Chapter Text
They come at dusk and you meet them snarling, like you always do. It's become a routine in the last two sweeps. You greet them with snarls, they catch you with one of their long slim poles with the noose at the end. You think it's meant to be used at barkbeasts, feral lusii, that kinda shit, but the guards that come in always got at least one apiece, and no matter how you dodge, someone always gets you. What's supposed to happen after that shit is one of their piss-poor intgarroters comes in and talks at you, and you tell them go fuck themselves, and someone hits you with one of the spare noose-sticks a while, and food happens after that. That's how it's gone the two sweeps you been here. They wanna know, where's the family holed up? Where're you hiding the wrigglers? How many are left and how much shit can they do before the fishbitch mops them up? And by those questions you know there's still family out there somewhere. They ain't come for you like this in near a half-sweep. You were starting to lose hope. They pin you up against the wall with the noose and a forked stick holding your choke closed and yeah, yeah, this is all real motherfucking familiar. Right up until they noose your fronds and chain them all up in broad sturdy cuffs you can't shift no matter how you struggle and yank your arms and a stick slams into your head and your vision goes spotty and black for the little bit it takes for them to start hauling you out of the cell that's all you've known the last fifty motherfucking perigees. Even on starvation rations and with no room to train, you're strong as fuck, but there's four of them and one of you, and five more waiting outside the block and for all your struggles, you're too weak to keep them from pulling you along like a recalcitrant barkbeast.
You are dragged into an ablutions block more ornate than anything you saw at the Cathedral, stripped to bare skin, for all you give a fuck, you've been heathen barefaced for the last two sweeps and used to nakedness. You care when they dunk you into a trap filled to the brim with water even colder than you, and held down with the noose and the stick while hands attack you with soap and scrubbing cloths. You struggle and snarl, get foul-tasting foam in your mouth and cough and choke when you breathe wrong and get a mouthful of water. You score a few lucky strikes, bound as you are, and violet clouds the water some before you're dragged out again, pinned to the floor while you're attacked with absorption planes, and then held there, wheezing and growling while voices over you argue about what's to be done with your hair.
They shave it in the end. You coulda told them it ain't motherfucking worth trying to rescue after your braids and shit been left to do as they will for two sweeps. You don't like the result, but no one asked you anyhow, it's all bristly-short around your ears, less so on top, where they've left you enough to at least cover the roots of your horns. You look five sweeps younger than you are, with your skinny bare shoulders and your horns all thin and your limbs all awkward, not even your hair to lend you bulk and size. They dress you again, with brisk efficient movements that don't give you time to struggle. Your cuffs detach and reattach at the command of a psionic with downturned eyes off in the corner. He don't look at you as he works you around like a puppet at their amusement. He could kill every motherfucker in this room easier than you could, but he don't even think to as your arms are wrenched implacably back and forth, fine tyrian-dyed silk settling 'round your shoulders like flower-smelling clouds, and you don't know what the motherfuck's going on but you know you don't like it as you're pinned to the floor again, careful not to ruffle the fine threads on you, and your arms are twisted up behind your back and the cuffs click and fasten together as unkind hands grasp your horns above the suppressor rings and twist your head so you can't thrash nor bite while a smooth metal ring's fastened 'round your throat. A collar. When the hands on your horns let go and the weight on your back lets up so you can scramble to your feet and jerk to a halt between two heavy motherfucking chains, you get a good motherfucking look of yourself in the big ablutionsblock mirror. A panicky seven-sweep-old wriggler stares back at you with wide eyes, instead of the probably ten-and-a-bit battle-trained warrior you actually are.
They let you stare for the few motherfucking seconds it takes for the chains to go tight and you're dragged along the halls and blocks 'till they can shove you into an airskimmer. It's hours of flight and no idea where the motherfuck they're taking you, 'till you finally get there, and you were right. You really don't motherfucking like what's going on.
* * *
The problem with being the kind of wildly successful general that accidentally founds a country is, you're not actually leadership material. At least not the kind of leadership material that leads an entire country . You're a foot soldier that got lucky, ended up in the right place at the right time, and kept right fucking on getting lucky until someone was trying to put a fucking crown on your head. You have no idea what the terms on these treaties actually fucking are. It's a fucking miracle they exist at all. Some lucky bluff and a few victories, and the Condesce is somehow entirely fucking willing to roll over and recognize there's a country here? You're pretty sure that she's got some kind of horrible, horrible trick up her sleeve.
