knights-unwelcommentary's archives

[knights-unwelcommentary]

Karkat, face up on the floor: Sollux left

Dave, mixing music on the table: I know, bro

Karkat: I asked him to stay

Dave: I know, bro

Karkat: But he still left

Dave: I know, bro

Karkat: Was it something I did?

Dave: Was it?

Karkat: I broke his teeth and said a lot of shit I didn’t mean

Dave: And he was pissed at you for that?

Karkat: I dunno. No?

Dave: It’s been almost three years dude, maybe it’s time to move on

Karkat: When have I ever moved on from any fucking thing?

Dave: Touché

[knights-unwelcommentary]

Dave: Let’s do this one more time

Dave: You’ve got to stop focusing on whatever you think my personal stake on this shit is and just hear me out

John: But I can’t help wondering why you’d be so invested in this unless you were… You know

Dave: I’m invested cause I want my good bro John to be on the same page as the rest of the class, alright?

John: I do want to be on the same page as everyone

Dave: That’s the spirit

Dave: Maybe sexuality’s too advanced for you

Dave: We’re going to have to start smaller

John: Now you’re being condescending, jerkface

Keep reading

[knights-unwelcommentary]

Karkat: Dave?!

Dave: Sup

Karkat: Huh…

Karkat: What are you doing man? Isn’t it a little early to lose our fucking thinkpans to the furthest ring?

Dave: What

Karkat: You just dove in there like there’s a murderer on the loose, what’s up with that?

Dave: The Mayor was getting all fidgety and bored so we’re playing hide and seek to shake things up

Karkat: ???

Dave: It’s a wiggler game

Karkat: And?

Dave: Holy shit, stop giving away my location

Dave: I’m not going to fucking explain hide and seek to you it’s hide and seek shit’s as self-explanatory as it gets

Karkat, turning away petulantly: Whatever, I don’t give a fuck

Dave:

Karkat:

Dave: jsyk The Mayor would be thrilled to find two for the price of one

Karkat: …

Karkat: Scooch over

[knights-unwelcommentary]

Dave: Did someone tell you that or did you reach that conclusion organically?

Jade: What do you mean?

Dave: Like, if someone told you that my main dude Karkat’s an impatient motherfucker that’s fine you’ll get over that misconception

Dave: But if like, you got that idea from texting him for what was like three hours top on his end, of what was mostly a desperate cry for help slash indignant shithead troll tantrum over what he thought was us indirectly trying to get his team killed

Dave: Wait where was I going with this

Jade: You said something about a misconception? We were talking about getting ice cream before

Dave: Oh yeah

Dave: Point is, Karkat didn’t rage quit the line last time cause he’s impatient

Dave: He did it cause his endurance’s lower than an underfed grandpa’s

Jade: So what you’re saying is that mocking him about his patience’s useless because I’m mocking the wrong thing and I should mock him about being out of shape instead?

Dave: You know it, Harley

[knights-unwelcommentary]

Ripe fruit on Alternia would probably last very litle with the heat so trolls would have to either refrigerate it immediately or suck it up and eat it while it’s not ripe yet or while it’s fermented

[knights-unwelcommentary]

Terezi, starting a call: I’m at the grocery store

Dave: So?

Terezi: Why’s all the fruit in the open?

Dave: I don’t know, dude

Dave: Where else would you put it?

Terezi: Huh

Terezi: Doesn’t it spoil and they have to throw out the whole stock?

Dave: What? Bananas go bad in a week

Dave: Everything else’s good longer and gets sold way before expiration

Dave: Unless people go around groping the vegs too hard

Dave: Releasing their inner perv in the veggie aisle and shit

Dave: Youre a newbie rn so stay away from the avocados

Terezi: I can agree to those terms

Terezi: Thanks Dave sorry for waking you up

Dave: Bye

Dave: Stop calling me before 10 am

Dave: jesus this whole exchange was stupid as fuck

Terezi, captchalogues palm husk: Earth is awesome!

