Archive of Our Own

i.

You are three sweeps old when you first see a dead body.

It’s a low-blood—copper, you think, though you don’t stay around for long enough to properly discern—sprawled out on one of the highways. The troll's horns are snapped off, one buried deep in his chest, the other in his stomach, and there’s a trickle of blood running down from his nose into his mouth. Someone has pushed his body off to the side, underneath an abandoned vendor's station, leaving a thick trail of blood smearing the pavement. Everyone who passes tactfully avoids it, keeping their eyes down, heads turned. 

You had just stepped outside to get some food for the next few weeks. You had just stepped outside to do what you always do: keep your head down, keep your mouth shut, keep your hands in your pockets and your face as blank as you can.

You had not stepped outside to see a dead body. You had not stepped outside to have the back of your mouth suddenly burning with a sickening, coppery taste.

You had not stepped out for another reminder—as if you didn’t get enough of that everywhere else you fucking went—of what you could happen to you. Your horns are shorter, sure, and the troll is taller, bulkier, obviously older, but for a second, you can’t do anything but stand at the side of the road and look at him; if you squint, if the gloomy light hits just right, you can see your face in his.

You are three and a half sweeps when reality finally crushes down on you; this is not just mindless bitching from your friends, not just underhanded comments and superiority complexes you can ignore when you can and cuss out when you can’t. This is real. The blood running into the drain, staining the ground, hitting the back of your throat like a bullseye—it’s all real.

You could die for this. The realization hits like a punch to the stomach, sudden and unexpected. 

Your name is Karkat Vantas and your blood is candy-red, apple-red, target-on-your-back-type-red. 

You are three sweeps old when you realize you could die for this. And you probably will. 

ii.

Sollux Captor is your first friend. 

When you’re four and a half sweeps, you dig a computer out from the veritable dump of discarded possessions and other miscellaneous garbage—seriously, are the idiots around here never going to learn how to just captchalogue their shit like a normal troll?—that flows around the back of your hive. It’s sticky with something that smells like sopor slime and a dying cat had a baby and there’s definitely smoke coming out of at least three places smoke should not be coming out of whatsoever, but it’s the best you’re going to get. By now, seeing the dead bodies of lowbloods doesn’t give you a sick, horrified thrill of shock; you understand how this world works, and you understand very well what could happen to someone like you, so you only leave your hive and its surrounding area to get food when absolutely necessary. Purchasing a computer from a store would practically be a total rip-off at best and a literal death sentence at worst, so you grit your teeth against the smell and lug the battered box of wires and circuitry back up the hill and into your hive. 

You don’t do much for the next few days other than fuck around with it, rebooting old systems and cleaning out the hard drives stored on it. And getting rid of the smell. God, the smell. 

After it’s up and running—if something can be counted as ‘running’ when you have to take period breaks from whatever  you’re doing to go kick the wall its plugged into or else it starts to short-circuit and make freaky hissing noises—you spend the next week or so flitting around the internet, dipping in and out of chatrooms filled with trolls so idiotic you’re pretty certain it could be considered an offense against the state, bored out of your thinkpan. Finally you stumble across some coding software that doesn’t look like the worst thing in the world and try to run it. 

Five minutes later and your head is out the window, hacking out a series of coughs as smoke billows out from one half of the computer. Motherfucker, you think, slamming your hand against the wall. Useless-ass excuse for a piece of hoofbeat shit program. Then, aloud for good measure, “Fuck!”

Irritation biting at your insides, you waft out as much smoke as you can and sit back down at the computer, opening the software forum. For a second you think about being calm, or at least some version of mildly respectful when you air your grievances. Then another series of coughs overtakes you and, before you know it, you’re pounding out a rather long paragraph letting these nooksniffing cretins know exactly how shitty their program is. In all caps. Because why the fuck not?

An hour later and one of the mod’s has responded—fucking finally. You throw yourself back down at the computer, slap the side of the monitor experimentally a few times and then squint through the glass at the lines of yellow text.

how the fuck diid you even manage two 2wear twenty two tiimes during that thiinkpan rotting rampage?

go the fuck outsiide bro iit2 not our problem your computer ii2 a piiece of 2hiit.

What ensues is an extensive argument between you and him, hitting on topics such as how it actually is his problem that his stupid program nearly broke the only possession you have that keeps you from going clinically insane; how it actually isn’t his problem, fucka22, and you should really invest in a better computer; the vaguer points of why you actually can’t invest in a better computer, YOU MORONIC EXCUSE FOR A BAG OF SHIT; why you should really find something to do that doesn’t involve you screaming at people on random servers you find online—2eriiou2ly, dude, get a fuckiing hobby or 2omethiing; how his typing quirk makes him sound FUCKING ASSBACKWARDS; how your typing quirk makes you sound like a biitchy liittle wiiggler wiith a 2tiick up hiis nook; how you didn’t even want to mess around with his STUPID PROGRAM FOR DUNKASSES ANYWAYS; how that sounds a lot like something someone who was ju2t 2hiit awful at anythiing relatiing two technology would 2ay; how he is a smarmy jerk-off who double times as a colossal piece of shit and you hope he falls head over heels down a flight of stairs and busts his thinkpan open all over the floor.

holy 2hiit, man, he says as you two are nearing hour two of the fight, dont you thiink thii2 ii2 gettiing a liittle riidiiculous?

Privately, you’re relieved—you were running out of insults—and publicly, you put on a show of backing down, making it very clear that you would’ve verbally trounced his miserable ass if given even five more minutes to talk.  

iim 2ollux, he next message reads.

KARKAT, you type back.

lii2ten, man, ii can help you wiith the codiing 2hiit iif you want

iits hard two get the hang of iin the begiinniing e2peciially iif youre learniing by your2elf.

