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Chapter Text

Your name is Roxy Lalond, and today you've brought your newborn baby girl home from the hospital. You've been looking forward to this for the last nine months. Now you can spend some quality time with the love of your life, alcohol! Once again, the things you put into your body will only affect you. Your friends had tried to convince you to breastfeed, but you'd have none of it. "Moderate alcohol consumption won't affect the baby if you breastfeed." they said. Moderate alcohol consumption? It's like they've never even met you!

Rosie's down for a nap, so you should have time for a quick martini. You set the baby monitor down on the counter and open a cabinet. You are greeted by a panoply of liquors. Decisions, decisions! After much deliberation, you grab a bottle of Williams Chase. Juniper, apple, elderflower, and a hint of citrus. But, more importantly, 48% alcohol by volume! You'll pair it with, let's see, Imbue Bittersweet Vermouth.

You pull out your trusty cocktail shaker. Lots of people have tried to tell you that you should stir martinis, not shake them. But fuck those guys! James Bond takes his martinis shaken, and he's the coolest. Speaking of cool… You head over to the freezer and put some ice in the shaker. Now, the gin, next, the vermouth, and finally seal it up. You have an old trick for timing how long to shake a drink. As you start shaking, you start singing and (why not?) dancing too. "Shake, shake, shake. Shake, shake, shake. Shake your booty. Aww, shake your booty." There! That's always about the right amount of mixing.

Martini in hand, you head out to the living room and flop down in your favorite armchair. Now this is more like it! Booze, and you can actually sit comfortably. You bring your drink up to your face and let the aroma waft up to your nose. "Oh, I've missed you so much." you whisper. The first sip tastes almost as good as your very first drink all those years ago. Well, sip might be an understatement. You kind of shotgun that martini. Now, to sit back and let the magic of alcohol make everything so much better.

You startle awake. Guess you dozed off. How long were you out? Still, if anything had happened, you have heard it over the baby monitor. No, wait, you left the baby monitor in the kitchen. To the baby's room! You almost skid past the crib when you break out of your sprint. Ah, but there's Rosie, all safe and sound, snuggling some sort of green plush. You flip on the lights, since she's clearly already awake. Across the newly-illuminated room, you notice the window is not only unlocked, but open a crack.

That won't do! It's drone season! Right this moment, those drones are out scouring the countryside, looking for litters of newborn animals. They just slip a grub in there, and figure the parents won't notice and extra body… with horns and six legs. And they don't! Animals are stupid. Anyway, the drones can smell some kind of pheromone or whatever put off by newborns. Best get this room sealed off, or you'll have giant insect monsters poking around.

Now, back over to the crib. You know, you don't remember buying a green plush. You wonder- Oh no! upon closer inspection, that's not a plush. That's a little jade-blooded troll grub. If you chuck it back outside, will the drone take it back? Only one way to find out. You pick up the little wiggler, and it lives up to it's name. It's trying to squirm out of your grip and get back to Rose. Fat chance you're letting some wild animal get all cuddly with your daughter! Even an adorable one. Shortly after you pick up the grub, Rosie starts crying. "Aww, what's the matter little one, are you hungry?" While you're distracted the young troll wins free of your grip. She lands back in the crib, and quickly makes her way back to your baby. Immediately, she quiets down. You don't like the direction this is headed in.

It's just as you feared. Rosie cries inconsolably whenever you take away the grub, and only quiets down when you give her back. In the interests of getting some sleep, you decide to let the grub stay for a little while. Just until your daughter looses interest. Then you'll ditch the thing.

Years in the Future:

You sit with your head resting on the kitchen table. Your eyes are tightly shut. It's a pretty bad hangover today. You try to tune out the world and well in sweet oblivion, but you're thwarted by an incessant noise. "Click clack. Click clack. Click clack." it goes, on and on. You stagger into the living room, where, unsurprisingly, you find Rose knitting on the couch. "Rose, dear, mommy's head is killing her. Could you practice a quiet hobby? Maybe you could help Kanaya with one of her sewing projects."

No sooner than you speak her name, you hear footsteps behind you. "Did I hear my name?" Kanaya asks. You turn around. That was a mistake. Kanaya is shining with full intensity. The bright light sends an icepick of pain through the front of your skull. You have such inconsiderate daughters.

Chapter Text

Your name is Dirk Srider, and you've got this house locked up tighter than a sumbitch. The windows are permanently sealed hut, in defiance of fire code, and are made of bulletproof glass. The door's quaint appearance belies a steal core. There isn't even a keyhole on the outside. Nothings getting in here unless the door is opened from the inside. You're proud to have the only farmhouse in the county designed to withstand a government siege. Though you're not really sure why your parents built it that way.

