You've been carving for nights, for more than a perigee now. For some reason, you can never make out what your hands produce as you sleep - if you can call it sleep - despite a clear understanding of the rest of the world, your psychic senses can't seem to resolve these strange totems.
You can't bring yourself to throw them out, though, nor ask anyone else about them. Something about your dreams, something you can't resolve or recall, but is incredibly important all the same.
When the game comes, you find yourself operating as if programmed. Your limbs follow instructions originating somewhere entirely other, a deep instinctive understanding of your purpose and place. The whispers grow louder every second, the eyes glowing, burning in your mind. You haven't seen anything in sweeps, haven't known what vision is like since your death.
Your blood stains Vriska's hands, and you know it. You've always known it, and never cared.
When the time comes, you crack open the cruxtruder with your bare hands, tearing the lid off with mind-enhanced strength. You work like a troll possessed - not entirely inaccurate to be truthful - as you manipulate Vriska's grubtop at a distance, pinning her to the floor and executing your path exactly as you must.
You can smell the orb, flashing and sparkling in the air. You let Vriska up; let her watch - she can't do anything about this any more.
This is how it has to be.
In the last moments before you enter, before the meaning of your existence changes forever, you take a statuette, a small bone carving of your own design. A thought to the troll you took it from flits through your mind; another lowblood, one of a few you've preyed upon in your time. Eridan would never forgive you if he knew. But now they serve another purpose: You prototype the bone carving, and the orb glows.
Then you stop existing in the false reality you were hatched into, and enter the true world.
2087
romaincrisis
turnnoffyourmind
titsay
theartofmadeline