THAT DOESN’T SOUND TOTALLY FUCKING AWFUL, I GUESS.

god damn briing the enthu2iia2m down ii dont know how to handle iit.

YEAH, YEAH, FUCK YOU TOO, BUDDY.

It’s weird having a friend. Suddenly there’s something to do every day other than wander around your hive and talk to your lusus and bootleg more shitty movies. 

Suddenly there’s someone who wants something to do with you, moreover, and that notion makes your thinkpan spin. What’s even better is that this situation you now have with Sollux—extensive communication through various forums and chatrooms—is entirely online; he doesn’t have to know anything about you that you don’t want him to. 

And that thought is nice. Nice because there are mutterings about the cullings getting worse, about the Empire trying to orchestrate a crackdown on any lowbloods they can get their hands on—you hear, vaguely, about some planetary conquest that went belly-up recently, and it seems like the Empire is trying to compensate for that; weed out the weaklings, you’ll hear sometimes, and bite back a shudder—about the Imperial Drones not even bothering to knock before they break into hives.

So it’s nice to be able to keep this a secret, nice to know that you have a hand directly in how much information Sollux can find out about you, nice not to have to find a reflective surface to stare at yourself in every five minutes to make sure your eyes haven’t miraculously shifted from their usual slate-grey to bright red. 

It won’t last forever. You’re not an idiot; you know this much. But it’s nice all the same. 

iii.

You ask Sollux why his text color is yellow even though you already know the answer. 

It’s a popular thing among younger trolls online, you realize, to match their text color across all platforms with their blood. For highbloods, it’s undoubtedly another way to show off, to remind everyone who comes into contact with them just how noble and special and fucking air-headed and snobby they are, as if none of those were immediately discernible traits even the dumbest of wigglers could pick tip on after one minute of conversation; for lowbloods, it’s something of an act of defiance. A reminder that they’re there, that they’re not going anywhere, no matter what the castes or the Empire or Her Imperious Condescension says. It’s an admirable sentiment, sort of, if a little bizarre. You don’t know why anyone would advertise something everyone knows could get them threatening messages sent to their hive or fired from their job or laying in a ditch, face smashed in. 

You are five sweeps when someone tacks a letter to your door with an old Alternain term for rust-bloods written on it in large block letters. You burn it and then flush the ashes down the load gaper. You don’t leave your hive for the next two weeks, and every time you hear something outside, you press yourself into the corner of your respite block and think: fuck, this is it.

Sollux, the nosy assfuck that he is, asks you why your text color is grey. troll2 dont have grey blood you know, he says, to which you say something along the lines of: NO? PLEASE, TELL ME MORE ABOUT THIS! IT’S NOT LIKE I’M A MEMBER OF THIS FUCKING SPECIES AS WELL, NOOKSTAIN. He tells you to calm down. You tell him to eat shit.

okay, okay, fuckiing chiill out ii ju2t wanted two make 2ure youre not 2ome 2nooty hiighblood who2 goiing two try and rat me out two the poliice or 2omethiing the 2econd ii 2ay 2omethiing wrong or whatever.

Which, of course, makes you feel like the biggest dick in the Empire, because of course Sollux cares about this shit too; it’s not like he’s a member of the fucking nobility either. He gets it. You know he does.

And for a second, the desire to tell him, to bare your soul and wear your blood color on your sleeve for the first time in your stupid, miserable existence is almost overwhelming; you have to drop your face into your hands and breathe hard around the pressure forming in your chest. You want to tell him—someone, anyone—so badly it hurts.

Your hands hover over your keyboard, fingers tensing, preparing to type out the string of words that’s been banging around the back of your thinkpan for as long as you can remember, and you’re going to tell him. You’re going to tell someone.

And then reality slams into you like a sucker punch. You ball your fists and let yourself feel so, so stupid for even considering that for a second.

You are five sweeps when your neighbor is murdered in his bed. Someone writes watch out on the side of his hive in his blood, orange rivulets staining the ground a deadened brown color. You are five sweeps when another conquest fails and a gang of highbloods starts roaming around the heart of the city, armed with swords and shotguns; they call themselves The Hunters, and you aren’t able to buy food for a month. You are five sweeps old when Sollux messages you, asking directly for the first time in however the fuck long you two have been friends, what your blood color is, and why you’re so notoriously secretive about it. 

liike look who youre talkiing two bro.

you thiink my gold blooded a22 ii2 goiing two rat you out two 2omeone? iim on pretty thiin fuckiing iice a2 iit ii2.

You are five sweeps old when you realize that, if friendship means unfettered honesty, genuine trust, willingness to lay bare your deepest secrets for inspection, you will probably never have friends.

The thought makes you sadder than you can ever articulate.

I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU THINK I THINK, ACTUALLY.

MY BLOOD COLOR IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS. GET OVER IT.

You don’t talk to him for the next two days. When you finally come back online, he greets you as if nothing’s happened, and never mentions it again. Part of you almost wishes he would.

iv.

It’s not that you intend to be ornery, or grumpy, or flat-out mean. Sometimes Sollux will call you on it—holy fuck, KK, the off-yellow text will read, bored irritation almost dripping from the words, can you not be the biigge2t diick iin all of alterniia for liike fiive miinute2?—but more and more you’re starting to notice it yourself. Your tendency to fly off the handle, as it were, launching into aggressive profanity-ridden spiels on web forums or in chatrooms worsens; your approachability—if you ever had even the bare modicum of that, really—becomes virtually non-existent; your desire to pretend you give even half a flying fuck about anyone you encounter, online or in rare face-to-face moments, declines through the floor.