Anyway, their eccentricities have paid off in this case. It's drone season, but you don't have to worry on this front. Unfortunately, the barn is just a regular barn so you still have to be alert. You've got three animals that recently gave birth. You've got to keep them away from any grubs, or their maternal instincts will kick in. Lord knows you don't need more mouths to feed, but you just don't know if you can bring yourself to take away the wigglers once the animals have bonded to them. Whoever said livestock can't make puppy-dog eyes lied. Actually, you're not sure you've ever heard anyone say that.

Dad always took care of any grubs that showed up. You're pretty sure "took care of" means "killed." You can't rely on him anymore though. You have to manage the farm yourself now. Your mom and dad passed away last winter in a tragic octopus-wrestling accident. The fire extinguisher jammed just as that big one came bearing down on them. You push the memory from your mind. You have work to do now.

"I'm headed out." you call out loudly. Brobot sticks his head out of the kitchen to give you a thumbs-up. You see he's got a bottle in his other hand. Ah yes, Dave's morning feeding. Good old, reliable Brobot. Why, without him, you wouldn't even be able to set foot outside of the house. Well, that's not true. You just wouldn't be able to get back in again. Seriously, who builds doors that can't be opened from the outside? Sometimes you wonder what this family was into.

You've hardly made it two steps out the door when you hear rustling in the brush across the yard. You look over in time to see something white disappearing into the vegetation. Oh no! There are definitely drones about! You hope he didn't have time to make any deposits. You stride over to where you lost sight of the thing. The woods are pretty dense this way, and following him wouldn't serve much purpose anyway. But you do get something useful. Looks like the drone left some muddy footprints. You'll just backtrack along his path, and see what he was up to.

You follow the trail to your little pond. Figures that that's where the mud would come from. It hasn't rained in a few days, so the ground's pretty dry. But why did the drone wade into the water? Was he thirsty? Your detective work is interrupted by a loud "Honk!" followed by another, quieter "Honk!" There's a goose tooling around in the water, followed by five little goslings. On her back sits an indigo-colored grub. "Honk!" says the goose. "Honk!" echoes the wiggler, with considerably less volume, but great enthusiasm. Phew! That's all the drone was here for! Wild animals raising grubs isn't your problem. You head on towards the barn, with your mind now at ease.

As you're walking, you hear someone knocking on the house door. You don't even bother to look back. Whoever it is, Brobot will deal with it. You open up the barn, and mentally cross your fingers. Come on, no wigglers! You find three wigglers. The mare is bedded down with her foal, and also a little blue grub snuggled up with them. The calf is nursing from its mother, and so is a coppery-looking wiggler with horns much too big for it. Its just kind of dangling from the udder. You can't figure out how it even got up there. Your Saanan Goat doe looks up at you with mild curiosity. The maroon grub perched on her head also looks up at you curiously. The doe's kid is milling about a few feet away.

You're overcome by the sudden urge to throw your hat on the ground and stomp on it. But no! You love that hat! That's what the drones want, to turn us and our head wear against each other. Or, no wait, that didn't make any sense. You really shouldn't have gone out without your traditional morning gallon of coffee. Why does everything on a farm have to happen so damn early? Maybe if you install a TV in the barn and stream Netflix to it, the animals will stay up late watching it, like you do, and sleep in, like you want to.

This turn of events definitely calls for some sulking. The rest of your morning chores can wait. You're headed back to the house. You plod along, shoulder's slumped forward, getting a good head start on the sulking. When you arrive at the door, you knock and yell "Honey, I'm home!" Shortly, Brobot opens the door and ushers you in.

"Who was it that stopped by?" you ask, glumly. "Anything important?"

Brobot takes a small box from the table beside the door and hands it to you. It's a plain cardboard box with the word "Mail" written on one side in marker. There isn't even an attempt at something resembling an address, or a stamp, or anything.

"Okay, no." you tell Brobot. "That was clearly not the real mailman." You may have to tweak his AI. "Was there anything in the box?"

Brobot points over to the living room.

You walk into the room and scan around for anything one of the local kids might have shoved into a box. Like a dead bird, or a flaming bag of dog poop, or… well, not that last one. Maybe a regular, non-flaming, bag of dog poop. You were not expecting what you do find. There, among the scattered toys, are two suckling babes. Dave is finishing off his bottle, nothing unusual about that. But there's also a candy-red grub working away at its own bottle, still mostly full. Four grubs! And here you thought three was the worst-case scenario!

