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“CRABDAD!” The Boy’s voice is irritatingly loud. It rings in your hearing canals and gives you a headache, but what else is new? He’s always been like that—loud and grating and angry—but never before has it sounded so
Terrified.
Though you are tired, and beaten, and in pain—oh so much pain—you lift your huge maw and bring it up to his snout. You’re going to be okay, and he must know this. You try your best to rumble-click, a sound you used to make by rubbing your vocal chords. It always calmed him down, always. But the noise that comes out is all wrong, setting your throat on fire. So you opt for nuzzling him.
Red smears across The Boy’s cheeks. He cries out.
“Crabdad, no! Nononono no no…do NOT fucking nuzzle me don’t move you stupid shit…” Two arms wrap around your broken body and squeeze. He’s strong now, stronger than he’s ever been. Still has that mouth on him though. You would call him on his colorful language if not for the fact that you are pretty sure you were literally choking on your own blood.
“Don’t…don’t die again because of me,” his words rip at your heart, but you can do nothing but hang limply in his arms. And your mind begins to drift.
~*~
The Sufferer. The Sighnless. Vantas. The Great One.
You had heard many names for the one whose very name was the reason you were here. His name—or hers, you were never sure—were echoed off the many walls of which you were born and raised. Really, you had heard them so much and so often you had tried to crow them from your massive maw several times before, only to be reprimanded by the stern hand of your keepers.
You were never to utter his name, ever. As to why, you were never quite sure. It wasn’t like they came out that clear anyway: the careful diction of the trolls was lost on your guttural tongue.
Either way, over the years you learned that to speak his name meant a firm lashing, and that is was very important to your purpose. You…were never quite sure of THAT either, but it certainly involved the sacred thing that the trolls called Red.
That was another word you knew, but never spoke. Red. Red red red red red. It was a word that never held that much significance to you, but seemed next to holy to your keepers. It was a word you pondered late into the mornings, resting in the giant pool of water and nutrient-rich slime of which you were raised. What did it mean? Why was it so important?
You would learn on your fifth solar sweep.
~*~
Your carapace was tough, tougher than all of your broodmates’. You were five sweeps old and the largest of your group. The watery nursery, in which you’d been raised that lay deep within the catacombs of a secret nest, had hardened your shell and strengthened your muscles.
While your broodmates still slithered and scuttled in the muck, you rose above the murk and walked proudly on two legs, pincers poised and lethal, jaws rigid and strong. And though the dark enclosure which you had come to learn as *home* was no wider than several strides, it was deeper than your largest claw could reach.
And so you were restless. Restless but content, living your live in the soft glow of the strange orbs which you keepers called *lights,* trudging out your days in the nutritious sludge and listening to the whispering voices of the trolls above.
“Signless” and “Sufferer” and “Prophecy” were mostly what you caught. But every now and then, and more recently, the whispers had started to become more urgent. Unfamiliar words had slipped into the mix, making your carapace crawl and the air thicken with tension. These were the New Words:
“Ready” and “Wriggler” and “Strong.” Red was another word you were hearing more of, too. Much, much more of, and that was a feat in itself.
It was like any other day, but very much unlike any other day, the day you were “Chosen.” It started off normal enough—you woke up, terrorized some of your smaller broodmates, and swallowed some sludge. Same old same old. But it was when the voices above went completely silent that things took a turn for the terrifying.
Everything seemed to still. The watery hole of the nursery sloshed to a halt. Your siblings cowered, skittering down to the bottom of the pool. The warm, moist air suffocated you, choked with suspense and dread. You were too large to join the others in their flight for safety.
And that’s when the pain came. Something sharp, something tiny, came whistling from the mysterious above and sliced though the darkness, embedding itself deep in your carapace. You roared with outrage: who dare hurt you, the toughest and largest of your siblings?
Regaining some calm, you gripped the pointy thing in your claw that had embedded itself in your shoulder and ripped it free. A spurt of…of something ejected from the wound.
“Red.”
The word came from above. Wheeling, you reached frantically into the dark. The liquid from your shoulder dripped into the pool.
Another whistle. Anther unseen assault. Another roar. More fluid.
“Red.”
And so it continued. You swung, helpless, into the dark at your assailants, but each time you roared in fury and pain more liquid was spilled from your body, more wounds inflicted. It took all of two minutes for you to understand—the liquid was Red. Red meant Pain.
And Pain, you realized, as your vision grew hazy and you collapsed with a splash in to the murky water, meant Death.
And Death was the enemy of all.
~*~
Two sweeps later and you were no longer captive to the nursery in which you learnt of the dreaded Red.