And it’s not that you want to be this way, really. You want to be nice; at the very fucking least, you want to be nice enough so that you can have more than one friend to talk to when you get bored. It’s just—well, it’s just this: who you are can get you killed, and you know this. You’ve seen it, seen your own face in the now countless numbers of bodies you’ve seen, seen the blood around them shift from orange or russet or umber or gold shift into bright smears of candy-red. And maybe you’re fighting a losing battle—if you think about it, which you try not to, you realize there’s not a lot of maybe about it—but you cannot help but try to stave off the inevitable. Why give people a reason to think you’re weak? Why give people a reason to think that you can be manipulated, toyed-with, pressed into giving up your secrets? Why give people the impression that they can even get close enough to you to try? Better to piss them off and send them running than to have another moment like with Sollux.

So it just happens, the meanness. You stumble through apologies when you have to, anxiously drafting paragraphs and then reading and rereading over them, chewing on your thumbnail, a sick worry building in the pit of your stomach because it sucks; it fucking sucks his you always back yourself into situations like this, lashing out at people you kind of don’t hate because you don’t know what else to do. You don’t want to be like this, but you are, and you hate it.

It’s too late to change now, though, you figure, and then the troll from the hive across yours goes missing and the police don’t come to investigate even though you and at least three others saw her matesprit—a blue blood—hovering around outside with a tarp and a knife, and you figure that anger as a way to keep distance is probably the way to go, anyways.

v.

Despite your best efforts to establish yourself as the most unapproachable troll to ever have lived, Sollux manages to introduce you to all of his friends in record timing. 

Aradia Medagio is the first one you meet, probably because she and Sollux are weird pseudo-matesprits—a notion which he gets really testy about every time you so much as vaguely mention it, go figure. She is terrifying in a way that feels both deliberate and oblivious; one of the first conversations the two of you have is about the voices of the undead she hears in her dreams. The second one is about which movie genre is better: adventure—her take—or romance—yours.

You like her. You’re also very scared of her.

You also meet his other pseudo-matesprit—honestly, this guy gets around—who is a literal princess. A genuine, honest-to-god fucking princess, heir to the fucking throne of Alternia. What the fuck. What the fuck. 

You spend as little time interacting with her as possible, even though she’s literally red for a gold-blood and also pretty open about the fact that she thinks the whole culling schtick is cruel and unusual. Whatever. You figure she’s either just talking out of her ass to kiss up to her lowblood friends while she’s still able to keep them or she really is just a whole new breed of naive. But she’s nice, though, and Sollux seems to like her, so you try your best to get over it. 

Your introduction to Feferi also brings about your introduction to the one and only Eridan Ampora, who is pretty much every single one of your worst nightmares rolled into the body of a ring-studded prick with a god complex the size of a solar system. He is smarmy and self-assured and treats Sollux like actual dirt for the fun of it which makes you want to punch him in the face at least once a day. You would, too, were it not for the fact that he, too, is a fucking sea-dweller—because your luck just can’t stop getting worse, really—and lives in the middle of the fucking ocean, or something. Whatever. Highblood prick.

Though you find, inexplicably, past the layers and layers—and even more and more layers—him to be something verging on tolerable at times. He can be funny, in a roundabout, sort of homicidal way. Funny to talk to, at least; he’s the only one you know who seems to appreciate extensive discussions on the romantic endeavors of your mutual friends, even these conversations lapse into bemoaning on his part about Feferi not wanting to fuck him, or whatever. Sollux tells you that you two 2ound liike 2tupiid wiigler2 braiidiing eachother2 haiir and chattiing 2hiit about boy2 at a 2lumber party. You tell Sollux he should go fuck himself sideways, and that’s that.

Feferi also brings another troll into the group—you figure her rampant popularity is probably to do with being the only highblood in the Empire who doesn’t have a stick so far up her own ass she’s spitting out splinters—Kanaya Maryam. Kanaya is, refreshingly enough, not crazy. Her romantic life is a genuine shitshow—which you waste no time in roundly criticizing even before she knows who the fuck you even are; maybe not the best tactical move for making friends on your part, in retrospect—and she’s so high strung Eridan starts trying to get everyone to place bets on how many sweeps it’s going to take for her to snap and kill someone. But she is not on the spectrum of clinically insane, so you let yourself become something resembling close to her. She drags in Vriska Serket—who is, you are convinced, an honest-to-god psychopath—and Terezi Pyrope—who is way too smart for anyone's good—along with her. Vriska cheerfully informs you that the two of you are actually somewhat resembling neighbors; she lives in the south end of one of the highblood neighborhoods which is just across the river from your communal dwelling. You then elect to spent what could be considered an inappropriate time lamenting the fact that, out of all the trolls you know, she had to be the one who you could actually come into face-to-face contact with without too much potential danger. When you bring this up to her in the middle of some convoluted argument—likely about her being a raging bitch with overly homicidal tendencies that are probably going to cause her a lot of shit in the future—she laughs for an inappropriately long time. Seriously. She sends you HA eight hundred and eighty eight times. It makes your computer crash. You spend the time waiting for it to reboot entertaining yourself with visions of you throwing the troll down the ravine in her obnoxiously large hive. When she’s composed herself enough to reinitiate the semblance of an intelligent conversation, she deigns to inform you that, actually, she’s not your only neighbor. No, just across the way from her is Equius Zahhak, who is a familiar breed of fucking batshit insane. He beats up robots for fun, she tells you. Also has a bit of a thing against lowbloods. You give the guy as wide a berth as possible and are suddenly more in tune to the distant sounds of creaking metal you hear at night. His morail Nepeta is nice, though; shockingly so, considering the jumped-up, sweaty nookstain she spends most of her time time with. She has an extensive shipping chart for all your friends. Also, she’s really into roleplaying. Also, she’s obsessed with you.

Holy fuck, can your friends get any weirder?

