Chapter Text
Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and you are a whirlwind of epic proportions.
Which is good! Someone around here has to be competent if you're going to change the Empire, and you fully intend to change the Empire. The responsibility can't all rest on the Empress or the Second Sufferer or her other advisers. Most of the responsibility must fall to the courts, because the courts are the entities who uphold the law, and therefore have more power than any individual could ever hope to.
And the law is rather favorably disposed toward highbloods and various institutions of power right now instead of representing the commoners. As a tealblood you're considered a perfect mediator between the two groups, even though you definitely have your own agenda.
(Your own agenda is dissolving the oligarchy and throwing money at lowbloods until they can survive outside gutters and the shadow of highblood fronds. Pretty much everyone knows this. You're super unapologetic about it, because you have the Empress on your side, and therefore don't need to be anywhere near as sneaky about things as you may have been.)
(You made a good decision to toss your lot in with Her Imperious Reformation. You would have lost nothing by keeping your head down - been accepted into the legislacerator Academy under the last Empress, or been accepted as a trusted adviser to the new one should the Condesce fall. You underwent great personal risk for the sake of the rebellion because you knew that having you on their side would make the odds shift dramatically in their favor.)
(There's nothing wrong with the knowledge of your own importance. You can See things a hell of a lot more clearly than anyone gives you credit for, the outcomes of decisions and strategic moves and countermoves. Because of this, you understand how to manipulate the courts. You understand the value of your own presence. You understand the need to maintain an outwardly cold relationship with Feferi Peixes even if you talk nearly every night. You understand the ripples and shockwaves moving through the Empire, all the potential ways those could settle, an infinitely sided die.)
Right now, though, you're a little less than dignified. You fell asleep with your nose in a book. Technically it would be easier to tongue the book to read, but slobbering on ancient texts is frowned upon even for Grand High Legislacerators. Boring.
"Hey, uh." The head of your security detail, a brownblood named Mundie Absyth, gently touches your shoulder.
You sit up immediately and wipe a small line of drool from your mouth, attuned enough to Absyth's touch not to yank out a weapon. You don't call the guy by his title, High Imperial Protector, because there's a hell of a lot of those and none are quite like him. For example, you actually consider him your friend, while the other Imperial Protectors are a little too busy having sticks up their asses to make your acquaintance.
"I fell asleep," you say, rubbing your eyes even though you're sharp with the tired-adrenaline combination that always hails sleeping without sopor. You're alert enough to take on an entire family of cholerbears, but maybe not to reason effectively.
"I can see that," Absyth says. You pinch him for having the nerve to be so dryly amused. It's far from the first time he's seen you pass out while at work, and certainly won't be the last.
"Gonna head t'coon."
"Actually," he says, "the General has demanded a meeting now."
"Which one?"
"Falconer."
"Ughhh. What time is it?"
"Three in the afternoon."
"He still has to pay his slave reparations whether I'm tired or not. Court's in three nights. Tell him I'll see him then."
"I already did. He says he's willing to bow to the court as long as he can keep one boy he apparently has a fondness for."
"Ew."
"Agreed. But he managed not to hurl any slurs at me this time, so I agreed to tell you he was here. He said, and I quote, 'I thought she was less likely to have to squeeze me in between appointments at this hour.'"
"How polite of him."
Falconer doesn't give half a fuck about manners. You know this, and he knows you know this. He's hoping that he'll catch you sopor-groggy, eager enough to get him out of your hair that you acquiesce to his demands. He's also convinced himself that he's bringing you a perfectly reasonable compromise, and that you will be too prideful to admit you need sleep.
Unfortunately, he doesn't know you as well as he thinks he does. Meeting with him now reinforces the sense of seadweller entitlement, gives him the advantage of your surprise, and risks a slip of your tongue. He has a hell of a lot more to lose than you do, fins notwithstanding, and he's hoping you'll forget that.
You don't forget things.
"Tell him that I'm booked solid with recuperacoon appointments for the next five hours, and that if he wants to wait I'll be happy to meet with him as soon as I'm finished. Make sure you offer him coffee, I'd hate for a highblood to go without refreshments. Oh, but Absyth."
"Yeah?"
"Kick his ass out if he insults you. And politely remind him that court is in three nights."
You catch a whiff of pearly-white clean as Absyth grins with all his teeth. "Will do."