Months in the Future:

You hold back a young troll as he tries to go charging off into the woods. His face is messy with purple tears and snot. "Come on now." you say. "You'll just get yourself lost. There's no way you could keep up with them." His bawling just gets louder. That wasn't the right thing to say. "They have to migrate south now or they'll die. You've grown too big for them to carry while they fly." Okay, wait. Don't play up that angle or he'll probably become anorexic.

"They'll be back again in a few months." you try instead. That one seemed to work. He becomes just a little less hysteric. "In the mean time, I can set you up in the same room as Karkat. You like Karkat, right?" His sobbing fades to quite hiccups, so either you're comforting him, or he's just worn himself out. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up, then I'll fix you your favorite, little ripped-up pieces of bread. I'll tear apart a whole loaf." The troll lets out a sad, resigned honk. You're going to take that as a yes.

Damnit, you think to yourself. Now I've got five of these things to take care of. The whole walk back to the farmhouse, your newest grub never takes his eyes off the southern sky, where a V-shaped cluster of silhouettes slowly flap off into the distance.

Chapter Text

Your name is Jake Harley, and you're about to start another wondrous day working at the Zooquarium. Your son keeps asking when you're going to retire. He doesn't think a man your age should spend his days around deadly apex predators. 'They're hard-wired to go after the elderly and infirm,' he says, 'one of these days, instinct will take over.' What nonsense! You've built up quite a rapport with every animal under your care. There's not a one of them that would harm a hair on your head. And if you retired, you'd miss them all so terribly.

You're coming up to the gate now. You tip your pith helmet to the man on duty. He nods back. Currently, he's in the process of admitting a small family. In fact, the mother is just handing over her handbag for inspection. Security has to be pretty tight this time of year. The drones would love to sneak a grub onto Zooquarium grounds. Slipping a wiggler into an unsuspecting patron's purse is just the sort of crafty plan those scamps would come up with. Why, just a few weeks ago, you opened up your hobby beehive and were shocked to find a little yellow troll grub squirming about in an unfilled corner. How did the drone open up the hive without incurring the wrath of the bees? You'll never know. Truly, the cunning of a drone cannot be overestimated.

You reach the gate just as the man at the door hands the purse back to the woman. Or tries to hand it back, anyway. It seems she hadn't gotten a hold of it quite as quickly as he thought, and the bag drops to the floor. It spills out a whole mess of coins and makeup thing-a-ma-whozits. Naturally, you bend down to gather up the errant items. It will be a cold day in hell when you don't stop to help a lady in need. The other employee beats you to the punch, on account of his younger knees, but you don't let that deter you. With your help, this will go twice as fast.

There's a crashing noise from the direction of some nearby shrubbery, you hear a rapid thud-thud-thud of heavy footfalls, and you feel a breeze as someone goes running past you. You look up to see that the someone is a drone, tearing off into the park at top speed. The ticket man stares in shock for a few seconds, then scrambles to get a call out on his walkie-talkie. You don't bother trying to give chase. By the time you managed to stand up, he'd be long gone. It seems a drone has gotten the best of you once again. "Well played, old chap," you say to the back of his retreating form.

Later that day, with the drone brouhaha long-since finished, you're ready to check up on one of your favorite charges. Pounce is a 14-year-old Barbary lioness. That's getting on in years, by lion standards. But despite her age, you've always found Pounce to be playful and energetic. Well, until recently, that is. Earlier this spring, she miscarried a pair of cubs. She just hasn't been the same since, moping about the enclosure, showing only mild interest in food. You wish you knew some way to buoy her spirits.

When you step into the lioness' den, you're very surprised to hear a deep, rumbling purring. What's this? You haven't heard Pounce purr since she lost the cubs! When you left yesterday, she was still in a deep funk. What could have cheered her so much in such a short time? As you contemplate this turn of events, you notice a second sound, almost drowned out by Pounce's purring. More purring, but softer, less deep. Pounce has her back to you, but you can make out that she's licking something. Grooming something small situated in front of her. How can this be? You saw the cubs yourself, there was nothing that could be done.

Oh god! Is the Zooquarium being haunted by ghost cats? Baby ghost cats? You creep forward, afraid of what might await you. When you're close enough to see over Pounce, you're relived to discover that the mystery party isn't an undead creature of any sort. Instead, she's a little olive-colored grub. She's curled up in front of Pounce, and the lioness is licking the little tuft of her messy, black hair. Phew! good thing there didn't turn out to be a ghost. I mean, who would you even call?