Now you were in a place you only referred to as Up, as you could feel it in your core that your brooding place, deep, deep down in the earth below. Your keepers had never hurt you again, but you were wary of their touch, even though you could see them now for what they were—little dark creatures no bigger than your largest claw, creatures that were always scuttling around and talking and touching you, gazing with big bright ocular spheres(weird, they only had two.)
They kept you in a much larger enclosure now that you were bigger, one with considerably less water and lots of…prickly, short stuff that grew on the ground. (Later you would learn it was what they called grass.)
And though you could now see the sky above you and feel the wind grace your mandibles and scrape your carapace, you were still confined to the enclosure, trapped as you were by great bars that even your mighty claws could not bend.
You were alone up here, save for your keepers. Well, you *thought* you were alone. Really, you could sense the presence of one massive creature somewhere in the catacombs below you, much more prominent than the smaller pull of your broodmates that you knew were far below. Instinct told you it was female, and smell taught you it was very, VERY pregnant. Always.
~*~
It was a warm evening when the bars around you collapsed.
You were on the verge of waking up in the first place, body slowly ridding of the last remnants of sleep that lay heavy on your eyelids. The ground shook terribly, and as you rose to back far against the bars you realized that there *were* no bars—and for the second time in your life, you were scared.
That was, until the He approached. It was—well it wasn’t Him REALLY, He was being carried by a keeper that you recognized—a small troll, smallest you had ever seen, with little fists and a tuft of hair and tiny, nubby horns.
“What if it doesn’t work? What if the lusus doesn’t take to him?”
“The prophecy told of the boy and the crab, he *must* take to him—”
“And if it kills him?”
“Our hope is lost.”
The hushed voices of the keepers around you made no sense at the time. You were but a beast in a cage. But this boy—this small, strange boy—quelled some of the fear.
As the keeper walked closer, it kept its eyes trained on you, taking careful steps and panting lightly. It was nervous. You were nervous. The boy in its arms wailed. The murmuring hushed.
Slowly, the keeper knelt down in front of you. The boy in its arms screamed and flailed, giving you a mild headache. You would have bopped it on the head to end the annoying sound, but something, something deep in you, held your patience.
Once the boy on the ground, the keeper raised a hand. The unmistakable gleam of a claw caught the moon’s light. You rumbled low in your chest. In one swift movement, the claw game tearing down, swift as a star, and swept across the boy’s cheek.
Red sprouted. The boy screamed louder. Red. Red. Redredredredredred !
The keeper before you forgotten, you roared and stretched forward, claws extended. Red was bad. Red was Pain. Red would kill you if you didn’t kill It first.
“SKREEEEE!”
And you fumbled. And you tripped. And you blinked. This…that...that boy was screaming. Screaming at *you,* screaming with a terrible ferocity that rivaled your own.
You shifted your weight, and leaned down carefully to sniff at the strange Boy. His little eyes gleamed angrily back at you. You leaned in, snout barely brushing his head and—
Pain pricked your snout. Confused, you looked down to see that The Boy had little claws of his own, and was scraping in vain at your thick carapace. And you remembered. Red had come from you. Red was not the enemy. Red was…red was you. It meant Pain, and Death…but, only if it showed.
Rumbling in your throat, you tried to sniff The Boy again. He seemed confused with the noise you were making, but slowly (thankfully) the terrible shrieking ceased, replaced with a bubbly laugh. Dimly in the background, you heard the keepers sigh with relief. But they didn’t matter anymore. You were no longer in this cage. And this Boy—The Boy—was in just as much trouble as yourself. You needed to keep him safe. He *needed* you to keep him safe, from Red—and from himself.
And you knew this instantly; more pure and true than anything you had ever felt before.
~*~
“Cwabdad! Cwaaaabbdaaaad!” Oh no, he was screaming again. Always screaming and shouting and wailing. What was it this time?
Grumbling, you heave yourself off the floor in the living block and stretch. The faster you got up there, the sooner you could go back to your nap.
The trip up the stairs is easy enough with the double-wide boards (crafted specifically for your massive walking nubs) and soon you are on the last flight. The Boy’s block is the first on the right.
“Cwaaaabdaa—”
“BLAAARRRG!” You screech, making your way to the door. Seriously, the kid needed some patience—
“There you are, FINALLY!” he smiles, something you had grown to absolutely love, and waves you in the block. It takes some maneuvering—most of which just involved you ducking and waddling sideways for the door to fit your shape—and you are crouched next to your charge. He is sitting over his desk with a bunch of coloring devices at his side.
