Chapter Text
Gamzee
“I don’t care if you get it on my skin. That’ll come off. Just don’t miss my roots, Fef, I swear to God.”
Feferi scowls at Eridan, squirting more foul-smelling dye into his hair. “Shush. I’ve done this before, you know.”
She digs her gloved hands into Eridan’s hair again, working the extra dye in. You love that bright red foam squishing through her fingers, like she’s squashing up some rust grubs for dinner. She’s got a smear of dye on the inside of her wrist and another one on the front of her apron, which has been stained so thoroughly by sweeps of paint and dye that another dollop won’t matter. The words Cull the Cook are almost unreadable. It’s your apron, so it looks all big and rumpled and adorable on her, enough to make you feel almost a little pale. You don’t act on that, though; she’s in one big pale pink mess with your Eribro and you’d never get yourself all tangled up in the middle of that.
The smell has scared most of the meowbeasts from the room, but the big orange tom is still sprawled over your knees, purring as you rub your fingers between his ears. A warm evening breeze comes in the window. Feferi hums as she moves around to get at Eridan’s hair from another angle. He squirms impatiently.
“Are you done yet?” he asks.
She swats at his left horn, then curses and grabs a cloth. As she rubs vigorously at the keratin, Eridan squawks, “You got it on my horn?”
“It’s fine,” she says. “It wiped right off.”
“Smells like something up and died in here,” you say, scratching under the tomcat’s chin. Crackling yellow light rises from your skin like a fine cloud of glowworms. You reach out with one lazy yellow tentacle of light and open the thermal hull door.
“It’s all these chemicals,” Feferi says, wrinkling her nose. “Henna would work fine, Eridan. I don’t know why you don’t just use that.”
“I don’t like the color,” he mutters.
“It’s practically the same color,” she says.
“Yeah, well, when it’s your life on the line we’ll talk about ‘practically the same,’ ” he snarls.
You hook a jar of kombucha from the hull and bring it back across the culinary block. The kombucha settles lightly into your hand, released by your psionics. You take a cold, sour swallow. The smell of the dye gets all up in your nose and makes it taste funny. You dump the tomcat off your lap and unfold from your chair until your horns nearly brush the ceiling.
Feferi sets down the tube of dye. “The chemicals in this dye are probably giving you cancer.”
“Good.”
She peels off her gloves. “I’m done. Set the timer for twenty-five minutes.”
Eridan picks up the plastic timer from the table while Feferi rinses off her gloves at the sink. You take another swig of your kombucha (this smell makes it taste like a motherfucking travesty) and give Eridan’s hair a critical look. His forelock is all slicked back and slimy under the bright red foam.
“It’s a miracle how all that chemical shit knows what color to make your hair,” you say. “It all stinks and burns like nothing else but it gets the job done. How does it even know what it’s doing, man? How does it know?”
Eridan grabs the gloves as soon as Feferi takes them off and hurries to the ablution block to check for any undyed parts. You shrug and push open the screen door leading outside, letting it bang shut behind you.
The night air is like a sweet drink of water after that foul sniffnode assault. Everything is bright and minty-green in the moonlight. You knock a couple meowbeasts off the hammock and sprawl down in it. The screen door bangs again and Feferi comes out to join you on the hammock. You hand her your drink and she rocks the hammock with one foot. Her hair is in a braid long enough to nearly brush the ground when she leans back.
“Look at those motherfucking stars,” you say, letting your shared gravity pull the two of you together in the hammock. “Looks like some motherfucker just spilled a bunch of seeds all over that sky up there.”
Feferi rocks the hammock gently, sipping your drink. “I wonder how many of those we’ve conquered,” she says.
Eridan comes out of the hive and sits in one of the chairs that you all have left in a ring around the fire pit. He’s shirtless, to avoid ruining his clothes with the dye. You can see his six bright red grub scars running down his flanks.
“Did I miss a spot?” Feferi asks.
“No,” he says grudgingly.
You’ve still got that sleep fug in your head, that sopor-in-the-bloodstream feeling from too much snooze time. It’s nice to just lay here and rock and listen to your hivemates bicker peacefully. You might get some painting done tonight, or maybe do a little baking.
Your husktop chimes in your sylladex. You open up your miracle modus, which washes light over you and Feferi. You take a moment to enjoy the show before taking out your husktop.
