the ceiling behind Sideswipe's back. Snickers broke out again, sounding like a tube with a leak.

"We will continue to fight and watch your chassis," Sideswipe continued, "Keeping you alive and giving you something to strive for." He paused for a moment, looking between the assembled bots his gaze landing on Prowl, who looked bored with the whole proceedings. Sideswipe waggled his brow plating, lifting his voice though the room was fairly quiet. "And I'm not wearing anything under this armor!"

Laughter broke out as a crashing wave. Sideswipe grasped the edge of his armor plating along his arm and pretended to lift it to give his audience a peek. Sunstreaker shoved his brother aside to address the bots. His scowl was once again etched into his face.

"Stop making yourselves targets. I'm tired of taking hits meant to terminate you."

The bots sobered immediately as Sunstreaker growled at them before whirling and marching off the dais. Prime sighed, watching the golden mech stalk toward the vast assortment of distilled high grade. Knowing the speeches were over, Prime waved to the drinks.

"Enjoy yourselves," Prime called.

The bots hooted and swarmed the drink table, awing at the assorted colors the twins had brewed. There were shades of lavender that were more suited to a minibot frame. Acid green that could knock a seeker on his wings. Rose and periwinkle, peach and sunshine yellow, and shades in between. The twins had most certainly outdone themselves.

Blaster started the music, turning his haughty expression to Jazz, who ignored the tape deck to call Sideswipe out on a dance-off. Sideswipe graciously accepted, downing a cube of iridescent blue and sauntered to the middle of the dance floor. Jazz thought he had the contest in the bag, until Sideswipe started to dance. And subsequently mop the floor with the Porsche. Jazz danced for all he was worth, taking nearly an hour to finally admit defeat and congratulate his comrade on a dance-off well fought. Linking arms, they exited the dance floor, every intent on taking their battle to the liquid arena.

Sunstreaker was secluded in a corner, nursing a concentration of high grade that would have put Prime under the table with half a dose.

Prime was laughing and drinking with his subordinates, all stature and nobility gone as he became increasingly inebriated. It because clear he used to be a dock worker after a couple of cubes of high grade. The specialty brew he chose for this occasion made the regular grade appear watered down.

As expected, the party hit astronomical levels.

Wheeljack was sitting in a corner talking to a shop vac. Tracks was dancing on a table top, much to the chagrin of the mechs sitting there. Brawn was challenging everyone to an arm wrestling competition and wiping the floor with most of the crew. Ironhide was singing an ancient song of love and loss, Ratchet and Hound providing toneless back up.

Prowl had remained where Prime left him upon arrival. Each time he tried to sneak out, his efforts were thwarted by Prime. Hoping to assuage Prime's order of enjoying himself, and getting away from this party as quickly as possible, Prowl marched up to the drinks table. Not one to indulge in the swill the twins normally brewed, he glanced over the rainbow of colors, trying to find something that wouldn't sour his pallet. A mint green glittered, drawing his attention. It was the same hue as a grade he used to enjoy in the Crystal City, before the war. It was also his favorite color.

Prowl turned to find Prime staring at him from across the room. Though Prime's optics were overly bright in charge, he was still watching with expectation. Prowl huffed and hoisted the crystal container in mock salute, resigned to his fate. He was used to cubes like everyone else, but since this was a ceremony, Jazz said they need 'the good china.' Where he found such expensive drinking crystals was anyone's guess. He was a mech of many resources. And mysteries.

Prowl only meant to take a small sample of the glowing liquid, enough to appease Prime's watchful gaze, but as soon as the chilled fluid touched his lips, he took a larger drink than intended. When the sweet nectar crossed his analyzers, a pleased noise escaped. He looked at the glass curiously, his battle computer engaging for some strange reason. He frowned, trying to figure out why it engaged, when the answer struck him.