You’re not sure when you meet Gamzee, really. Or Tavros, for the matter; the two are seemingly conjoined at the hip in a way that irritates you beyond description sometimes. The troll just sort of—starts showing up, and no one questions it. Maybe because of his caste, maybe because he’s one of the most genuinely friendly trolls you’ve ever met. It’s unnerving, honestly, how nice the dude is, how little he gives a shit about everything you wold expect from near-royalty; he just fucks around rapping with Tavros and gets off his ass on sopor slime and messages you multiple times a day about mOtHeRfUcKiN mIrAclEs BrO. It’s equal parts concerning—you just get a bad feeling sometimes, and you’re not sure why—and disarmingly endearing You make sure to call him a BRAIN DEAD LUNATIC as much as possible to compensate.

And then, seemingly just like that you have friends. You have people to talk to. You have people who want to talk to you, whether it be because they’re conceited and hopeless at anything involving romance or genuinely good people who actually want to speak to you for whatever fucking reason.  

It occurs to you at some point that you don’t really know how to do this, this being friends with people thing. With Sollux it had always felt easy, since your relationship had been founded off mutual bitching and pointless arguments; this, though, is different. More complex. More to handle, more to think about, more to worry. You force yourself not to worry whenever Eridan talks his ass off about fuckin lowwblood scum or when Gamzee idly tells you about how Equius has been crawling up his ass, demanding he respect the sanctity of his birthright and stop associating with the likes of their friend group like it's no big deal. You tamp down on raw, searing panic when Terezi messages you one night, cryptically going on about how YOU C4NT K33P S3CR3TS FOR3V3R, YOU KNOW THAT, R1GHT?—what does she know, right? How the fuck would she know?—and instead tell her to SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GO BACK TO PLAYING PIRATES WITH VRISKA.

You don’t force yourself to be less mean. You don’t force yourself to be less cagey. You don’t even consider forcing yourself to hang out with them in person. You know the rules. You know the way the story will end if you do.

vi.

You cut your hand on a blade while looking for extension cables for your computer in the dump by your hive, and, before you know it, you’re walking back up the path, newly-found sickle in your good hand, wounded one stuffed deep into your pocket, teeth gritted around a backlog of pain and sickening fear. You’ve heard rumors that some trolls can identify blood types just by smell—which is ridiculous, you know it is; the only troll who has a sense of smell good enough to do that is probably Terezi—and you can’t help but panic a little as you make your way back to your hive. 

Once you wash it off, scrubbing away at as much of the grime and awful-smelling stains as you can, the end result of the weapon is a little disappointing: the metal of the blade is rusted and dull in most places, only retaining some of the wicked sharpness near the tip. The leather of the handle has long since fallen away, leaving nothing but bleached wood and fraying strings in its place. The whole thing is dented in the middle, like it's been thrown against a rock several times.

You set it down on the meal block countertop and stare at it, frowning. Despite the utter shittiness of it, the blade still catches in the light, edge glinting menacingly. There’s no way this could be used as a weapon—and that’s not even to mention how utterly fucked you would be if you were caught walking around armed without a permit—but it still does look cool, you have to admit.

When you were young—barely older than a wiggler, still not fully caught up on to the ins and outs of the fucking batshit Empire you’ve had the deepest regret of being born into—all you wanted to do was grow up and be a threshecutioner. There was something so seemingly noble about the job—what better way to live out your days that careening around the furthest reaches of the Empire, slaughtering anyone who posed a threat to Her Imperious Condescension’s reign? What cause could be more righteous than that?

Standing in your hive now, several sweeps older and a lot more fed up with Her Imperious Condescension and her fucking Empire, you can’t help but twist your mouth into a sneer at younger-you’s stupidity. Not only is that a pipe dream of embarrassing proportions—lowbloods aren’t allowed to serve as anything other than a footsoldier in the Imperial Army—but it’s such a bizarre realization that becoming part of one of the Empire’s most effective and ruthless groups of killers was a notion you ever entertained, even just for a second. 

You have long since come to determine that anger does not necessarily reflect the desire to kill. Which is funny, because as a wiggler, you always thought the opposite; trolls who killed for a job did so because they were angry, and since you were angry a lot, too, you would grow up to be one of the Empire’s millions of killing machines. It has just seemed logical.

And some days—most days, if you’re being real—you are still so angry it hurts, like a gunshot to the gut, the bullet slowly burning a hole straight through you. Most of the time, you’re not even sure where the vast, roiling rage comes from; it’s as if you’re acting on some sort of ancestral instinct, which makes no sense, really, saying as the ancestors are hoofbeast shit cooked up by highbloods to make themselves feel historied and impressive. Regardless, though, you can’t deny that the anger feels wholly removed from your conscious choices; it really does feel as if you are feeling someone else’s emotions when you get like that.

But angry as you might be and as frequently as you might be it, you are not a killer. It’s not something you really have to think about to determine; God knows you don’t need to test the fucking fact out in order to ascertain its validity; rather, it’s just something you know. You do not want to kill anyone. You do not want to hurt anyone. The thought makes you sick, which is stupid—how fucking old are you, getting queasy over thinking about spilling a little blood?—but you can’t help it all the same.

You eye the sickle one last time, huffing a little under your breath. Maybe in another version of events, where you weren’t the way you were, where the number of bodies you’d seen didn’t outnumber the close friends you had ten to one, where idle aspirations such as being a killing machine for the Empire were not inherently removed from the sphere of possibility by your birthright, you would’ve made an excellent solider. An excellent citizen. An excellent killer.

You're not, though, and as you turn to leave the meal block, hitting the lights as you do, a strange, small part of you almost feels relieved. 

vii. 