Not that she has sleeves. You're not entirely sure she's got a shirt. You are reasonably sure her body suit is actually painted on over her chitin plates. You have somehow managed to keep from blushing at the sight of her. She's lounging on some kind of manually-carried conveyance, lazily perusing her copy of the treaty. The four trolls that carried her in are kneeling precisely behind the bars, all brownbloods, all with remarkably similar horns. You're reminded uncomfortably of history feeds with matched musclebeast teams drawing carriages.
Abruptly, she heaves an incredibly fake yawn that bares all her creepy seadweller teeth. "Alright, guppy. That's enough of all this fuckin boring ship." You look up from your tablet, frowning. It's not remotely close to dawn, and she's already told you more than once she plans to 'Fuck back off to the deeps for a while.' after tonight. "Ain't no fuckin thing here that won't hold another perigee or so. I figure, it's high tide for me to give ya a thing and fuck off a while." She grins, like it's obvious you have no fucking idea what she's talking about. "See, there's this old fuckin tradition from back when diplomacy was a thing. The surrendering party, that's me." no one should be that fucking smug about surrendering. "Gives the victorious party, that's you." she points at you like a wriggler learning her alphabet. "Somefin nice, as a show of respect and all that. I figured it might be kinda fuckin fun to do, seeing as what we got here is the first diplomatic meeting between nations since before I was Empress."
If you tell her to go fuck herself, she's going to laugh at you, and Kanaya will make you eat her chainsaw. And this whole crazy endeavor will have been a colossal waste of time, because as soon as she finishes laughing she's gonna start putting a fork through every fucking troll in this complex. It takes you a distressingly long time to figure out something diplomatic to say. "Sure," you grit out as her grin gets wider. "Sounds. Fun." That was fucking terrible. You miss the days when you could just hit whatever was causing you problems until it went away.
"Now, I know you ain't got anyfin in the way of steady quadrants. Fuck knows I spent enough time tryna krill'm" You try to keep from visibly bristling at her as she waves at one of her attendants, who scampers out of the room. Yeah, fuck her, you know better than to get involved with someone when you're leading a war against the fucking Condescension, she's got no business talking like it's some kind of personal failing. Besides, you have plenty of friends, you've always gotten through drone season just fucking fine. "But I hear tell you got one hell of a harem. Ashways at least." And fuck her for making that sound so suggestive. "So I figure, you being some kinda fuckin emperor now, you might as well get a start on the rest, you know?" You get a sinking feeling in your gut as the door opens and two seadwellers holding chains stride in, looking like they're dragging something. "Sorry he don't look like much just now. Poor little clownfish just got him some real bad news. I'm thinking he'll do you well enough in pitch, to start at least, but who the fuck am I to tell you what to do with him?"
It's really only your resolution to keep quiet unless you have something constructive to say that keeps you from telling the Alternian empress to get the fuck out and take her disgusting insinuations with her. The troll on the end of those chains doesn't look more than six. Seven at the most. You clench your fists under the table. "Your imperial highness." you start, and you can tell right off the bat your voice is betraying how fucking upset you are with the current situation. "As much as I appreciate the, ugh, generous gesture-"
"A' course," she interrupts like you're not even speaking. "It's kinda fuckin insulting to turn down a gift a' this kinda magnitude. That's the last indigo in the world, you know." The poor bastard on the chains actually visibly flinches when she says that. "Far as we can tell anyway. We looked real fuckin hard . Valuable little guppy like that's damn near priceless."
Fuck. So that's her game. Some kind of sick powerplay. Either let this kid into your complex with a really heavy implication that he's supposed to be a sort of live-in concupiscent hire, or refuse with the clear indication that refusal comes with resumed hostilities. You know your people can't handle another war this soon. You might have superior ground and strategy, but she's got the sheer numbers to wear you down and you know she's more than willing to throw thousands of lowbloods away on a meaningless war.