This was the exact blend for his favorite drink from the Crystal City. It was brewed by the finest Praxian masters of the Age. Prowl knew the twins had no Praxian lineage, and the war had broken out and destroyed the only brewery that supplied this particular blend. Neither ever mentioned visiting Praxus, let alone, learning the brewing secrets of the scant artisans of the trade.

Prowl downed the crystal in two gulps and when the soft buzz singed along his circuits, he offered a pleased hum. It has been a very long time since he had such exquisite high grade, though this variety was of the softer, more palatable variety. It was the brew of high society Praxians, and the more refined Primes of old.

Definitely not the usual Kaon swill the twins notoriously brewed.

Prowl picked up another cube, sipping its contents and savoring the flavor that reminded him of home from so long ago. He felt his systems throttle to an even keel, a pleasant sensation coming over his senses like being wrapped in a warm, welcoming, protective blanket.

A shimmer of gold caught his attention.

Sunstreaker strode up to the table a few paces from Prowl. He was tossing a couple glasses of high grade into a large bowl, mixing the contents and scooping out some in a glass and sampling the mixture.

Prowl snickered softly. The first time Spike had mentioned a 'punch bowl,' Sunstreaker had punched out Gears.

Against his better judgment, Prowl strode up to Sunstreaker, his doorwings bobbing gently with his steps as he approached the golden mech who was refreshing the diminishing drinks.

"Sunstreaker?" Prowl said upon his approach. He knew to alert the war weary Pit fighter before getting too close. "I must ask, where did you get this Praxian blend?"

"We made it," Sunstreaker said without looking at the SIC.

"Impossible," Prowl scoffed. "This is a rare vintage from the Golden Age. I know my Praxian blends. So tell me, where have you been storing this?"

Sunstreaker finished mixing the last set of drinks and turned to regard one of his rivals. And nearly burst out laughing. Prowl's doorwings were quirked loosely on his back.

"Not stored," Sunstreaker said, unable to hide a smile at Prowl's overly bright optics. Oh, the mech couldn't hold his liquor if he tried. "We brewed it here, over the past few days."

Sunstreaker wasn't sure why, but he felt a certain amount of pride at making something the stoic SIC and self proclaimed coinsurer, couldn't tell the difference between blends.

"I know my grades." Prowl narrowed his bright optics at Sunstreaker. "By region, brewery and era. This was definitely middle Golden Age from the brewery in the northern district."

"Upper east, actually," Sunstreaker corrected, grinning at the confused look on Prowl's face. It wasn't often the Praxian was flummoxed. "It took a while to find the right kind of cobalt and magnesium to make that blend."

"How?" Prowl asked, looking into the shimmering mint green that greeted him like a long lost friend. "How do you know secret recipe to Praxus's most infamous grade?"

"Because we invented it," Sunstreaker informed his overly charged commanding officer. "The Praxian brewers were insightful, but it was Sideswipe and I who created and marketed the brands."

"You?" Prowl asked in a hushed tone, his brow furrowing as he tried to compute the information. His battle computer was running in spurts. "You owned...?"

"The majority of the breweries in Praxus? Yes," Sunstreaker confirmed. He grabbed a crystal full of shimmering blue liquid and motioned for Prowl to join him at a table in the corner.

Prowl fell into step, following the golden mech to the table. Both had to dodge some of their dancing comrades, who were arguing over the correct way to perform a fox trot. Hound was petting a traumatized fox and trying to make a staggering exit with his animal friend.

Prowl flopped down into a chair, his doorwings hiking straight up like a terrified cat, before falling lax down his back. He appeared exhausted and deflated, save for the wild look in his vibrant blue optics. He took another drink, his optics whitening a little further, though Sunstreaker was the only one who noticed.

Sunstreaker smirked behind his glass before taking a drink. It was smooth, going down with ease and tingling his analyzers. Sideswipe certainly outdid himself with this particular blend.

Prowl hummed as the charge filtered through his systems. "My creators used to drink this all the time." His face scrunched up in disgust and nostalgia. "Every time they hosted a gala, they would order cases of the stuff. I hated the parties, but the grade was delicious. It was the only thing I looked forward to during the annual social events."