At a point, you thought you were in spades with Sollux. Then you realized you didn’t actually hate the guy as much as you wanted to, and thought maybe you were pale for him. Other days, it felt more red, but then Feferi and Aradia and all the other seemingly endless number of romantic interests he had came into the picture—ii got biitche2, KK, he would say, face fixed into what you could only assume was a smarmy grin—and suddenly it all stopped mattering. For a while, you hover between Terezi and Nepeta, feeling appropriately red for the both of them, but it won’t work out the way you want it to, either; your feelings for Terezi give you a headache every time you try to decipher them—plus she’s so obviously flushed for Vriska it’s obnoxious—and Nepeta hangs out with her scary-ass morail who hates lowbloods just a little too much for you to give her any real consideration. You sort of let the two endeavors fall through and don’t talk to anyone about it, not even Kanaya when she presses. Nosy ass.

You still get overwhelmingly jealous of Tavros sometimes, which is fucking immature and irritating and makes you want to stick your head in a bucket of sopor slime and start screaming. Why the fuck is it a big deal that he hangs out with Gamzee all the time? Why the fuck is it a big deal that the guy is so obviously flushed for him, and Tavros probably feels the same fucking way? Why the fuck do you care so goddamn much about Gamzee sometimes when you know it’s fucking hopeless and you know that he doesn’t think the same and you don’t know what quadrant you’re even talking about?

It’s an issue, you start to realize. Quadrants. When you talk about it with Eridan, or Kanaya, or whoever else feels the need to vent their bullshit romance problems on you all all hours, they always speak in such rigid defined terms. Eridan and Feferi are morails, yes, but he doesn’t like that; he’s flushed, he wants to be matesprits. Equius and Nepeta are morails—why, you couldn’t fucking say, but the point is they are and it makes sense to them. Kanaya and Vriska are, too, and it’s just as fucking crystal-clear for them as well, even if Kanaya’s flush crush is so obvious it’s physically painful to witness. Vriska and Eridan hate each other’s guts in a way that would be poetic were they both not so stuck up their own asses about being the only ones among their friend group of have their kismessitudes figured out. Everything just falls right into place for your friends. The quadrants are defined and rigid and filled. Things just fucking make sense. 

You’ve heard about vacilitation—seen it happen in real time, for fuck’s sake—but this feels so, so much worse. The lines are too blurry, your feelings flip faster than Terezi’s dumb fucking decision-making coin, and just thinking about even filling one quadrant makes you want to scream and you don’t fucking know why.

You are five and a half sweeps old when you think there might be something wrong with you. 

viii.

-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG] --

GA: Not That It Wasnt Deeply Entertaining To Watch Unfold

GA: But I Feel I Must Enquire After Your Wellbeing Following That Rather 

GA: Um

GA: Colorful Conversation You Had With Eridan On The Memo

GA: This Is Of Course Why I Am A Strong Advocate Against Memos I Think Things Were Much Better When We Were Not On Trollian And Did Not Have Access To Such Materials

CG: ERIDAN CAN GO FUCK HIMSELF SIDEWAYS.  

CG: I WANT NOTHING MORE THAN TO TAKE THAT SANCTIMONIOUS PRICK BY THE FUCKING HORNS AND THROW HIM INTO THE OCEAN LIKE A FUCKING FRISBEE.

CG: MAYBE IF WE’RE LUCKY SOMETHING WILL EAT HIM IN A MANNER THAT’S PAINFULNESS IS ONLY MATCHED BY IT'S AGONIZINGLY SLOW PACE

CG: AGONIZING FOR HIM, BY THE WAY. I FOR ONE WILL BE DOING FUCKING BACKFLIPS.

GA: Well That About Answered Every Question I Had On The Matter Of How You Are

GA: As Always Your Ability To Communicate So Much With Such Creative And Mildly Disturbing Metaphors Impresses Me

CG: I FUCKING HATE THAT GUY SO MUCH,

CG: HOLY FUCK.

GA: Is This Going To Be Another Kismesis Thing

GA: Because Honestly After Him And Vriska I Dont Think Anyone Is Emotionally Prepared To See Him Get Back On That Hoofbeast Again

CG: FUCK NO.

CG: THE AMOUNT OF RESPECT I HAVE IN MY BODY FOR THAT WHINY LITTLE TOOL IS FUCKING NONEXISTENT.

CG: JERK-OFF.

GA: Well Thats Some Good News At Least

GA: Though I Must Say From What I Have Observed Your Conversations With Him Have Been Particularly Bitter As Of Late

GA: Which Is Saying Something As Particularly Bitter Is Something Like Your Default

CG: REAL FUNNY, KANAYA.  

CG: HE’S JUST SUCH A

CG: UGH

CG: FUCKING BACKWARDS ASS NOOKHEAD WHO THINKS HE’S BETTER THAN EVERYONE BECAUSE HE LIVES IN THE FUCKING OCEAN.

GA: Okay So This Is About Blood Colors Then

GA: Because I Must Admit It Has Become Apparent To Pretty Much Everyone That You Are Notoriously Standoffish About The Topic And Eridan Is Similarly Nortious In His 

GA: Ah 

GA: Rather Disparaging Sentiments Regarding Lowbloods To Say The Least

GA: It Seemed Inevitable That You Two Would Butt Heads In Such A Manner About It

CG: HOLY MOTHER OF ASSBANGING FUCK, KANAYA. NOT YOU, TOO.

GA: Do Not Worry I Am Not Going To Ask

GA: I Feel I Can Rather Do Without The Profanity Ridden Rampage You Will Undoubtedly Go On Should I Do So

GA: It Just Seems Like A Logical Conclusion To Be Drawn Is All Im Saying As I Know Even Personally I Have Found Myself On The Edge Of Verbal Spars With Him In Regards To The Subject Matter More Than Once 

CG: YOU’RE A JADE BLOOD, THOUGH.

CG: ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, THAT’S NOT THAT BAD.

GA: That Is True

CG: SO LIKE,

CG: WHY THE FUCK DO YOU CARE?