You know, you can really empathize with Pounce's sudden attachment. You remember when you found Sollux. He looked up at you with those big, blue and red, flashing eyes, and you just had to take him in. With her heart already aching for something to care for, Pounce would have been no match for a grub's adorable wiles. Looking at the adoptive mother-daughter pair before you, and thinking of Sollux, you know what you need to do. You have to convince the Zooquarium director to let her keep the wiggler. It won't be easy. It will take the silver-est of tongues, and the puppy-dog-est of eyes, but you must succeed! For Pounce!

Days in the Future:

"So, these are our other two new additions?" you ask. You're standing in front of a large window looking into the Zooquarium's dolphin tank. A little violet sea grub floats at about eye level just a few feet away on the other side of the glass. He's giving you the stink eye and holding his front two legs up in some sort of display. Much further off, you can see a dolphin zipping around with a fuchsia-colored grub clinging to it's dorsal fin. You can't hear through all the water and glass, but judging by her little face, she's shouting 'Wheeeeeeee!' at the top of her lungs. Or whatever it is sea trolls have instead of lungs.

"Yep," replies the marine mammal trainer. "The girl is a real peach, but I don't think the boy likes me much. I don't take it personally though. He doesn't seem to like anyone much."

"Speaking of the boy, what exactly is it he's doing with his legs there?"

"I think he's trying to flip us the double bird."

"Without fingers?" you ask, incredulously. "And how could he possibly know about something like that?"

"I don't know. How do they all learn to talk? Most of them grow up with only animals around."

Well, that is an interesting point. "You think English and obscene hand gestures are hard-coded into troll DNA?"

"It would make as much sense as anything."

Chapter Text

Your name is Trinidad Egbert, and you are ready for work! You triple-check your tie in the mirror. Today you went with a full Windsor knot instead of your customary half Windsor. It's not like you to be so impulsive, but what the hey, you only live once! Time to head downstairs.

"Trini?" Your mother calls as you pass. She's seated on the couch, cradling your son, John.

"Mom," you sigh "you know I don't go by 'Trini.'" That nickname has always sounded inappropriately feminine to you. "I prefer 'Dad.'"

"Yeah, that's great." She waves off your protest. "You're free to shorten your name however you like. But, as your mother, it would be super weird for me to call you 'Dad.' Anyway," she plows ahead. "Could you stop by the library on your way home from work? The new Jack Reacher novel is in."

"Oh, no problem." you reply, as make your way into the kitchen.

You know, 'Trinidad' was a weird choice for a name. Your mother tells you you're named after the place she and your father went for their honeymoon, which is kind of sweet. It wasn't the Caribbian island named Trinidad, though. It was a tiny town in Grant County, Washington with the same name. That was a weird choice too, but she insists they didn't just get confused at the travel agency.

Ah, but why nitpick past decisions? There's the whole future ahead of you, filled with uncertainty and adventure! You slide a couple slices of bread into the toaster, open up the cupboard, and start the important task of deciding which coffee cup you'll use today.

As you putter about, you can hear your mother talking to John in the next room.

"Can you say Grandma?" she asks, in that excited and soft voice she always uses with babies… and dogs. "Graaaandmaaaa" she enunciates.

"Nana." burbles John.

"Okay, how about Gram Gram?" she tries. "Say Gram Gram!"

"Nana."

"Granny?"

"Nana."

Well, it looks like you're not the only one with name troubles.

You settle down at the kitchen table, with your toast and your coffee. You've decided to go with the mug that says 'Born to be Wired.' He, he! Like 'wild,' but with caffeine! Where do they find the jokesters who write this stuff?

While you eat, you bring up the Eagle Cam site on your laptop. For the last few years, there's been a golden eagle nesting in the woods behind your house. You see it soaring in he sky sometimes. It's so majestic, you have to fight the urge to salute! You can't salute a golden eagle though, only bald eagles. You're pretty sure there's a law.

Anyway, the DNR has a camera set up to view the nest, and it streams live on their website. There are two little chicks in the nest now, and they're so cute! You like to pull it up whenever you've got a little time. Like now.

Huh, that's odd. There's a sort of blueish, greenish mass in the nest. It's right in between the baby eagles. The lump shifts slightly, then begins to move around in earnest. You don't understand what you're looking at until a little tuft of black fluff turns about to reveal a tiny gray face. Oh! A troll larva! You don't have much time to process this development when the mother bird flaps into frame. She's carrying a fish in her talons. Her chicks perk up immediately, and start clamoring for their shares.