Sunstreaker paused mid-drink. The only ones who attended galas and such social events were famous people, politicians, and Tower Brats. Prowl never spoke of his creators, so Sunstreaker assumed they were ordinary, run of the factory, stuffy bots like Prowl. There was no hint of his creators being influential, as in having political alliances. And Prowl never displayed the sophisticated air of a brat of the towers. So that must mean his creators were famous.

Sunstreaker tried to factor in everything he knew about Prowl, trying to gauge what area of public adoration his creators could have fallen under. They weren't under the artistic pavilions, because Sunstreaker would have met them, and a young Prowl.

He paused, staring at Prowl's bright, shining optics and tried to imagine the mech before him as a youngling.

Relaxed, carefree….. happy…. full of expression. A young Prowl. Wouldn't that have been interesting?

Sunstreaker wasn't sure what possessed him, but before he realized what was happening, he was speaking.

"If you like, we can brew you the Praxus blend on a regular basis?"

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sunstreaker wanted to kick himself. This was PROWL. No way he'd agree to something so... reckless.

"That would be greatly appreciated," Prowl said, downing the rest of the glass and slamming it down on the table with more force than he intended. "It has been so long since I have enjoyed the finest grade from my lost city. I have not realized how much I missed it until now."

Sunstreaker felt a stab of surprise and melancholy. He opened his mouth to speak but Prowl emitted an electronic snort and faceplanted on the table, his doorwings wiggling high for a second before flattening like a dragonfly at rest.

Sideswipe saddled over, his face alight with happiness as he took in Prowl's prone form.

"Get him overcharged, bro?" he asked, sniffing the glass in Prowl's lax hand. He drew back, that scheming look gracing his face as he took in the unconscious form of the Praxian.

Sunstreaker stood, downing the rest of his glass and shoving Sideswipe away from his prey. "He charged himself and wanted to know if we could brew him some of the Praxian grade on a regular basis."

"He did?" Sideswipe drew up, forgetting his ill intent and flooding his bond with happiness.

Sunstreaker grunted, rubbing his chest plates and scowling. "Stop that."

"So, Stick-Up-the-Aft likes Praxian grade, huh?" Sideswipe mused, looking down upon his unconscious commanding officer with a smug expression.

"I think it would be wise to brew what he likes, so he doesn't find our still and dismantle it for parts."

"He'll never find it."

"Not the decoy ones," Sunstreaker chided. "The real one that we use."

Sideswipe paused, thinking over his brother's words. It wouldn't be good if Prowl found out where they secretly brewed their stock. They knew he was aware of the two dummy stills, and that he was unaware of the third, and true distillery.

"Jazz is calling you out again," Sunstreaker said, pointing to the Porsche who had given up his DJing position to attempt to win back his title as best dancer.

Sideswipe smirked, knowing the Special Ops mech was hoping he'd be too charged to give him competition. Oh, Sideswipe was going to show him! He sauntered up to the shorter mech and like two hissing tom cats in an alley, they started their challenge.

Sunstreaker smirked, glad Jazz provided a distraction. He didn't like the dark feeling his brother was feeling toward the unconscious Prowl. He was planning something disastrous and potentially devastating. Sunstreaker was hoping to distract him so he could drag Prowl off to relative safety.

Sighing in resignation of the inevitable scratches, Sunstreaker scooped Prowl up, looping his arm around his neck and dragging the blocky mech toward the door. He didn't want to leave Prowl at the mercy of his twin. And once Sideswipe wiped the floor with a certain Porsche, he'd be looking for his favorite target.

No one noticed Sunstreaker half dragging, half carrying Prowl out the door and down the hall toward Prowl's quarters. Prowl's door opened in recognition, allowing Sunstreaker to carry the mech inside and drop him on his berth. Prowl landed face down, his doorwings bouncing a little with the impact. Sunstreaker grunted, shoving Prowl's heavier weight until it was centered on his berth, ensuring his doorwings were out of danger.