Terezi: *maniacal laughter*

[knights-unwelcommentary]

Dave: Alright I'm done with this one

Dave: What next

Dirk: We can move on to sewing buttons or darning holes with what you already got down

Dave: What's darning?

Dave: Wait hold on a second

Dave, turns to the door: Where are you off to man?

Karkat: John's. I'll be yelling at him to clean the place

Dave: Did you check if he actually wants your help this time?

Karkat: Yeah. He's the one that messaged me for it

Dave: Cool ttyl

Karkat: Later, assholes

[Karkat leaves]

Dirk: He has to check if it's alright to help?

Dave: Yep

Dave: Sometimes he sees problems that aren't there or people aren't ready to fix or don't want to get others involved

Dave: Not everyone's on board with his kind of help all the time, I mean

Dirk, pikachu face: Oh hell.

[knights-unwelcommentary]

GT: Youre so skilled with that katana of yours that youd make quick work of all this frightening fauna.

TT: Sure.

GT: We could hang out all the time and go on adventures and engage in some good old-fashioned scrums and what not.

TT: I can't be there in person, but I can send you something to that effect.

GT: Really?

TT: Really.

TT: Bodyguard robot with training functions. I'll have it cooked up for your birthday.

GT: Now wait up, that was not at all what i was saying.

TT: Which is?

GT: That itd be nice to have you around the island!

TT: Yeah, I got that. But it's not going to happen so I'm making you a robot that looks like me.

GT: I...

GT: Well...

GT: I mean...

GT: If you must build a killer robot wouldnt it be easier to just send me a copy of one you already made?

TT : They're not exactly designed with protection in mind.

GT: Youre the expert. Carry on ahead, my good fellow.

TT: So. You want it to be a killer robot now?

GT: No! I mean yes! It has to kill the monsters, thats a vital part of the whole concept. Just. Can't you make it nicer?

TT: Nicer how?

GT: Nicer. I dont know. Like the ponies from that cartoon you showed me once?

TT: That'd be incompatible with a killer robot program. But I can give it a difficulty setting if you want?

GT: How would a difficulty setting make it nicer?

TT: I'd figure it out.

GT: ...

GT: What i want right now is to revisit our brainstorming session in another time. These are no hours for a man to squeeze his noggin in search of bright ideas, let's consult with the pillow and get back to this

TT: Right, it's getting late.

GT: Yes. So off I go. Bye!

TT, already starting to build the robot on zero sleep: Bye.

[knights-unwelcommentary]

Clover: Hey! Come back! You know this isn't a real daycare you helped us set up the whole thing! You can't just drop us your kids!

Gamzee: I don't know about that noise, my brother...

Gamzee: You're going to all need some believable clientele real soon

Gamzee: And there's no more summer break. A motherfucker has to go to school

Gamzee: So I wondered if you could be agreeable to keeping an eye on my little miracles and in turn I keep my lips zipped tight on this whole operation we've got here like some choice business partners

Clover: But--

Gamzee: What if I sweeten the deal with a few antiques I got? You should really get your consider on. This is a motherfucking bargain

Clover, visibly hesitant: The guys are not going to like this one bit... Well, where are the goods?

[knights-unwelcommentary]

Rose: Would you take a guess for what awaits us at the end of this journey?

Karkat: Yeah, easy. we'll be led by the nubs towards yet another riveting turn of events. And another. Aaaaand another. Ad infinitum. Or at least until we run out of lives to give up at the altar of Skaia and its deadly anctics. I'd honestly be ready to end this farce by now if it weren't for the parade of twilight zone snoozefests of an afterlife I'd be forced to mesh with day in and day fucking out

Rose: I'm sure there's plenty of ordeals still awaiting us but I was hopeful you'd be a bit more optimistic than myself

Karkat: No. Nuh-huh. It's going to suck shameglobes and I'm not going to sugarcoat it

Karkat: But I'm trusting you humans to get us through this

Karkat: If you manage to pull that off. And that's a huge fucking *if*. Then we'll rebuild and live our lives, Rose. What else?