The grub looks back and forth between the two eaglets. It doesn't seem to understand what this sudden ruckus is all about, but eventually, it just shrugs. You wouldn't have thought a grub could shrug, what with their complete lack of shoulders, but there it was. Having apparently decided 'Okay, I guess this is what we're doing now,' the little wiggler rears up on its hind legs, tilts its head back and begins to peep with all its might.

"Peep, peep. Peep." comes the chorus from the nest. The grub keeps looking out of the corners of her eyes at the other two, perhaps to make sure she's doing it right. Since it isn't watching the momma eagle, the grub is caught completely off guard when she stuffs a chunk of fish into its open mouth. The grub is cut off mid-peep by the sudden introduction of the morsel. It flails about in surprise for a moment, seemingly unsure what to make of this development.

Tentatively, the wiggler begins to chew on the mouthful of fish. It seems to find the taste to its liking, because it soon gulps it down, then begins peeping again, with greater enthusiasm now that it grasps the connection with food. Well, it looks like the nest cam is going to be even more interesting this year.

Oh, wow, look at the time! If you don't leave soon, and if traffic is bad, then you might only be ten minutes early for work! That's practically the same as being late!

You're not two steps out the door when you notice something out of place in your forsythia bush, a blue grub! It seems Mr. and Ms. Eagle weren't the only one to get a delivery from the drone last night. But why the bush? There aren't even any birds or squirrels living in it. And certainly nothing large enough to be a good candidate for grub rearing. Hmm, maybe you should take a closer look.

Well, you don't see the parents around anywhere. And, worse yet, the wiggler's somehow gotten caught in a spider web! That doesn't make any sense though. A spider web shouldn't be able to support that much weight. No, wait. Those thick strands aren't spider silk. They're string. And they're not part of the web. Someone tied a little net below the web, and the weight of the grub has bowed the center of the web down into it. Someone went to a lot of trouble getting this wiggler situated in this spider's web, but why? Who would want to feed this adorable little thing to a nasty old spider?

For that matter, how is the spider supposed to eat something that much bigger than itself? That just doesn’t seem feasible. That isn't stopping it from trying though. It's crawling around the grub, wrapping it in stand after strand, even though it's not making a dent in the task. The little thing's got the catch of a lifetime, and it's not going to let it slip away without a fight. You have to admire that sort of can-do attitude. Except for the part where it's trying to eat a baby troll.

The grub's eyes follow the spider on its steady circuits. It lets out a few inquisitive chirrs, apparently quite relaxed. Poor thing, it doesn't even comprehend the danger it's in. Not that babies in general are good at recognizing danger. That's why all your outlets have baby-proof covers, and why you have a baby gate at the top of your steps. Well, time once again to whisk a little one away to a safer location. You gently pick up the wiggler and pull it free of the web.

It notices you for the first time, turning its head all around to inspecting the hands now supporting it. You try your best to pick off the trailing strands of webbing but the constant squirming makes it difficult. Suddenly your hands seems to have lost their appeal. The grub's focus now traces up you arms and onto your face. As the grub gazes into your eyes, you gaze back, and pluck a strand of sticky silk from its bangs. The two of you are definitely having a moment.

You turn and take a step back toward the house. There's a very slight crunching noise from beneath your foot. Quiet as it was, the grub immediately goes stock still, its little eyes open wide in alarm. It jerks its head around and stares at the edge of your right shoe, where four tiny legs can be seen sticking out from underneath. Huh, the spider must have gotten knocked to the ground when you disturbed its web. There's a beat of silence, and then the grub in your hands launches into a prodigious crying spree.

"Waaaaaaaa!"

Oh wow! The wiggler's sure got a healthy set of lungs! Squishing that bug sure seems to have set it off. You wonder why?

"Aaaaaaaa!"

I mean, the grub couldn't possibly have imprinted on the spider that was trying to eat it. Instincts wouldn't steer it that far wrong. Right?

"Aaaaaaaah!"

Minutes in the Future:

"I don't know what that drone was thinking!" you fume. "Spiders don't care for their young!"

Your mother is cradling the grub to her chest, and it looks like she's finally gotten it to settle down. You haven't heard any tiny sniffles in a while, anyway.

"And even if they did," you continue as you pace, "how was something so small supposed to keep a growing troll fed?"

Your mother holds the grub up in front of herself, and fixes it with a meaningful gaze. With grave seriousness, she questions the wiggler, "Can you say 'Grandma?'"

"Nana." says John, from his position in your arms.

The grub looks over at John, then up at your mother. "Nana?" it asks.