"Heavy aft fragger," Sunstreaker muttered, cycling air through his vents. "How can you be so heavy and step so light?"

Prowl offered a snore in answer.

Sunstreaker sighed and left Prowl to sleep off his charge, closing the door behind him and hitting the locking mechanism to keep out a ruby colored pest.

The next morning, Prowl was back to his usual, stick up the aft self. He lectured bots on attending their duties while hung over, though he himself was seen grasping his helm twice.

Sideswipe was back to being his obnoxious self, goading the Praxian into a shouting match that culminated with Sideswipe locked in a cell and singing a song that wasn't appropriate for any age. Prime was later heard humming the same tune.

Sunstreaker collected the materials he needed and set to work, brewing the minty Praxian blend. Usually, Sideswipe was the one who did the majority of the brewing, but Sunstreaker was equally as talented. It was the wait and subsequent idling that drove him crazy. Oddly enough, this time, he didn't mind the slow passage of time.

The next day, Sunstreaker poured small measures of mint green liquid in smaller cubes and placed them in his subspace. He knew Prowl wouldn't accept them during the day, keeping his professional distance until late into the evening. When Prowl left his office in the evening, Sunstreaker was waiting outside.

"What now?" Prowl asked, figuring the golden mech was going to argue the case for his brother's release.

Sunstreaker opened his subspace and removed the several cubes of Praxian grade. "Just wanted to give you these."

Prowl's brow furrowed, his hands remaining at his side. "What are they?"

"The Praxian blend you like so well," Sunstreaker said, stepping forward and holding the cubes closer to Prowl. "I brewed a fresh batch for you but placed them in smaller cubes so you won't get so overcharged."

Prowl hesitantly took the cubes. Most said he lacked expression, but Sunstreaker could detect the warring of emotions in the monochromatic frame.

"I kept the same formula as the other night, but since you obliviously don't handle the higher octanes, I suggest you dilute it." Sunstreaker turned to walk away when Prowl's voice stopped him.

"Sunstreaker?"

Sunstreaker paused, looking over his shoulder.

"Thank you." Prowl said sincerely, placing the cubes in his subspace. "For everything."

Sunstreaker knew those simple words were loaded with much more meaning. He offered a dip of his helm and walked away, unknowing he had just forged a new friendship.

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Special request: Dear readers, it has come to my attention that there has been a vast exodus from this site due to the multiplication of trolls and the ever changing, limiting Terms of Service that is now being forced down the author's throats. I would ask that each and every one of you, whether you write or only read, send a message to the moderators that you find their restrictions (and their lack of concern over trolling and other things that plague your reading/writing stories) to be not only be irresponsible, but flagrantly disrespectful to readers and writers who originally signed on with the hope they could 'Unleash their imagination.' Now, we are victimized and punished, thanks to their unethical treatment to their serious writers.

They probably have already noticed a severe decrease in traffic, as more and more leave this site for venues who encourage and protect their writers, like what they USED to do. Subsequently, decent, thoughtful, engrossing stories that depict TRUE human nature, (not some sort of Disney fluff that chokes our imaginations and sours our pens) has become scarce and those who write such genre, are persecuted, to the point of having their work, and their ID's erased.

If they truly want to return to their previous success, then please, contact them and let them know your plight. Tell them of the good authors who used to post, but have moved to other locations, where their work is not censored, nor illegally removed. Tell them you find it disheartening that the boards are now filled with rehashed, hollow, sugary 'fairytales,' and you want to enjoy clever, thorough, thought engaging, more mature stories.

Let them know your age, your sign up time, and demand that they stop the persecution of decent writing to cater to simple minded, uneducated, sheltered, children. Perhaps even mention that they could have a separate link, like with their original fiction?

Maybe if enough of us stand up, we can once again, enjoy the site and discover new, and talented writers.

Thank you all.