You had long since learned colors, and took it upon yourself to discard the color Red from any of the household items. Thus, he lacks that one. The Boy looks up with you, teeth gleaming, and gestures to the sheet of paper in front of him.
“See? I…I kinda wanted you to hang it in the nutwition block,” he smiles. Upon closer inspection, you can see that it is a drawing of him and you, with the words, “I LUV CRABDAD,” scrawled across the bottom.
You hung it in the room (with some difficulty) that night.
~*~
“I want to play soccer, Crabdad. Can I try out? My friends are doing it.”
The two of you are downstairs, in the living block, The Boy on the couch and you curled up on the floor. He has hit feet resting on you.
“Mrrr?” you growl. Soccer? The horrible game where you *run* and *run* and *run* just to kick around a silly sphere? You never understood trolls and their pointless games. You click shrilly in your throat, a disapproving sound.
“Oh come on. What are you worried about?” he says, and kicks you playfully against your carapace, “Please?”
Oh, how could you say no?
~*~
Soccer was a horrible idea. A terrible, horrible, dangerous idea.
This is all you can think as you rush out on the field, nearly tripping over your own nubs. The Boy is holding his own in the middle of the field against one of the opposite team members. The lusii and other kids are watching, amused.
He had scored the winning goal. The winning goal and you were so proud—until one of the other kids on the field got angry and shoved him.
Stupid trolls. Stupid trolls and their violence.
Some of the other guardians look at you curiously as you run as fast as you can down to the field, but you don’t care. He can’t show Red. He can’t show Red.
The other boy has him in a headlock, and your Boy is spitting vicious obscenities, flailing helplessly. As you get there he bucks his head up, tiny horns jabbing his assailant in the chin and sending him flying backwards. Teal blood drips from his mouth. The kid’s lusus—who is now making its way down too—hisses furiously.
The Boy stands up, panting hard, and looks from you to the kid, smiling triumphantly. A speck of red dots his lip. Rage bubbles up within you.
“Ha! Serves the little shit right, poor fucking sport. Did you see that Crab—”
His sentence is cut short when you roar angrily in his fact, spit flying. No! No, that was NOT cool, it was stupid! Stupid Boy! What if he had saw? You know he can’t understand you, but the fear and shame on his face proves he got the message.
Whirling, you see the other boy’s lusus—an enormous slitherbeast—nudge him up. His mouth dribbles the teal blood, and pain coats his face.
“I hink he boke my tufe!” the troll whines, cradling his mouth. By now, his lusus is spitting fury, demanding revenge for its child. The other lusii and trolls watch, amused.
You click your claws threateningly, and roar your own warning.
“Crabdad, Crabdad,” The Boy whimpers, “It’sokaywecanjustleavenowokay?”
But the lusus isn’t having it. The serpent surges forward, body coiling, and tries to sink it’s fangs into your side. You skree and lunge into the attack, pincers wide and gaping. Its fangs collide with your carapace and snap like bone—next to nothing can pierce your shell now that you’ve grown.
It hisses in dismay but keeps to the attack, futilely nipping at your arms. The other troll, who was just whooping for his lusus to ‘kick iths ahss’ has now fallen silent, trembling. Time to end this. Growling, you clutch the lusus in your powerful claws—it writhes—and squeeze. The serpent hisses and swings its head, thumping your side in vain.
The thumps become weaker and weaker, until it is reduced to wheezing and its charge is screaming mercy. Someone else is screaming—Him, your Boy—and you release the giant slitherbeast. The crowd around you is howling with glee as the boy rushes up to clutch his injured guardian. You chitter victoriously and turn to face your Boy—
But he looks terrified. You drop down and rumble softly, reassuringly. You saved him from being Red. Why is he scared? When you reach out to wipe away the speck he spits,
“I can do it myself!” he wipes it away with a hurried fist and shoves himself off the ground, “I can do whatever myself.”
You never saw his smile again.
~*~
“Calm down, God,” he sneers. The venom in his voice is real. He sounds angry. He’s always angry. Always, now. The Boy is up on the roof, hanging bright Red banners as decoration.
You cry out in protest, and go to climb the ladder when you realize that would be a *horrible* idea. You snort and roar in frustration—why is he doing this? Can’t he see that he’s ruining everything you’ve worked for the past six sweeps? He *knows* Red is bad, he *knows.*
He’s known every day since the soccer incident.
So why is he doing this? Is it a final “fuck you” for all the times you’ve screwed up since that day? Does he…does he not care anymore? The boy never talks. Not to you anyway. If he does it’s to scream or yell or curse.
You don’t know what you did wrong when…when all you’ve ever done is try to be a good Crabdad.