Rose: What else indeed...

[knights-unwelcommentary]

Karkat: So yeah, that's the whole story

Dave: I've got two questions

Dave: First question

Dave: Why the fuck are you telling me this?

Karkat: Because you wanted someone to, and I quote, "sit me down and tell me what actually happened here"

Dave: Right but like

Dave: I stopped asking for the hot goss ages ago so don't pretend that's anything other than a convenient cover for whatever crabgenda you've got this time

Karkat: You're flinging around some unpleasant accusations, Strider

Dave: Second question

Dave: You sure that's the whole story? Didn't spider bitch kill one of your guys too?

Karkat: How do you know about that.

Dave: Terezi told me right after shit hit the fan

Dave: It was a whole thing

Dave: She was like pumping herself up to go dip her toes on some payback murder herself

Karkat: Alright, I might have omitted some minor details, big deal.

Dave: Minor to what

Dave: Wait, are you getting so desperate you'll take anyone you can get to agree that it's all your fault, Is that it

Karkat: What? Of course not! I mean, if you're looking at the big picture

Karkat: You've got to admit it was my piss poor performance as a leader that caused everything to go up in flames.

Dave: Dude

Karkat: I mean. It just makes sense, doesn't it?

Dave: Would it kill you to consider that maybe no one's doing you the solid of agreeing with you because there's a big fat nothing in the pile of idiot choices for self-destructive tools to blame you about? That you actually did a good job?

Karkat: Riddle me this, then. Oh, all-knowing dunderfuck. Why's everyone dead if I did such a good job?

Dave: Everyone

Dave: Why do you think we're here and not living in the bubbles right now, Karkat?

Dave: Spoiler alert, it's got nothing to do with you either

Dave: So far there's a standing pattern of things we do being as relevant as choosing the radio station in the road trip while the bus is on route to run over all of the deers and we're the deers being run over and at the same the people sitting in the bus going oh god make it stop

Karkat: You're--

Dave: My point's that beating yourself up over it's not going to bring your team back

Dave: Grow up, bro

Karkat:

Karkat: I guess I needed to hear that

[knights-unwelcommentary]

Dave: i lost a bet

Karkat: I WASN'T GOING TO ASK.

Dave: ok

Karkat: OK.

Karkat: SERIOUSLY THOUGH, IT LOOKS LIKE THE KIND OF HIGHBROW SHIT YOU'D WEAR IN A FIT OF IRONY ANYWAY.

Dave: i figured if i had to wear one i should go the whole nine yards tbh im rocking this look and the fabrics like so fucking breathable im in fresh nirvana

Dave: if it was in winter itd be unconscionable but for what it is i guess it works for me

Karkat: CLEARLY. WHOEVER MADE YOU THAT BET DOESN'T KNOW YOU WELL ENOUGH.

Dave: thatd be egbert

Dave: im still not getting through to him with the whole deconstructing cultural norms and stuff

Karkat: YOU KNOW HE'S SLOW ON THE UPTAKE. SO WILLFULY DENSE IT'S LIKE HIS PERSONAL FUCKING SUPERPOWER.

Karkat: BUT HEY, AT LEAST HE'S TRYING TO HEAR YOU OUT NOW INSTEAD OF FILLING IN WHAT HE THINKS YOU'RE GETTING TO.

Dave: it something at least

Dave: help me out with a photoshoot i want to show john that dresses are the shit

[knights-unwelcommentary]

Die by the mouth ch4

You take a detour to move your lusus from the parking space to the nearest holding facility, you pay for his stay with the cash you got from the dead olive blood you looted on your way to Sollux's place. You don't have it in yourself to risk his life against another round of unbeatable foes.

You hug him tightly before you leave him behind to regroup with Gamzee, who kindly offered to help you get to the Dark Carnival. Because he's a great friend after all and nothing like some double-crossing reprobates you know.

You take care to play the part of low blood servant walking respectfully behind his boss whenever you encounter people on your path.

"So… Your silly Faygo cult's the government's other government?"

