==> Vaziok: Throw an extremely expensive highblood tantrum.
The world is filth and you are a cataclysm.
You have no feeling but rage, no desire but to destroy. Your mind, formerly so coolly sharp, is a seething tar pit of fury in which no coherent thoughts can form. The only reason you haven’t massacred the lowbloods around you is because they wouldn’t detonate loudly enough.
When you woke up from sedation, lusus-white and groggy, they told you Heleph was gone. You called them liars; they showed you the evidence. You accused them of doing him in themselves; you didn’t listen to their arguments, but you did remember the cameras Heleph liked to plant around the place in case the two of you got up to anything you wanted to film. You found the relevant video.
You watched the drone come for him. You watched its dull gaze pass over you and the others, all sleeping, and dismiss you. You watched Heleph try to take a tissue sample from it, with that mad grin of his, that science-trumps-survival grin — idiot, idiot! — it interpreted that as an attack, of course, and disabled him with lightning claw-swipes to his arms. And then it took him away.
Maybe the lowbloods had already tried to tell you they thought he wasn’t dead. You’re not sure. When you saw it with your own eyes, you believed it, and you tried to think through the implications. You tried. The Empire has some use for him, but not helming with a psi like that, you have no idea what they’ll do to him, where they took him — space, probably — where you could have gotten access to him eventually if you ascended and abused your rank like a normal troll —
Because you undertook to become a pseudo-lusus.
So you could stay down here.
… And that’s where your recall fragments, because you stopped thinking anything at all for a while.
You spent a lot of time sulking underwater. When you weren’t underwater, you were sitting… somewhere… wherever you happened to stop feeling like walking… in nothing but the swim leggings you woke up in. You became filthy. You didn’t eat. Neither of the lowbloods was brave enough — or gave enough of a damn, maybe — to make you eat or wash. This may have gone on for weeks.
You probably didn’t mope the whole time. You vaguely remember smashing lab glassware. Your hand hurt for a while, knuckles swelled up, so you probably punched Negaje. Pan-fucked enough to either forget about her skin-hardening ability, or to not care if you broke your hand. You didn’t do anything about your hand, but it healed anyway.
And then, one day, as you drifted beneath the waves looking up at the deadly shimmer of sunlight above, imagining what it would be like to surface and get your eyes burned out, a shark had a go at eating you. You reacted by pure instinct. You didn’t have your spear with you, and you might not have been able to use it if you had, but you were practically an animal yourself by that point. Claws and teeth sufficed.
Blood in the water woke you from grief to rage. You tore great chunks of flesh out of the shark and ate them raw, left its still twitching carcass to feed its kin, and returned to the Ammonite.
You took a long shower, washed meticulously, trimmed your claws, brushed your fangs, combed your hair, polished your horns. You dressed yourself in your most elaborate pseudo-uniform, dripping with gold braid and garnets. Your sharpest claw-covers, black enameled steel with gold inlay. You put on tall, shiny black boots — you hadn’t worn shoes of any kind for so long that your feet protested at being covered, but you didn’t care about that. Your strides must ring on the decking.
As you clasped your sign at your collar, you looked at the mirror and saw a vengeful ghost staring back. Your eyes were on fire.
Then you went to the controls, raised the Ammonite to the surface, and commenced the bombardment. Finding a target worthy of your wrath would’ve taken too long, so you fired at the harbor cliffs.
Somewhere in the depths of your mind, a sane remnant is trying to tell you you’re wasting torpedoes that cost fifty thousand caegars apiece, and for absolutely no reason. That remnant is not loud enough to make itself heard through the thundering outrage that occupies the rest of your consciousness. You will pound these cliffs until the world falls down. When you run out of torpedoes, you’ll use missiles. When you run out of missiles you’ll use grenades. When you run out of grenades you’ll use explosive bullets — you have a shitload of those — and when those are gone you will tear the world apart with your teeth.
snowghoul
andulkaphoto
baratheonpilled
jacobvanloon
germansingergirl