You scream as loudly and as disapprovingly as you can possibly convey at the little grey—no, not little anymore—Boy you’ve come to love who is decorating like a madman on top of your hive. He sends a few curses your way and you sigh, defeated. Fine! He wants to kill himself? Go ahead, what do you care anymore…
You waddle into the hive (you’ve gained a few pounds over the sweeps) and make your way into the nutrition block. Figuring you might as well try to play the good father figure, you start to make dinner. Your claws make the task a little difficult, but with some careful maneuvering you manage to throw a few vegies into a pot on the stove to make soup. During your messing around with the pot, you hear The Boy stomping up the stairs. Oh good, maybe he changed his mind about the banners.
Satisfied with your progress, you stand back to change the temperature on the stove and smile to the best of your ability. When all else fails, there is always mystery soup.
You are feeling quite good about yourself.
Deciding you should wander to the living block to wait for dinner to be ready, you spin to make your way out. It is then you see The Boy’s drawing messily pinned against the wall. It’s a bit faded, and smudged from careless movements over the years, but it is still very much legible. It warms you crustacean heart. Tracing a claw over the lines, you attempt to remember the days when The Boy was truly yours, and you wonder where you went wrong.
It is then an enormous padlocked book crashes through the ceiling and breaks in half over your head.
“SKREEEEEEE,” you stumble back, stunned, and throw out a claw to steady yourself. It lands in the boiling pot, crushing the metal and the stove surface. Water flies everywhere. You watch in mounting dismay as it splashes all over the drawing and the entire wall.
That’s it. Enough of these teenage shenanigans.
~*~
An hour later you are aggressing in the nutrition block. He actually has the nerve to use his dammed sickles on you! A GIFT to HIM from YOU on his last Wiggling Day!! The little sucker is lad scampering all over the place and getting more debris *everywhere,* stuff you had just finished cleaning from the stove earlier!
You are about to put him in his place when he shoves food in your face. Dammit, your only weakness.
When you emerge from your food-drunk state, the block is still a mess and he has absconded. You are furious! Screeching, you pick yourself off the filthy floor and shriek your disapproval through the hole in the ceiling. You are going to march (waddle) up those stairs and give him what for! Charges do NOT treat their custodians like this!
However, beneath the bubbling rage, you are pricked with regret sharper than any claw. What if—what if he’s just scared of you? You know he’d never admit it, but ever since that day…
Perhaps rage isn’t always the best answer. You suddenly understand nothing.
But it is obvious you have to fix your broken family. It may be a broken, threatened one, but it’s the only one you have. And you’ll start with waddling up those stairs—
You take one step before the block around you erupts in a fiery explosion.
~*~
It’s been a long time since then. Weeks and weeks—maybe even perigees—since The Boy unknowing killed you and entered this game, this horrible game, called SGRUB. Upon entering, you were brought back as a sprite, and you were granted the chance to once again protect your charge. Though, now he didn’t really need it anymore.
Turns out the world you’d known—the one that had raised you in secret, threatened you, destroyed you, and put you together again—was gone. Now The Boy need not worry about Red.
Sure, you could guide him and talk to him past all the roars and growling, but even still he had his friends to help him along. You could only speak in confusing, vague riddles when asked questions, a fact that irritated him to no end. When all was said and done, your Boy no longer needed you…but you had him once more, and that was all *you* needed.
Until…until now. Until the Black King shot a psiioniic blast strait at him, and you did only what you had ever tried to do before.
You protected him.
It hurt like Hell. It pierced your ghostly carapace, your innards, and fried you from the inside out. But The Boy. Karkat. He was only thrown backwards in the blast, thank goodness.
~*~
“CRABDAD!” The Boy’s voice is irritatingly loud as always. Irritating, grating, and yours. Oh how you love his voice. You nuzzle your snout to his nose, smearing the Red—your Red—all over his face. But that’s okay. Red’s okay, as long as it’s yours, never his.
His arms are linked around you now, tight, tighter and stronger than you ever could’ve hoped. He grew to be that strong.
You kept him alive to become that strong.
And as you look into his eyes, you realize this. You kept him alive. You kept him alive.
You kept him alive.
The Boy is crying now, bright and Red. That’s okay too. His hiccupping cries grow fainter, and the sounds of the battle around you fade to a dull roar. Your Boy is floating away from you now, face fading dimmer and dimmer as the roar around you quiets to whispers. Whispers of the keepers in the dark and the wet. It’s home in the dark. It’s home where your story began. And will end.
The Boy is the last thing you hear.
“I love you, I love you, I love you.”