CG: YOU COULD EASILY IGNORE HIM AND THAT WOULD BE THE BE THEN END OF IT.

GA: Why Do I Care

CG: YEAH.

CG: OKAY, IT SOUNDED LESS SHITTY IN MY HEAD,

CG: BUT YEAH.

GA: I Suppose If You Want To Talk In Such Binary Terms Then Yes Being Jade Blooded Is Not Bad

GA: But I Am No Nobility Nor Am I Anything Even Remotely Resembling Royalty

GA: In Fact I Would Wager That Were It Not For My Penchant For Reclusivity And The Important Role My Caste Plays In Caring For The Mother Grub My Situation Would Be Much More Challenging

GA: Which is Not To Discredit The Atrocities Faced By Those On The Lower End Of The Hemospectrum Than I But It Is Worth Noting That I Am Not Coming From A Place Of Total Lack Of Knowledge Or Understanding 

GA: Simply Put I Get It

CG: OKAY, SO WHY DON’T YOU JUMP DOWN HIS THROAT THEN?

CG: GOD KNOWS HE’S FUCKING TERRIFIED OF YOU ENOUGH FOR HIM TO ACTUALLY SHUT UP ABOUT IT IF YOU TOLD HIM TO.

GA: His Concerns Over Me Owning A Chainsaw Are Really Overblown Its Quite Amusing

GA: Its Not As If Im Waiting Outside His Hive Ready To Impale Him Like Troll Jack Torrance I Literally Do No Care About Him Enough To Do Him Any Serious Damage

GA: Purple Blood Is Notoriously Challenging To Remove From Fabric And I See No Point In Ruining A Perfectly Good Outfit For His Sake

GA: But To Your Question

GA: While I Acknowledge The Insensitivity And Outright Disgustingness Many Of Eridans Comments Regarding Castes Hold I Also Recognize That We Are Living In A Time Where The Traditions And Restrictions Of Said Caste System Are

GA: Faltering Somewhat If You Will

GA: That Is Not To Say Society As We Know It Is Dissolving Into Lawless Chaos Though I Do Think Lawless Chaos Would Be Infinitely Preferable To The System We Have In Place Now

GA: But What I Mean Is That Especially Among Young Trolls The Weight That Blood Color May Have Once Carried Is Fading Somewhat

CG: YOU’RE REALLY GOING TO SAY THAT SHIT LIKE HE DOESN’T TALK ABOUT “puttin a stop to all lowwblood scum an their filthy habits of procreation” OR WHATEVER THE FUCK HE SAYS DAILY?

GA: Has It Occurred To You Eridan Might Be Somewhat Of An Outsider Clinging To Antiquated Ideals Simply Because He Has Not Been Taught Any Other Reality

CG: I FEEL LIKE IT ISN’T FUCKING HARD TO DISCERN THE FACT THAT INTERMITTENT MURDER IS A BAD THING.

CG: LIKE I DON’T FEEL TOO BAD FOR CALLING HIM A FUCKING NOOKSUCKING EXCUSE FOR A LIFE FORM JUST BECAUSE NO ONE TAUGHT HIM YOU SHOULDN'T KILL PEOPLE BECAUSE YOU CAN.

GA: Okay I Feel Eridan Is Something Of A Moot Point

GA: And I Recognize That Violence Is Still Deeply Systematic Within Alternia

GA: But Among Younger Trolls Does It Not Seem To Be Getting At Least A Little Better

GA: Take Feferi For Example

CG: GOD.

CG: YOU KNOW THE SHIT SHE SAYS WON’T WORK, RIGHT?

CG: ALTERNIA WOULD FUCKING REVOLT IF SHE TRIED TO DO AWAY WTH THE SYSTEM OR MAKE PEOPLE START RESPECTING LOWBLOODS. SHE’D LAST FIVE MINUTES BEFORE EVERYONE WAS CALLING FOR HER HEAD.

GA: Perhaps But There Is Still Quite A Bit Of Time Before We Have To Be Proven Right In That Respect So It Is Possible Things Can Change

GA: And Does It Not Mean At Least Something That Someone Of Her Status Is So Willing To Openly Interact With The People That She Does On Top Of Preaching For General Tolerance And Compassion

CG: BUT HER TOLERANCE AND COMPASSION JUST COMES FROM THE SAME PLACE AS ERIDAN’S RAVING HOMICIDAL TENDENCIES REALLY.

CG: IT’S THE NOTION THAT LOWBLOODS ARE INHERENTLY INFERIOR AND SOMETHING NEEDS TO BE DONE ABOUT THEM 

CG: WHETHER THAT BE CULLING OR “LOOKING AFTER,” IT’S REALLY NOT THAT DIFFERENT WHEN YOU GET DOWN TO THE FUNDAMENTALS OF IT.

GA: In Some Ways Dont You Have To Give Her The Benefit Of The Doubt Though

GA: And Consider That While The Rhetoric Behind What She Says May Have Somewhat Negative Connotations The Place She Comes From Is One Of Genuine Goodness

CG: EVEN IF THAT’S TRUE,

CG: IT STILL DOESN’T MATTER.

CG: TROLLS LIKE ERIDAN ARE ALWAYS GOING TO WIN OUT. THE SYSTEM IS LITERALLY BUILT SO THAT THEY WILL.

GA: Maybe

GA: But Maybe Not

CG: THAT’S SO INSUFFERABLY OPTIMISTIC.

GA: I Just Cant Find Comfort In Believing That Things Will Always Be This Way. Its Fundamentally Depressing

GA: Maybe Its Naive But 

GA: I Dont Know

CG: NO, I GET IT.

CG: I’M BEING KIND OF A JERK.

CG: SORRY.