The gravel under your strut pods crunches with every step which is nothing short of annoying.

"Yeah, but not really. If a government's meant to get at administratorial and shit, then that's not what's all happening here."

"Okay? I’m listening."

"Man, there's not much to be getting my telling on about that business. The circus' run by clowns and that's all that can be motherfucking said on the matter. It's how She likes it."

You get the sense that he's trying to tell you something important, but it's hard to focus on his words when there's a sizable chunk of his face swollen around the bee sting he still hasn’t bothered to remove.

"If the government's just an intermediary for your dark carnival then, where do I fit in all of this?"

"Shrug. That may be the best question I ever did hear spoken."

"Ok. So helpful! What's that supposed to mean?"

"Whatever a motherfucker wants it to." You're talking around in circles with this moron. "Don't think too hard about it, best friend, she's a wishy-washy bitch on a good day. The puzzle you’re looking to solve’s a heap of shredded bills for all we motherfucking know."

"I'll be the one to decide that."

"Honk."

"Yeah, keep honking away you cryptic nook wipe, it still beats having you high off your ass going on and on about miracles."

"…"

"Sorry, touchy subject. My bad."

“It’s chill.”

"Great, thanks. Uh… Where to?"

"Hm?"

"The Dark Carnival, you said you knew the way."

"Naw, brother. I said I'd take you there, there isn't a way to the Dark Carnival for your lowly bad self."

"Wow, I didn't take you for an elitist. Someone's smug now that his secret's out. Hey, are you feeling special yet?"

"Wouldn't be the only motherfucker."

"Got me there." You pause, this is kind of nice. If you let yourself forget why you're here you could almost believe you're just taking a serendipitous moonlit stroll with your best friend. Saddly you don't have the time to indulge on that phantasy."Let's get this show on the road already. If I have to wait out the sun in a circus tent, I'll do an acrobatic fucking pirouette off the handle and get hired on the spot."

"Soon. I've got to find it first."

"Don't tell me you've never actually been there." He’s never been there, the fucking piss head. "Serves me right for taking directions from you of all people. Whatever. I'll just follow the coordinates I guess, you still can come if you want."

"I've got it."

You turn to witness the surreal view of Gamzee reaching his prong into a nothing something that's a fucktangle of etymological violations but has suddenly found itself bestowed the deepness attribute. With a well measured pull the world glitches the fuck out before you. Not that anybody except you and him seems to notice.

A tapestry of undecipherable symbols slowly unfolds in a pattern you can't begin to comprehend until it dawns upon you that it's a page. A smattering of letters that form words that form sentences. A sloppy one at that.

Was it always there, your life scripted and choreographed since forever ago?

Or did it start last night? That moment your privacy felt weirdly intruded upon and never stopped feeling like it… was it not just your asshole neighbor snooping on you?

"There's more layers all beyond this one but this we're with's where we can cross the line to our destination."

You're momentarily rendered speechless by the snapping rubber band of your existential framework.

You must have opened your squawk blister half a dozen times looking like a doofus before anything came out.

This thing, you muse, poses a threat to the capacity of any sane individual to give a shit. You feel like the implications are best left ignored and unacknowledged.

"Do we have to hop in or…?"

When your best friend produces a rift in reality out of thin fucking air after you've become an unwilling participant to so many shenanigans lately, there's no reaction you should have other than resignation that any new bullshit ass pulled turn of events might as well happen.

You copy along Gamzee's quick descent through the text until you encounter a very familiar line. A scene break.

It is, beyond a doubt, the stupidest thing you've ever seen.

------

"We overshoot it. Back up a few."

"How do you know. Didn't you say you've never been here?"

"Not in this lifetime."

"Hrnnngh, very informative. Anything else you want to share with the class maybe? Should I expect a few hundred Gamzees huddling around ridding one-wheel devices two sizes too large crashing together in a massive orgy of fractured limbs forever?"