-- adiosToreador [AT] began trolling terminallyCapricious [TC] --
AT: hELLO,
AT: aRE YOU AROUND, tONIGHT,
AT: vRISKA SAID SHE WAS COMING OVER,
AT: i THOUGHT i MIGHT, hITCH A RIDE,
TC: HeY tHeRe My MaIn MoThErFuCkEr.
TC: i’M aRoUnD.
TC: If YoU wAnT tO mAkE tHaT tRiP I’m NoT gOnNa SaY nO.
TC: :o)
The timer goes off next to Eridan’s foot. He leaps up and disappears into the house. Feferi gets out of the hammock as well and follows him inside, leaving you to rock alone.
AT: oKAY, gOOD,
AT: bECAUSE WE’RE ALREADY ON OUR WAY,
AT: wE’LL BE THERE SOON,
TC: sEe YoU sOoN.
-- adiosToreador [AT] ceased trolling terminallyCapricious [TC] --
You leave your husktop on your chest and stare up at the sky and wonder about those other stars up there. Sometimes it just blows your mind to think that there are other alien worlds up there, spinning happily around their little stars, so tiny you can’t even see them. There could be trolls up there looking right back at you right now, but you’ll never know it. Man, if you think about it, there could be a billion trolls all on their own planets looking around at each other right now.
You spend a while looking back at them, so by the time you get back in the culinary block, most of that prodigious stink has gone on its way and Eridan is in the ablution block with a blow dryer. You squeeze past him and paw through his many beauty products on the counter. Your reflection in the mirror is all bone and tendon and skin stretched tight.
“Fuck, Gam, wait your turn,” he says, wielding his hairdryer and comb. His forelock is that dark, rusty red that you’ve gotten used to over the sweeps that you’ve known him. Once in a while he leaves the dye out too long and you get a glimpse of his roots growing in the color of strawberries. You kind of liked it, but he hadn’t been too impressed when you’d suggested he grow it out all the way.
“Vris-sis and Tavbro are on their way,” you say. You find a jar of deodorizing paste and smear some under both your pits. It smells like myrrh.
“That’s expensive,” Eridan says, snatching it back. “Wow, Gam, holy shit, you used like half the jar.”
You offer him your armpit. “Scrape some off,” you say. He makes a face at you and you flick his forelock. He turns on the hairdryer again and goes back to styling.
You pick through the rest of the supplies on the counter. There’s a jar of Fef’s shampoo grubs. She insists on getting the free range ones because the living conditions of cage grown shampoo grubs are just tragic. At least these little guys got a taste of freedom before they were killed and put in a jar. Man, now that you think about it, that doesn’t sound like an improvement at all.
You squint at your reflection but decide that you don’t need to wash your hair. It’ll keep.
Feferi’s out in the yard again, feeding the meowbeasts. There’s about forty of them living here now and when it’s feeding time they become this big furry carpet, all meowing and purring and swatting at each other. She wades through them, putting down bowls of chopped meat that disappear under swarms of ravenous kitty-heads.
You turn on the oven and get some bowls down from the cupboard. It’s early for baking but if you’re having guests, you’d better get some shit in the oven.
Feferi comes back in while you’re measuring out sugar. She washes her hands in the sink. You take some eggs out of the thermal hull and puncture their leathery skins with a knife, then squeeze the bright green, oily yolk into the bowl. You grab a whisk and start beating the shit out of the eggs and sugar until it’s all frothy and pale.
“Oh, is Vriska on her way?” Fef says, drying her hands and watching you work. She sounds uneasy.
“None of this is for her,” you reply, shaking some flour and more sugar into a different pan and putting it on the burner. You dump in some water and vinegar.
“I’m going to call Equius,” she says.
“No need for none of that shit,” you say. “It’s gonna be fine.” You stab another egg with the knife.
She disappears into the hall. She’s probably going to get her husktop, and you know what? You’re fine with that. Everything is motherfucking fantastic. You don’t need your auspistice to help you handle seeing that black-hearted, manipulative, sadistic, narcissistic psychopath of a troll invading your hive and talking with your hivemates like she has some sort of standing invitation to be here. But if Feferi wants to invite Equius over before Vriska gets here, that’s just bitchtits. It’ll be a party. Pie for everyone.