GA: Its Fine

GA: Its A Complex And Difficult Situation Which You Are Hardly To Blame For So An Apology On Your Part Is Really Not Necessary

GA: To My Original Point Though 

GA: And Again I Must Stress This Is Not A Backhanded Attempt At Getting You To Reveal To Me Personal Information About Yourself Which You Would Rather Keep Private So Please Do Not Jump Down My Throat

GA: But Should Your Blood Color Ever Be Something You Wish To Discuss I Can Assure You There Are At Least A Few Of Our Friends Who Would React Positively No Matter What You Said

CG: WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE A THING THOUGH.

CG: LIKE COOL OK YOU GUYS WANT TO WEAR YOUR COLORS ON YOUR SLEEVES THAT’S FINE BY ME, I COULDN'T GIVE LESS OF A FUCK.

CG: BUT IF THE END GOAL IS TRYING TO DISMANTLE THIS BATSHIT ASS SYSTEM WE HAVE THEN SURELY THE FIRST STEP WOULD BE TO NOT MAKE SUCH A HUGE FUCKING DEAL ABOUT SOMETHING THAT DOESN’T EVEN MATTER.

CG: LIKE WHY CAN’T I JUST TYPE IN GREY AND NOT FUCKING TALK ABOUT IT? WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE THIS WHOLE MELDING POT OF CONTENTION THAT I JUST DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT?

CG: LIKE, SURE, IT LOOKS SUSPICIOUS, WHATEVER. I JUST DON’T REALLY CARE.

GA: Is That True Though

CG: WHAT?

GA: Do You Really Not Care

GA: Not Being Complicit In A System That Is So Flawed As Ours In Whatever Way You Can Is Admirable Do Not Get Me Wrong But How Much Of This Is Really About That

CG: AS OPPOSED TO WHAT, EXACTLY? YOU THINK I'M ASHAMED?

GA: Are You

CG: … 

CG: YOU KNOW, I CAN’T COUNT THE NUMBER OF DEAD LOWBLOODS I’VE SEEN.

CG: JUST FUCKING EVERYWHERE NO MATTER THE CONTEXT NO MATTER THE SCENARIO NO MATTER WHO THEY WERE OR WHAT THEY DID OR HOW IMPORTANT THEY PROBABLY WERE TO OTHER TROLLS IN THEIR LIVES I JUST SEE THEM DEAD EVERYWHERE I FUCKING GO.

CG: AND YOU HEAR ABOUT SHIT LIKE THE HUNTERS AND IT’S JUST SO FUCKING ABOMINABLE THAT PEOPLE MAKE A LIVING OF GOING AROUND AND MURDERING INNOCENT TROLLS BECAUSE OF THEIR FUCKING BLOOD COLOR. LIKE HOW FUCKED UP IS THAT?

CG: AND YOU KNOW WHAT SURE I’M SCARED, I’M FUCKING TERRIFIED THAT I’M NEXT. BUT IT’S MORE THAN THAT.

CG: I *WANT* IT TO BE MORE THAN THAT. BECAUSE THEN I’M NO BETTER THAN ANYONE ELSE AND I’M JUST PLAYING INTO A SYSTEM OUT OF SELF-PRESERVATION AND ASSBACKWARDS SELFISHNESS.

CG: I JUST WANT THINGS TO BE DIFFERENT. 

CG: WHY THE FUCK CAN’T THEY JUST BE DIFFERENT?

GA: I Dont Know

GA: I Really Dont Know

ix.

Somerimes, when it’s dark out, you’ll go for walks along the paths surrounding you and your neighbor’s hives.

Aside from the safety aspect of it—though there are always jumped-up lunatics wandering around, their numbers tend to decrease substantially as the sun goes down—it’s arguably the best time to be out and about: it’s fucking quiet, for one. There are no groups of wigglers to trip over, no matesprits being lovey-dovey and generally nauseating, no weird vendors camped on the sides of the road attempting to get you to fork over half your savings for some magical potion that’s going to make you live forever—who in their right fucking thinkpan would ever want to do that? 

No, there's usually no one out. Just you.

It’s nice. You’re not sure if you prefer it that way—being alone—and trying to find the answer to that question always feels like you’re stepping into an emotional minefield, and you’re never quite that much in the mood to get your legs fucking blown off. But it’s nice all the same. 

x.

-- gallowsCalibrator [GC] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG] --

GC: DO YOU 3V3R G3T 4 F33L1NG TH4T SOM3TH1NG 1S GO1NG TO H4PPEN SOON

GC: NOT N3C3SS4R1LY A GOOD OR B4D TH1NG

GC: BUT L1KE

GC: 4 TH1NG

GC: H3R3 1LL DO TH4T STUP1D TYP1NG QU1RK YOU DO

GC: 4 ***TH1NG***

CG: DID YOU SERIOUSLY MESSAGE ME JUST TO MAKE FUN OF MY TYPING QUIRK?

CG: IT’S THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING NIGHT, TEREZI.

GC: Y34H Y34H L1K3 YOUR L4M3 4SS 4CTU4LLY GO3S TO SL33P WH3N YOUR3 SUPPOS3D TO

GC: 4LSO NO 1 L1T3R4LLY 4SK3D YOU A QU3ST1ON

CG: I MEAN,

CG: NO? 

CG: WHY WOULD I BE HAVING PROPHETIC VISIONS OR WHATEVER THE FUCK IS GOING ON WITH YOU?

GC: 1TS NOT PROPH3T1C

GC: 1 DONT TH1NK 4T L34ST

GC: 1TS MOR3 OF JUST 4 F33L1NG YOU KNOW

GC: L1KE D3J4 VU SORT OF

CG: OH.

CG: I MEAN, IN THAT CASE I GUESS.

CG: BUT ISN’T THAT JUST INTUITION OR SOME SHIT? WHAT’S THE BIG DEAL?