"Something to share... Right! Dark Carnival law's a free for all. Anything goes so long as the rumpus doesn’t get at too heinouswise treasonous. Whatever's happening, it's allowed. Don't get too judgemental's what I mean."

"I can't begin to imagine the objectionable dump you're bringing me to."

"Their posse doesn't deal in my kind of miracles. You'll see." He extends his prong to offer you a bottle of Faygo, you captchalogue it without a second thought. Then you're being spit out onto solid ground again.

Once the nausea becomes bearable you shake yourself out of it and keep moving.

"And on that ominous fucking note, I'm going in. Wish me luck."

"Don't have to, brother. The Messiahs are rooting for you."

You're not sure why you left Gamzee behind, it just felt like something he wanted you to do? That's right, you have to keep your friends out of the empress' radar. You're doing well so far.

You take in the place, it's something for sure. The carnival spans the size of a small town so much that you can't see the other end from where you're standing past the entrance. Behind you there's an unmanned ticket booth gathering muck and a chilled out Gamzee waving at you in what his unpolished social acumen must understand as an encouraging gesture, but just comes across in the same degree as stupid as it does flirty.

An obsidian plaque a few steps ahead reads "ioculator rex est", the words decorated with imperial red diamonds and gold threads. The frames of the tents resolve into a mesh of various kinds of high end plastics, giving them a colorful spiraling pattern.

You step forward and wariness drapes over you like a cold, sodden rag.

A shrill scream of agony rises from deep within a tent titled The Hive of Mirrors and goes on and on with no stopping in sight, until it cuts off abruptly accompanied by a sound like shattering glass.

You recoil at that but keep yourself going, you're *not* turning back with nothing to show for the trip.

The sun won't rise again for many hours, you note, then shrug off that thought. That doesn't figure among your other more pressing concerns related to finding yourself here, with the expertly crafted high tops and the luxurious looking shops, and the uncanniness that the backdrop lends the unusual configuration of shapes and forms and dried up gore everywhere you look.

Your careful steps lead you into the least imposing tent of the bunch, as soon as you cross the entrance the fortune-teller hides her palmhusk like you just caught her slacking off. The candle lights flicker unsteadily as a result.

"Hello? You're part of the staff here, right? I'm supposed to meet with your boss." No response. You keep pushing. "Do you know where I can find him?" She looks you over with a disturbing sharp gaze. She doesn't bother to stand up from her seat.

You stare at each other for a long, uncomfortable while, you're relieved when she's the first to cave in.

"No invitation. No ticket. Yet you've found your way to us. A rubberneck perhaps?" the troll across from you giggles quietly like she's remembering something funny. She looks somewhere around five sweeps old but talks like an old hag with a bad case of the flu.

"The HIC sent me. I don't fucking know."

"A rubberneck is one that comes in, to inspect the proceedings. They don't much feel like talking when they come back out. But that's not quite what you are, I don't think. Would you care for a reading, visitor?" She's too chuffed to use that deck on you for it to not be a trap ready to lure in some schmuck lacking in common sense.

As you mull over your options you are abruptly overcome by a feeling not unlike the ones that plagued you constantly as the sweeps counting down to exile for you went down one by one and with them your naive hopes to earn your way up the ranks, social standing be damned. The ones that when put into words would sound something akin to "this is it" and "they know" and "it's over". It crushes you for all of five seconds until you start berating yourself for your inability to keep your shit together and stop being such a massive fuck-up, once you do the feeling settles into your regular paranoia -- just kicked up to eleven.

You don't flinch, and you don't crumble. You don't think you can, you're too familiar with it.

"No thanks, ma'am." You take your time checking around with your torso pillar half frozen, you find her name signed on some loose paperwork and file it down to use later for well-mannered points if you have to. "I don't need some cards to tell me my luck's a lump of dried out shit smeared under a cholerbear's muddy bottom. Really, it's a widely known fact back home."

"Very well." She sounds impressed, it confuses you a little. "Very, very well." She disappears, only to reappear behind you a second later and nudge you further into the tent. "You may wait here, if you wish. I'll let the Wringmaster know, of your arrival."