The mess in the bowl is all grainy and thick and pale green, like that stuff Fef likes to put on her face to make her skin soft. Eridan comes in while you’re whisking in the hot sugar water slowly so the eggs don’t get all lumpy. He throws himself down in the other chair and you see that his hair is now perfectly styled. He’s also put on the nice shirt he has, like he wants Vriska to feast her filthy ganderbulbs on his pectorals.
“Uh, Gam,” he says, surveying the mess you’re making of the table. “Should I be worried?”
“No fuckin’ reason to worry yourself,” you say, dumping everything back in the saucepan.
“The deodorant… the pie…” He looks uneasy in pretty much the same way Feferi did. “…Is this for Vris?”
You snort so hard you almost inhale your teeth. You spend a minute coughing and thumping your chest to get the spit out of your lungs. The concerned crease between Eridan’s eyes smooths out.
“You can do your black tango with that cankerous bitch on your own,” you say when you can breathe again. “Tavbro is coming with her.”
He rocks the chair back on two legs. “Huh,” he says. “Tav.”
An engine rumbles outside. You’d recognize that motorcycle anywhere. Eridan rights his chair abruptly and leaps to his feet, then smooths down his hair and tries to look casual.
Your pie filling is done so you dump it into the pre-baked crust and toss the whole thing in the oven. You fetch the timer from the back yard where Eridan left it. When you come back in, the festering sore on your soul is already standing in the culinary block, grinning like a piranha. She’s dressed entirely in leather, and her black hair is tangled from the ride. Tavros hovers behind her, looking spooked.
“They were ransacking a hive down the street,” Vriska is saying. “The culling truck was there and everything.”
“It must be Equius’s neighbor,” Feferi says, concerned. She’s holding a fat black meowbeast, which purrs contentedly. “He just said he heard screaming.”
“It wasn’t the only hive,” Tavros says cautiously. You can see that his hands are clasped tightly in front of himself, his knuckles gone granite with stress. “We, um, passed a few. There were bodies.”
“Must be conscription time,” Vriska says with a shrug. She grins at Eridan. “You’re not going to let that stop you, right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Eridan does look like he’s just gotten punched in the bile sac, and you aren’t feeling so chipper yourself. Conscription drones are bad news. They’ll cull any troll who doesn’t have the right paperwork or doesn’t look right to them or maybe just because they’ve got a hankering for culling, and depending on what they’re looking for, they might scoop you up and take you away forever.
“It will be fine,” says Feferi calmly, although her voice is tight with stress. “We’ve got all our paperwork in order. They won’t cause us any trouble.”
There’s a rumble of an engine down the street. It ain’t no motorcycle. Your mouth goes dry. Eridan runs a hand through his freshly dyed hair and gives a little shrug, faking a cavalier attitude. “I got nothin’ to hide,” he says.
You go to the window and peek out. The truck is a few houses down. An adult troll in a white uniform hauls a yellowblood out of the house by his neck. Another yellowblood comes running out and gets a culling fork through the thinkpan for her trouble.
“And I don’t even live here, so they’re not looking for me,” Vriska says, although even her foul little ganderbulbs are a little wider than usual. Tavros swallows.
“I don’t, uh, have my papers,” he says. You all turn to him and he cringes a little, although he’s a tall motherfucker with a magnificent rack and he’s the most conspicuous troll in the room. Or at least, you’ve never been able to keep your eyes off him.
“Take the motorcycle,” says Feferi, dropping the meowbeast and going for the door. She makes sure the deadbolt is shut. “Go out the back door and go to Equius’s. They’ve already been there. Get out fast.”
“He’s a tealblood,” Vriska says, not budging. “What does he have to worry about?”
“Take Eridan,” Feferi says. “Vriska can stay. They’re just looking for a redblood. It doesn’t matter which redblood they find.”
“What?” Vriska says, affronted. “You want me to put myself in danger for him?”
“He… He has a condition,” Feferi says.
“Fef,” Eridan says in exasperation.
“Can I have the keys?” Tavros says to Vriska.
“You’re not driving my bike,” she replies.
“Give him the motherfucking keys,” you say.
She turns on you, her eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you give him a ride yourself? You’ve always wanted to.”
“Take the van then,” Feferi says. “The keys are in the culinary block. But you have to go now! You only have a minute!”
She’s wrong, though. It’s already too late.