There's no way you can smile politely and accept this perverted fucking 'gift'. You go for 'gravely regal' and probably achieve 'constipated'. She's smirking at you. "Your highness is," ugh. "Beyond generous. I would be. Happy. To accept this...gift. In the spirit it's offered." You need a fucking shower. You're going to steal some metal scrubbers out of Zahakk's shop and scrub all your fucking skin off. You wave behind you, and two of your guards come forward to take the chains from the seadwellers. They look about as comfortable as you are. At least they're trolls you know from the battlefield. You give them the hand signals for 'go' and 'hold position' and they lead the kid out of the room. He doesn't struggle, at least.
Things go about as smoothly as can be expected after that. There's a lot of posturing and thinly-veiled death threats, two small brawls break out between your guards and her entourage, but nothing you didn't more than expect. No one dies, and when the empress takes her leave, everyone still has their limbs attached. When her convoy lifts away from the landing pad and speeds away towards the coast, the whole fucking complex heaves a sigh of relief. You allow yourself two full minutes of breathing as you sit slumped at your table, before you force yourself to stand up and go figure out what the fuck to do with your 'gift'.
* * *
He's taller than you. You didn't really expect that from your first impression of him. You've put on a lot of height and weight since your first late pupation; you're not an angry squawky midget anymore, seven solid sweeps of fighting will do that. But this kid's a little more than even with you before you count his horns. Maybe even more than that, with how he's slouching. You could still probably pick him up one-handed. You can see his fucking ribs under the flappy little scraps of tyrian silk the Condesce probably thinks counts as clothes.
He's standing, shoulders hunched, eyes down. You have no fucking idea what to do with him. "Someone go get a fucking uniform." clothes are a start, at least. Real fucking clothes. "We probably don't have anything in your color." you add apologetically to him. "Sorry."
That gets him to look up. His expression is dull and flat, but something in his eyes manages to look sullenly angry. "Motherfucker," he starts, his voice hoarse and painful-sounding, "I give impression of any kinda caring? " There's a tinge of red in his sclera, and when he talks you see a flash of violet on his teeth. You're bizarrely glad to see it. It's weird to see a troll this cold on the spectrum so beaten down.
You look back at him steadily, "No, I guess not." you're clinging to every scrap of control you've developed on the battlefield to keep from just cutting him loose and letting him fuck off wherever he wants to go. You have no idea who he is, or what he's actually supposed to be doing here. Someone of his chroma should logically be part of the Condesce's inner circle, not wearing suppressor rings and (Ugh.) a fucking slave collar. He could be a spy or an assassin or who even fucking knows what. "So while we wait on that. Are you going to go on some kind of murderous rampage if I take these off?" You can see vivid purple around the edges of the cuffs and he's going to have trouble getting a shirt on while he's chained up, but you're not going to risk your people.
He laughs, a sharp humorless little 'ha!' and sneers at you, "Sure, man, just motherfucking waiting to get my hellmirth and slaughter on here." You watch him, waiting him out the same way you used to wait out mouthy trainees. After a minute he slumps and hunches his shoulders again, looking away. "Ain't no murderrampage coming, I'll motherfucking behave m'self." he mumbles.
Against any kind of sane common sense, you believe him. And if you're wrong, you have enough people here to take him out before he does much damage, for all you'd rather it didn't come to that. "Come here, then." he approaches in a weird kinda sidelong shuffle, eyeing your guards warily. You examine the cuffs once he's in reach. They're heavy, quality leather reinforced with steel bands, and it takes you a minute to figure out how they come apart. He holds perfectly still while you separate them and search around for the catch that lets them drop off his wrists. Even after that, he moves slowly, watching you out of the corner of his eye carefully as he rubs at the raw purple marks. While you're there, you check out the collar, moving slowly so you don't startle him. It looks welded shut, there's a painful-looking purple burn on the bare back of his neck. Psionics probably. You curse. "We're gonna need bolt cutters if you want this off." and a nurseradicator too, besides the burn you can see a really concerning number of bruises on his thorax, and the way he's moving makes you think some of his ribs are at least cracked. You realize you've been standing behind him with your hand on his collar for long enough it's starting to get weird, and he's tense and growling subvocally.
You drop the collar and step away, running your claws through your hair and breathing out hard. You have no fucking idea what to do with him, and you're pretty sure it's fucking obvious, so you hope he's really not a spy. At least the growling's stopped.