---
Falconer actually waits. This outcome means he's invested in the situation rather than trying to make you slip up, which is... interesting enough to entertain you. You take your own sweet time about having your ablutions and getting dressed, and he's still waiting in one of the hard plastic chairs outside your office when you arrive. He's been through more rigorous physical strain than you ever will thanks to Imperial training and the heat of battle, but you still viciously hope that his back hurts.
"General," you say as you step into your office and settle behind your desk. "I do apologize. I need at least six solid hours of sleep before hearing your voice or I find myself in danger of wringing your neck."
Falconer very nearly snarls. You hear the breath rattle in his throat as he fights the instincts and learned responses telling him everyone sub-purple will bow to a threat display. Honestly. You hardly even insulted him. Seadwellers have the worst tempers.
You sniff, taking in other details. Not as many hints of lavender as usual, so he dressed down and he's not flaring out his fins.
Damn, he really thinks he has a shot.
"Anyway!" you say. "What's this 'all-but-one' bullshit about?"
He slides a file across your desk. You flip it open and inhale. Not a whiff of poison unless it's very cleverly disguised. A photograph and a hell of a lot of spicy pepper text. You very deliberately drag your tongue over each of the pages, making a big show of your reading process. Falconer is disgusted and horrified. It's fucking hilarious.
"I hope this wasn't your only copy," you say as you push the rather smeared file back at him.
His voice comes out strained with loathing. "Keep it."
"Aw. That's nice of you." You drop the file into the trash can beside your desk. "I already know everything I need to know. Pay your reparations. All of them."
The slave in question is a ten-sweep-old psion who burned out training for the first blueblood who took him on as helmsman. Not pretty, according to the medical records. Extensive pan damage, a lack of psionic control, should have been culled on sight. Somehow survived. Falconer took him under his wing for not-yet-explained reasons that you're certain will nauseate you, paid his medical expenses, and let him live.
Slave owners are compelled to release their slaves and repay them in five times the value of their labor for each sweep they were in service. The medical expenses tally to much greater than that. Falconer believes the psion has debt to pay off, and that he can hold that argument up in court. You can see where the logic comes from - the injury wasn't sustained under the General's care, and by Her Imperious Reformation's philosophy on culling, Falconer is ahead of the game in terms of being progressive. He's a hero! A saint! He knew how to help people before helping people was socially acceptable!
Falconer bristles. "I did more for him than anyone would..."
"You chose to take him on. Your expenses in light of that have nothing to do with the reparations you still have to pay. Did you bring the psion with you tonight?"
"What? Why would I? He's incoherent, he'll never survive on his own."
"According to the medical records, he's more than capable of communication. And you know I take into account the feelings of the lowbloods a hell of a lot more than your feelings. You would have brought him to strengthen your case for why you 'saved' him, unless you thought he'd do something to weaken the case instead. And I can't imagine why he'd weaken the case if he likes your company as much as you like his. But he wants to be freed, doesn't he?"
Aaaand there's the real snarl. Falconer braces his hands on your desk. "He belongs to me," he snaps, all bloodthirsty seadweller rather than calm strategist. "He doesn't stop belonging to me because a few children want to play games. Do you have any idea how long I was in the service of Her Imperious Condescension? Any idea how old I am? Any idea how much I've done for this galaxy, girl?"
"You're disgusting," you say pleasantly. "If you ever set foot in my office again, I promise I'll find grounds to have you killed. Court's in three nights. Get the fuck out."
---
You make Falconer shell out ten times the designated labor value instead of five, because he's dragged this out and wasted everyone's fucking time, and every single one of his slaves deserves it for having to put up with him.
He tries to throw a spear into your jugular, so you follow up the verdict by stripping him of his title and exiling him, because any respected General should have at least some modicum of self control. No one contests this. It's a great night.
You're just about to break out the celebratory soporifics because fuck it, even you can stop working and take a breather sometimes, when Absyth knocks on your office door. The sharp tang of his fear hits you first. There's not a lot he's truly afraid of, and even less he's not willing to face, which is what makes him such a good head of security. Certain highbloods could learn a lot about rationality from him. But his rationality makes his fear a deeper concern, because he's never frightened without reason.
You're on your feet and gripping your cane before you give your body conscious permission to move. "What is it?"
"The..." Absyth's throat clicks. "The Grand Highblood would like to see you."