And with that she leaves you on your own.

You're alone.

Holy shit what are you even doing here? What made you think this was a remotely good idea?! Oh god, this is bad. You need to get out, you have to fetch Gamzee and leave. Now!

Now...?

You can't move a muscle.

You can't do anything.

You're stuck.

Fuck.

The clock ticking overhead is all that's left to keep you company in the surreal space that your own thinkpan has become, and the feeling of terror doesn't wane. You're still breathless, paralyzed. You realize a little too late that you're beside yourself with fear.

...

Karkat remains in place stiff as a corpse, despite his better judgment.

By the time the fortune teller returns and points him in the direction where he can find his target he's got barely enough presence of mind to follow her instructions to the letter.

By the time the cheers of the crowd inside the big top shocks him back to his senses he's already being greeted by a different, even more menacing stranger.

He's stunned by the blinding lights for a second, so much so that he can barely distinguish the features of his interlocutor. He internally curses the sadistic heathen that decided the place had to be bright enough to make the sun look like a fairy light in comparison.

No other troll seems bothered. Weird.

It's glaringly obvious to anyone not fully absorbed by the spectacle that he is an outsider, which is why he's attracting more scrutiny than he's ever been at ease with.

The troll introduces himself, his words almost inaudible under the persistent honking taking place in the ring. Karkat's of half a mind to throw a tantrum about it, that is, until he realizes the jugglers under the spotlight are playing with actual rounded, squelching, sickly orange gander bulbs and he's reminded that he is still in immediate danger.

This high blood has an air of mischievous cruelty. On his head lays a carefully centered but noticeably worn out top hat and his makeup mimics the appearance of a sinister smile along with a goofy pair of arched brows fused together, a combination that pays homage to the sign displayed in the lapel of his, in Karkat's opinion, pretentious black suit.

"Word I've been told's that you're the Vantas guy who's gone and made a dare with her imperious consternation. What was it again?"

"Classified, is what it fucking was."

"Oh, I'd bet. Haha hahaha!"

"Are you The Grand Highblood or am I looking for a different clown."

"Minstrels, no, ha ha!. I am but the humble wringmaster of this miraculous little venture. I will take you to him when the show is over. Interrupting his entertainment would be mad unwise.

"Too bad we're not in season, not much to look at right now, just us and a few regulars keeping the lights on." Karkat gets the distinct feeling that he's being laughed at. He is not enthused by the notion. "Say. Maybe you can elucidate me on something. A favor for a favor, are you game?"

"As far as I'm concerned the empress is the one you want to charge for your hospitality."

"Your empress; Has little we don't already own and far less than she hopes, low blood. So if you'd be so kind."

"Ok. Hit me." He heeds Gamzee's advice and brings no attention to the wringmaster's disrespect against the HIC. He only gets slapped by a glove for his troubles.

"Haha, careful what you ask for!" An evil grin follows, "we're very literal minded people."

"..." He only realizes it's an order instead of a jab once the silence grows long and unbearable. "Yes, sir."

"What's your purpose?"

Karkat's face alights in recognition. This one he knows, he's seen this very same exchange in several period movies from back when adults were still allowed on planet.

"Trolls as low as me don't have the luxury of a purpose," he parrots.

"Yes! Haha hahaha! As long as you remember that we'll play nice." He brings his hands into a fork shape and crosses them in opposite sides with a meaningful expression, although the meaning behind it is lost on Karkat. "If you stick around you might learn something interesting about my purpose," he adds, voice cheery, doused with toxic smoke.

With that, the wringmaster takes to the spotlight to introduce the next act, and Karkat gets some room to think, he needs a plan if he's to get out alive. He searches around for anything he can use or-- his sight lands on a troll that, like him, doesn't look too thrilled to be here, he strafes closer.

"Hey, hey you," he whispers -- not the kind of shout whispering he does when he wants to make a nuisance of himself.

"Who me?"

"No, I'm talking to the other scantily dressed girl the other tent over. Yes you."