Okay. Time for some real actual fucking decisions to be made. You square your shoulders and the soldiers in the room all jump to attention. "Vincnt, Yundin, you're on first-shift guard duty, Torion and Kuntal will relieve you at 1500," You start, trying for the rapid-fire orders you give on the battlefield, the ones that are spur of the moment but sound planned. "I want him on constant surveillance until further notice." you ignore how he's looked around at you, surprise all over his face. You don't give a fuck that he can hear you. You want him to know he's being watched. "Find him a spare two-block suite, standard coon, private ablutions." It's a luxury but you don't want him in the communal spaces right now. "Rearrange people if you have to, I'll make it up to them." You turn on him. "And you, fuck, what even is your name?"
He looks shell-shocked and a little apprehensive when you talk to him, and you have to snap at him before he startles, jumps to something that looks almost like attention, and stutters out, "Makara, uh. Gamzee Makara, motherfucker." You ignore the explicative, it's not worth picking a fight over.
"Makara." he's looking at you like that should mean something but whatever. You'll get someone to research that for you. "You're on block arrest until I say otherwise. You're going to stay wherever we find to put you, and be very quiet and not cause me or my people any fucking trouble until I figure out what the fuck the Condesce's game is. If you can manage that, we'll see about allowing you a little more freedom. Understood?" you don't wait for a response. "Someone tell Kanaya or Torion or whoever's free to drop by his block and give him a health eval, I want a full report by midnight tomorrow," you pause, no one's moving. "Am I forgetting anything?" no one volunteers any information, "Then let’s move the fuck out, people. We got shit to do that's not getting done. Hop to it." You deliver the last sentence in full battlefield bellow and everyone, including Makara, hops the fuck to it. You rub a temple. You need a fucking nap.
* * *
You get left in a block all motherfucking empty but for a little table and chair, and a coon and a door that, when you look, leads to a little ablutionsblock and that's the end of it. The teal that led you here told you him and the pissblood are gonna be guarding the motherfucking door, like you're stupid enough to run for it. You're hours and hours flight from the Empress's palace, and you ain't never heard of any freakblood Emperor, so you gotta be near on the other motherfucking side of the empire from home, even if it weren't-
But you're not gonna think on that shit, cause there ain't no single motherfucking thing you can do just now about that. You're just gonna. Gonna do something. There ain't nothing sharp in here, so you can't get your paint on. Instead you find a little corner out of direct sight from the door, settle yourself on the floor against the wall to pray as best you can.
You're on your third repetition of devotions when there comes a polite little knock on the door, like you got any kinda power to stop whoever the motherfuck wants to come in from coming in. The door opens and you gotta swallow a furious hiss, 'cause it's a rainbowdrinker walking in. It pauses with a confused looking frown at the empty room, eyes flicking over the furniture 'till they light on you, and it relaxes some. "Well come on, then, let’s get this over with."
It has a soft, feminine voice. Maybe it was female when it was a troll. You don't move from your corner. When it steps toward you, you growl. It's an embarrassing sound, half a whine, high and scared. Its lips turn down even more until it's scowling. "Don't be ridiculous. The sooner you let me examine you, the sooner I can give you these clothes I've brought you, and the sooner we can both get on with our nights." your growl ticks up a half-pitch. It glares at you and the faint light of its skin brightens. It takes a step towards you and you shrink back into your corner. Before all this shit it would've been easy. Rainbowdrinkers are strong, sure, but they're as vulnerable as any midblood to the fearmongering. Pan like yours, you'd've had it bleeding out its shiny-ass motherfucking ears before it even got close enough to bite.
As it is, it glows at you and glares, and you press more into your corner and bare your teeth like an angry barkbeast until it props its fists on its hips and snaps. "Gamzee Makara come here right now. " in the exact same tone Sister Shatered used to use on you when you were a naughty little motherfucking wriggler, and you're creeping dejectedly out your corner before you even know what the fuck's happening. It ain't even drinker mind control 'cause that's all fake-ass hearsay, it's just you being a dumbass. It's also too late 'cause it’s flashing forward and you're out of shape and too weak to dodge when she catches you by the scruff of the neck and hauls you to your feet like a harmless purrbeast. You've gone dead still with fear, sure it’s about to sink those lethal color-stealing fangs into your throat.