GC: 1NTU1T1ON 1S BOR1NG THOUGH 3V3RY TROLL G3TS TH4T

GC: L1K3 OF COURS3 1 C4N LOOK 4T 4 S1TU4T1ON 4ND B3 L1K3 Y34H TH4TS GONN4 B3 FUCK3D UP 4ND H4V3 TH4T L1N3 OF TH1NK1NG B3 S3P3R4T3 FROM MY POW3RS OR WH4T3V3R 

GC: 3V3N MOR3 NUANC3D SH1T TH4N L1K3 B4S1C OBS3RV4T1ON TOO

GC: L1K3 1D G3T B4D F33L1NGS 4BOUT FL4RP S3SS1ONS 4LL TH3 T1M3 TOW4RDS TH3 3ND OF TH4T WHOL3 PH4S3 WH3N VR1SK4 ST4RT3D TO R34LLY GO OFF TH3 R41LS

GC: L1K3 1 GOT ON3 WH3N SH3 FUCK3D T4VROS UP

GC: 4ND 1T W4S OBV1OUSLY TRU3 4ND STUFF 1 W4SNT JUST M4K1NG 1T UP 1N MY H34D B3C4US3 DUH SH3 D1D WH4T SH3 D1D TO H1M BUT 1 F33L L1K3 TH4T W4S JUST GOOD OLD F4SH1ON3D GUT 1NST1NCT 

GC: YOU KNOW? L1K3 1 KN3W 3NOUGH 4BOUT H3R 4ND T4VROS 4ND TH31R DYN4M1C TO B3 4BL3 TO PR3D1CT SOM3TH1NG L1K3 TH4T W4S GONN4 H4PP3N 4T SOM3 PO1NT

CG: OKAY.

CG: I’M NOT FOLLOWING. WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE.

GC: TH4T K1ND OF STUFF W4S SO MUND4N3! 1 M34N SUR3 WH4T H4PP3N3D W1TH VR1SK4 4ND T4VROS SUCK3D 4ND 1M SUR3 1T W4S 4 WHOL3 B1G D34L FOR TH3M ON 4 P3RSON4L L3V3L OR WH4T3V3R

GC: BUT TH1S JUST F33LS D1FF3R3NT

GC: COSM1C

GC: L1K3 ON 4 SC4L3 W3V3 N3V3R S33N B3FOR3

CG: WHO’S “WE?”

CG: TROLLKIND?

GC: M4YB3

GC: 1T F33LS MOR3 LOC4L1Z3D THOUGH

GC: L1K3 3V3N MOR3 SO TH4N JUST 4LT3RN14

CG: OUR FRIENDS, YOU MEAN?

GC: M4YB3

CG: REAL HELPFUL, TEREZI.

CG: SORRY. THAT WAS UNNECESSARY. 

CG: I GET IT, COSMIC SPACE VISIONS ARE PROBABLY REALLY FUCKING WEIRD TO DEAL WITH.

CG: WELL, I DON’T GET IT, BUT YOU KNOW.

GC: Y34H

GC: 1TS F1N3

GC: TH4T W4S SUP3R V4GU3 4ND NOT H3LPFUL 4NYW4YS

GC: SORRY TO BOTH3R YOU

CG: NO, IT’S FINE.

CG: ARE YOU OKAY? YOU SEEM LESS MANIACALLY ENERGETIC AND FUCKING OBNOXIOUS THAN USUAL. IT’S KIND OF SCARING ME.

GC: 1 DONT KNOW

GC: 1 JUST H4V3 4 F33L1NG 4ND 1TS DR1V1NG M3 1NS4N3

GC: B3C4US3 1 SW34R 1 KNOW SOM3TH1NGS GO1NG TO H4PP3N SOON 1SH BUT 1 DONT KNOW 3X4CTLY WH3N OR WH3RE OR WH4T 1T 1S OR 1F 1TS GOOD OR B4D OR 3V3N R3L4T3D TO 4NYTH1NG 4BOUT US

GC: 1 DONT 3V3N KNOW WHO “US” 1S!

GC: BL44RHHH TH1S 1S STUP1D 1M G3TT1NG 4 H34D4CH3 JUST TH1NK1NG 4BOUT 1T 4G41N

CG: MAYBE YOU SHOULD GO TO SLEEP?

CG: LOOK AT IT IN THE MORNING WITH FRESH EYES YOU KNOW. 

GC: WOW 

GC: YOUR3 R34LLY M4K1NG BL1ND JOK3S? NOW? 1N MY MOM3NT OF N33D?

GC: J3RK

CG: GOD YOU’RE THE FUCKING WORST SOMETIMES WHY DO I BOTHER.

GC: H4H4H4H4H4H4

GC: YOUR3 PROB4BLY R1GHT THOUGH

GC: 1M JUST T1R3D 1 TH1NK 

GC: GONN4 CONK OUT 4ND S33 WH4T TH4T DO3S FOR M3

CG: ALRIGHT. KEEP ME POSTED THOUGH, OKAY?

GC: SUR3 TH1NG K4RKL3S

GC: >:]

CG: …

GC: COM3 ON!!!

CG: FINE, FINE.

CG: (:B

-- gallowsCalibrator [GC] ceased trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG] --

xii.

TA: eheheheheh riight on but let2 2hut our mouth2 a 2second and talk about thii2 game.

TA: iitll only be a 2econd really you dont have two do two much.

CG: OK, GOOD, BECAUSE I’M PRETTY BUSY TONIGHT.

CG: WHAT IS THIS THING ANYWAY, WHY ALL THE SECRECY.

TA: well the 2hort 2tory ii2 that iit2 an iimer2iive 2iimulatiion that you play wiith a group.

TA: the long 2tory ii2 that the fate of our ciiviiliizatiion depend2 on u2 playiing iit.

.:.