Ah. "You spoke to him?"
"He has asked that I pass on the message."
"Is he here?"
"Yes."
"Oh, for the love of fuck." You resist the urge to rake a hand through your hair. "Send him in."
"Now? He seems... perturbed."
"Has he murdered anyone in cold blood or threatened your life?"
"No."
"Then he's not perturbed. Send him in. The less time he spends tainting my courtblock, the better."
The Grand Highblood is far removed from the kid you knew at six sweeps old, but that's a surprise to no one. People change, and arguably he's changed the most, stretching to fill a mold that was made for him ages before any of you were hatched. You don't grow to head a cult of chaos without being made of chaos yourself, and Makara worships his own hurricane. It drives you crazy. He's got no time to listen to reason, and he knows he's not listening to reason, and he doesn't even care. You worship chaos as a means to an end, but Makara loves chaos for the sake of chaos, and...
Well, there are reasons why church and state are so wrapped up in each other, and reasons why the law has gone unchallenged for so long. There are reasons that destroying the Empire is an uphill battle, one courtroom and closed-door session at a time, and they go a hell of a lot deeper than snooty seadwellers who don't want to release their slaves.
Makara eclipses the doorway. He has to duck to fit his horns through the frame, blocking your scent with tangy grape and an undercurrent of metal. You inhale more deeply to get a clearer picture. He's not covered in blood right now, but he smells like it. Gone are the nights when all you could scent around the purple was sopor and sugar. No, he's sharp and alert despite the appearance of carelessness. Not using his powers, you'd be able to smell the fear through the hallways, but adrenaline stiffens you all the same.
You're not afraid. You're excited in a way that's completely inappropriate to the current situation.
Stay calm, Pyrope. Don't lose your head.
"Highblood," you say, standing to acknowledge him and then plopping back into your chair, glad you haven't imbibed anything yet. "What brings you to my humble abode?"
"I think we can make this real quick-like," he says, and he is the Grand Highblood in every sense of the term rather than a child playing at politics. You set your shoulders straighter. When he's on top of his game, you can't afford to be off yours. Youth isn't an excuse here - you have responsibilities to uphold, promises to keep.
"Well, good," you say, leaning back in your chair. "I'm a very busy woman."
He steps uncomfortably close to the desk, crowding your space in an effort to get you to back down. You snort and don't move.
"I think we can make this real quick-like," he repeats, "'cause I am mad annoyed to be here, stewing up in this shithole where no one laughs and I ain't allowed to crack any motherfucking jokes, so how about I pass on a message and move my ass back to my brothers and sisters."
He says "crack jokes" like "crack skulls." Absyth, bless his pusher, stops hovering by the door and tries to position himself between you instead.
"Sir," he starts, which is a slight all on its own, a refusal to let Your Holiness spill from his lips, "please make some room between..."
"It's all right," you say. Makara won't hurt you, but Absyth is expendable, and you don't trust someone who heads a religion of ritualized murder not to snap your friend's spine like a twig. "Leave us be, please. And close the door behind you."
Fear is still rolling off the brownblood in waves. You know Makara can smell it, probably delights in it. When Absyth hesitates, you hold up a hand.
"If he was here to kill me, he would have been much flashier about it," you say, and flash them both a gleaming smile, full of sharp teeth. "Let us meet in peace. It'll just be a few minutes."
Absyth turns stiffly away, edges into the hall, closes the office door behind him. No footsteps continue after that, so you know he's standing guard just outside, ready to dive back in should the need rise.
Imperial Protectors. Sheesh. Like a blind tealblood can't antagonize the second most powerful person in the galaxy and live to tell about it.
"I ain't about the politics," Makara says, bracing his palms flat on your desk. "And you ain't near as funny as you think you are, sister. So let's quit the games."
"I'd love to," you say, "but you haven't told me what you're here about."
"Take a wild fuckin' guess."
"I have no idea," you say, eyes wide and innocent even as a wicked grin plays at your lips. "I've been mostly taking care of seadwellers lately, and last I knew clowns and seadwellers didn't get along too well. Something about waders not being able to tell jokes?"
He slams his hands on the desk. Not with the full force of his strength, but enough to make the wood creak. Enough to make you jump. Fuck. Point to him. Or point to you for making him lose his cool, depending on how you spin the narrative.