"No one talks to me"

"Why, don't tell me they still think cooties are real."

"Because I'm the Nympho."

"Good for you?" She grunts. "Really, what's the big deal?"

"The Nympho, dumb dumb, is like this whole roleplaying thing where you're like part of the rites, but instead of doing cool stuff you have to stand there, look slutty and die sometimes."

"Well, fuck! Sounds like a great gig," he quips.

"Heh, what do you know. At least I get to participate in ebbrithing. Not like the rest of the bimbos."

"I'm just saying, you couldn't pay me to do that shit."

"Whatebbs. A gal learns to take any offer she can get in this field. Odds of finding a good one are practically astronomical."

"Yeah, that's a great piece of wisdom coming from someone who acts as a prop for a living, it must be so tough to rub shoulders with the top brass." She rolls her eyes in response. "How's this for an offer. Tell me how to get through an audience in one piece and I'll owe you big time."

"Don't think you'll be off the hook soon as you get out. I'm making you pay and I'll track you down if I have to." A nod. "Just stand your ground without disagreeing with their shit. Carnies can take some shade, but they got no patience for a clueless sycophant. And whatebber you do, don't get deemed unfunny, you sound like a regular smart alec so... halfway there at least." It's not much but it's more than he got out of his friend earlier.

"Thank you, I can work with that."

"Wait, are you that guy from the HIC's announcement?" Karkat hums noncommittally. "And you're signing anon grey at your age? Wow, you're either really bold or shit out of luck."

"Oh god. You have no idea."

A vehicle races in through the wall, a scuttlebuggy whose innards have been trimmed into a bare floor with a steering panel.

It does a couple of turns at full speed around the available space and comes to a halt to unload its passengers, of which there are exactly five clowns and twenty six sea dwellers.

Once the wringmaster finishes the introduction he slides out of the way and gestures for Karkat to move to the back with him.

"This is going to get good," he whispers, giddy.

“I’m under express instructions to be a nosy shit so I'm going to have to ask.. Do you do these sea dweller roundups often?”

“Hmm, hard to say. We just grab the sneery ones when we happen upon them, --”

“Sneery!? All I reed was go on land!” The youngest among the group complains, having overheard their conversation. He can't be a season over three sweeps.

“AlL i dId WaS gO oN LaNd.” The flash of steel is all the prelude that the following decapitation warrants. The wringmaster's ceremonial hatchet claims another soul. “Maybe you should know better than to strut around our turf when you're so pestiferously jinxed." He then tilts his head towards Karkat. "Tie him to the wagon.”

Karkat tries to swallows back his immediate reaction. There'll be time to process it later, or there won't. But he still can't keep himself from responding, since the deceased doesn't seem inclined to.

“Funny thing how trolls can't help being unlucky.”

“Exahahahactly! I see you're already in with the wicked news," he raises his voice so the public may hear, "it's not what you do, or Lord forbid, what you believe! What lands you in hell's pit is none other than how you. were. made. and infidels were made to bleed, and to suffer. You can't help-it,

"The Messiahs have weighed the fate of the worthy against the rabble and their judgment's cast as the mother grub broods!" Silence, without looking at Karkat again he lowers his voice and repeats himself. "Tie him. To the wagon.” A threat goes unspoken.

Karkat hesitates, but there's not much else he can do. He takes one of the frayed ropes trailing behind the vehicle and does a thorough job on the corpse, first around the ankles, then around the waist. Making sure the body won't get dismembered once the vehicle departs.

He doesn't know what to do with the head though, after a bit of fumbling he settles on placing it under the sea dweller's elbow --like one would casually hold a ball-- and wrapping it all together with the rope.

The remaining sea dwellers cower in group, trying not to stand out in the slightest.

It's reminiscent to a crowd of low bloods accosted by a patrolling drone. The troll that looses their nerve first and splits from the group's usually the only one to meet the wrong end of a culling fork. Any absconding rogue is to be assumed guilty, of lacking mettle if nothing else.