The flaysquad doesn’t bother knocking. They just kick in the front door and start shouting. Sweeps of schoolfeeding has taught you what to do in a flaysquad raid. Each lime green spoonful of psychic grubpaste sank its toxins into your sponge and gave you that instinctual recoil, that muscle paralyzing shot of fear. You all drop to the floor, hands clasped over the backs of your heads, and try not to shit yourselves.
Someone grabs your horn and hauls you up. “Gamzee Makara,” you blurt out. “Yellowblood.”
The adult troll, teal, snarls at you. “Papers?”
You claw your papers out of your back pocket. Another flaysquadder, cerulean, has Fef (“Feferi Peixes, oliveblood”) and Tavros (“T-t-tavros Nitram, um, I swear I’m teal but I don’t have my papers—”). You give your papers to the troll, who unfolds the well-worn document and gives it a cursory glance before tossing it on the floor.
The flaysquadder holding Tavros takes out a thin, wicked bit of steel and whips it across your sweet flushcrush’s face. You jerk forward hard enough that the troll holding you gives you a big yank on your horn. Tavros recoils, nearly bringing his hands up to his face before remembering. A slice of bright teal opens across his face, from one eye down to the corner of his mouth. The squadder wipes a hand across that weeping gash and brings it to his mouth, tasting for that bitter flavor of blood-changing antigen. He mulls it over for a second, then wipes his hand on Tavros’s shirt and lets go of his horn. Tavros drops to the floor.
Vriska stands tall when they raise her up. “Vriska Serket, rustblood,” she says, and her voice doesn’t shake at all, although when they let her go again, she collapses to the floor like her knees gave out.
You’ve never seen Eridan so scared when he gets yanked to his feet. He can barely get out the words “Eridan Ampora, rustblood.” The cerulean squadder takes a long time studying his papers. After a long pause, he holds the papers out to the teal squadder who’s still holding you, who reads through them as well. They’re good forgeries, you know. It had taken you, Fef, Eridan, and Equius more than a sweep to get enough cash to pay for them.
“The fuck is this?” the cerulean squadder asks Eridan, grabbing his rust colored forelock.
“It’s a fucking unfortunate fashion statement,” says the teal squadder. They both laugh.
“I bleach it,” Eridan lies. It really does grow that way, but number one rule of talking to authority is that you never acknowledge physical defects.
Feferi suddenly looks panicked, and a second later the thought occurs to you too. Did you hide the box of red hair dye? You can’t remember. Someone must have thrown it out, right? Eridan couldn’t risk Vriska seeing it.
The teal squadder tosses Eridan’s papers onto the floor. His hand is still wrapped around your horn, near the base, and it’s giving you a weirdly muffled sensation in the right half of your head, like someone wrapped you in a blanket. The cerulean squadder lets go of Eridan. You see Feferi sag with relief.
The teal squadder shakes out a telescoping nightstick one handed, and in one smooth movement, whacks it flat across your horns so hard that you actually howl. It couldn’t have hurt worse if he’d shoved a grenade in your thinkpan and pulled the pin. The floor feels like it’s traded places with the ceiling, and then keeps switching. You flail to try to keep your balance. You’re pretty sure your eyeballs are spinning in your head.
“Fuck me,” says the cerulean squadder. “That’s the biggest lightshow I’ve seen all sweep.”
You peel your oculars open and, although your eyes are jerking back and forth like someone shaking a pair of dice, you can see that there are still little yellow stars of psionics raining down from your horns, like sparks from an arc welder. You squeeze your eyes shut again because that view’s going to make your toss your cookies if you’re not careful.
Without any ceremony, the teal squadder clamps something around your throat and snaps it shut, and gives you a yank on the chain. You fall over, but the squadder keeps walking. You can’t manage to get your feet again, so you end up doing an awkward scramble as you get dragged out the door.
And the whole time you’re thinking that this must be a mistake. You’re not the one here with any secrets. Eridan’s the one in danger. They’re just going to question you some more outside. You have a pie in the oven.
The teal opens the back door of the truck, which is packed full of yellowbloods who stare warily out. He feeds your chain around a bar on the wall and padlocks it shut, then gives you a shove. You collapse into two other yellows, and the three of you lay in a terrified, unmoving heap until the teal slams the door shut and you’re left in darkness.