His voice is a low timbre, almost a croon, pitched so that it shakes your bones. "You ain't the fuckin' law, sister," he says. "You and me both know it. You carry shit out, but you ain't got a leg to stand on in telling folks what they can and can't do. You didn't inherit your place like the Empress and me. You ain't done shit to earn it. You fuck up me and mine and it comes back to you. I promise you now, if you think you got a leg to stand on, I will motherfucking cut it off."
You weren't expecting anything less. You fold your hands in front of you, making sure not to brush his skin. "The problem with that," you say, "is that I am very much the law if the Empress decides I am the law, and I'm much more in her good graces than you are."
He leans forward, so close that the grape and copper tang is overpowered by the cool breeze of his breath. You would have expected to smell rotten carcass, but it's just smooth wind over a field. "A righteous sister might find herself tangled in some mad unmirthful business if she continues to sow FUCKING HERESY all up in what should be sacred."
"Hmm. Here's the thing, Makara." You use his hatch name because you can, flashing a benign smile. "I don't give a single, solitary fuck."
He kisses you.
Or you kiss him, it's hard to tell. This is a dance you've been skirting since before Ascension, a clusterfuck mess with no clear winner. It's a bad idea - always a bad idea. You just hate him so fucking much.
The hate itches under your skin, anchors in your bones. You want to fucking flay him open and make him see what you do, you want to force him to concede that his miracles are star-strewn propaganda, you want to dig down so deep you find some glimmer of a real person inside him. You know you can't achieve that any more than he could make you renounce the law and your pursuit of justice, but you want to, and the frustration nearly chokes you. Makara is an unwinnable challenge, and nothing's ever interested you more than impossible odds.
You savage his bottom lip with your teeth, tangling your fingers into his hair and snarling against his mouth. It feels good, this viciousness - a chance to give yourself over to primal instinct rather than needing to be composed all the time. It feels right. You spend so much time studying and fighting and staying controlled that this anger is...
...just what you need.
He kisses like he's trying to kill you, open-mouthed and hungry and allowing no room for breath. His hands grip your arms just roughly enough to remind you that he could shatter them if he felt the need. And that just makes you angrier rather than afraid, because he's mocking you with such a tiny gesture, telling you here, you stupid child, I'll hold back because I know you're not a real threat.
The desk between you two keeps you from making any deeper ill-advised decisions. You kiss him until it's all you can do not to scream rage against his mouth, and then you yank away and headbutt him hard in the chin.
He reels back and laughs like you've told the funniest joke he's heard all week, the sound rolling over you in waves just as thick as fear miasma. "I got things to do," he says. "Think about it. Next time I won't leave so much skin unbruised."
He leaves you licking blood off your swollen lips and smoothing down your hair. Absyth steps out of the way and enters the office once Makara has cleared the hallway, leaning against the doorframe.
"Should I go kill him?" he asks. "I'll go kill him if you want."
"Do me a bigger favor," you say, booting up your computer. "Never, ever breathe a word of this to anyone. Anyone. Unless for some reason you find yourself compelled by the court. Understand?"
Absyth smells an awful lot like incredulity, but to his credit all he says is, "Breathe a word of what?"
You're good at calculating odds. You know there's almost no sequence of events where this turns out well. You can't screw the Grand Highblood and keep him under your thumb at the same time - you have to choose one or the other, and Makara is a sickness in you, a poison that takes root every time you try to let go. If you run down this path, you lose your control and he wins. Game over, end of story.
On the other hand, he also scratches an itch that no one else has ever been able to. The only girl who ever came close is long gone now. He burrows deep into the most twisted parts of you, the sick parts that you can't even consciously acknowledge, and yanks like he's separating the rotten fruit from the good.
It's a heady feeling. Being a hundred percent in control all the time is so fucking tiring.
But there's nowhere you can afford the loss of control less than with him. That's how he gets you. And there's too fucking much at stake to let him win.
You use your old Trollian for private communications, rather than official channels that might be watched. Everyone who matters has this handle anyway. You open a chat with Aradia Megido and begin to type.
GC: GU3SS WHO N33DS 4N 4USP1S|
Pause. Consider. Backspace. Open a different chat.
GC: SO 4NYW4Y
GC: M4K4R4 1S GO1NG TO B3 4 PROBL3M
CG: FUCK.