Instead, it just goes 'harrumph' kinda grumpy and put-upon, and deposits you in the little chair. It bends down to look you in the eye, face softening some like its playing at sympathy. "I know you're scared." you make a scandalized noise that it ignores. "But it really would be best to let me examine you. I'm a trained Doctorturer, and Karkat thinks you might be injured more seriously than you appear to be." You don't know who the fuck Karkat is, or why they give a single flying motherfuck you're hurt. Anyone who gives a fuck 'bout that shit's long dead. It gives you a minute to not respond before it sighs noisily. "May I pretty please examine you and submit a report to the General so I can go the fuck back to sleep?"
Oh. Right. The freakblood emperor did say some shit about a report. Fuck knows why. "Fine." you grunt and make yourself breathe deep like you been taught to do to steady your hands when the fear hits you. "Do whatever the fuck you like."
It sits back on its heels and rises up to its full imposing height, something that's maybe satisfaction on its face. "If you'd be so kind as to remove your. ah. Shirt?" There's something in its tone that makes you think you oughta be offended at it. Ain't your choice of garb though. You rise up off the chair cautiously and drag the ugly piece of shit thorax covering over your head, making yourself not wince at the way it makes that one side of your torso stretch.
It's efficient at least. Scribbles a fuckton of shit down on a tablet as it walks a circle around you, poking and prodding, telling you to breathe deep, making careful hmm sounds when you can't suppress a yelp or a snarl when it reaches the tender swollen parts of your thorax, where a chitin plate buckled and healed wrong, or where your endoskeletal thoracic struts are maybe battered some. Even for all that, when it steps away from you and you can breathe a little easier, not more than a half-hour has passed. It offers you a little smile you meet with a suspicious glower, and from its sylladex it pulls out a pile of black cloth, "Now that we've got that over with." It shakes out a pair of unadorned black pants like you seen the guards here wearing, and a plain black undershirt with no color to it. "I wasn't sure of the measurements, but I'll soon have something a little more suitable for you, and these should more than suffice for now." It sets a little stack of black cloth on the chair you guess is more, and it's all near enough what you would've expected, if you'd been thinking to expect anything. What you don't expect is the wide band of cloth that flutters out of the shirt, vivid violent purple a shade more blue than your chroma.
You reach out hesitantly, and when you don't get hit nor shouted at, you touch it. It's soft shiny cloth. You don't know threadcraft well enough to know what kind. It's got a funny little braided bit on the inside. You just kinda hold it, not real sure what it's for, just knowing it's near your motherfucking color, and you ain't seen it in two motherfucking sweeps but for what little muddied bits you bleed when you're getting kicked about.
"I know it's not quite the right color." your head snaps up at the words, spoken all soft and gentle. Its ears are a little motherfucking green, like maybe it's embarrassed. "But I thought you might like something ." it stops abruptly and shakes its head a little. "It slips over your arm, see?" It lifts its own arm. It doesn't really need one. Its entire outfit is jade green and black, but it's still got a broad green band wrapped 'round its arm all richly embroidered with a little serpent's staff symbol you mistake for the Lady's emblem at first. "Everyone in the army gets one. It's much easier than adding color to every individual's uniform."
You open your mouth, close it, and abruptly feel very much like the wriggler you look like just now. "I. Uh." You swallow. "C'n I put a shirt on now?" you ask real soft. You don't say anything about the odd, unexpected kindness of your color in your hands.
The rainbowdrinker goes "Oh!" all surprised, and then "Yes, of course, my apologies!" and then it's gone and the door's clicking shut behind it and you're blessedly alone to blink wetly at the band of cloth in your hands. You set it very carefully on the table. A shirt goes on first. Sturdy soft cloth that fits all motherfucking loose on you. The pants don't motherfucking stay up, and they're short in the leg, but there's a belt all coiled on top of the pile of spares, and you can tighten it enough you're pretty sure they won't fall off. By the time you pick the armband up again, it don't make your traitor eyes go wet anymore. Your sleeves are too loose to put the band over it, but once you figure the trick of tightening it, it fits your bare arm well enough, and when you go peer at yourself in the ablutionsblock mirror, you look almost like a troll again. Too young, heathen barefaced and scared shitless, but a motherfucking troll.