But this is not a drone check up, Karkat wouldn't bet on any of them getting out alive no matter how much they stick together.

The wringmaster looks and laughs, and every so often he does a sudden movement that makes the whole mass of bodies flinch at once. Until he finally makes to pull something out of his pocket that turns out to just be a watch, and the motion is enough to prompt everyone to close their eyes and hold on for dear life. Once they collectively let out a relieved breath the hatchet is swung against them once again.

Several deaths follow in a blur of violence and insanity.

Karkat dutifully ties each body to the accursed wagon, content to check out of it all and let the events pass by him through a wide stream of blank numbness. He's playing a game of Bobbing for Grubs and he has submerged his head in the barrel indefinitely with the only purpose of no longer listening to the commotion outside.

As the expectation mounts higher, a couple of clowns pull some items into view to build the next scene.

A pile of pies is set neatly on the carapace of the vehicle; one of which finds itself on Karkat's hand a second later somehow.

The drum rolls like a hummingbird's wings, the spotlight squints its gaze to provide a better view, some breaths are held and some seats squeak as their occupants shift forward.

The order finally comes to throw, and the pie is launched with haste.

His aim is true and as such the humorous projectile lands on its intended target, a tall sea dweller with an embroidered starfish on each boot

Thud, splatter, squelch, the skull is revealed as the chitin and flesh and sinew melt away upon contact with what seemed like innocent cream on first glance, and then and there does begin the loud round of applause accompanied by a single euphoric exclamation of "he did it, the absolute madman!"

He can do nothing but stare and gape as his brain catches up to be met with yet another unwelcome shock. There's only so long one can keep their head underwater, unless you're a sea dweller of course. This, this wasn't supposed to happen. They are just pies, aren't they? There's a pungent smell in the air, something he doesn't recognize but has a cloyingly sweet, inorganic quality to it. The liquid burns and drips and the hair burns and drips and the clothes burn and drip away and down, down, down to the floor like a particularly unrealistic cartoon. He's not-- what happened. What's going on, did he do that? Did he kill that sea dweller, did they set him up? It must be, but is it really a deception if he knew the goal of the whole thing already? He knows those trolls-- they're done for. He's not really at fault here. He's just following instructions, it's them or him basically. Who would be naive enough to abscond, play dumb or resist.

It's funny, that's what he settles for. He chuckles with muted unease, he fell for one hell of a prank -- he has to find some hilarity in all of this and be a good sport. 'Don't be unfunny' he thinks to himself, repeating the words like a mantra.

Unaware of Karkat's internal turmoil, the sea dweller kneels and subsequently flops face down to the floor -- or, as it may, what used to be a face -- where he takes one last excruciating gulp of air. The flames only continue for a little longer before extinguishing all at once. Karkat idles close and prods at his... victim? as if looking for signs of life. He resolves to avoid a similar fate at all cost and steals his belongings with an exaggerated flourish.

"You know, you're pretty damn adorable Vantas," The Wringmaster laughs, placing a hand on Karkat's shoulder with all the casualness of an old time pal. "Where do you live?"

"Watch out, this one sneaks into people's blocks to nibble at them in their sleep. Freaky shit," warns one of the jugglers.

"Is that right? Haha Ha."

This exchange goes unnoticed by Karkat, focused as he is in burying it all as if it were just another embarrassing moment in a text conversation.

He looks at the violet blood in his hands, none of it is actually from his victim but there's something perturbing (outrageous) about it.

Upon seeing Karkat so distracted by the sight of his bloodied up hands directs one of his buddies to nudge him out of the ring while another is struck by the idea of sticking on him a note reading 'caution: wiggler's first mercide °<:o)'.

He barely notices the impromptu duel indulged by the Wringmaster between a knife wielding sea dweller and himself, he mocks and dodges with ease as if it were but another routine. Business as usual, probably. The sea dweller, severely injuried and humbled had been let go to tell the others that he shall come for them, one day.

Karkat's still staring intensely at his hands as the final few of the kidnapped fishies meet their end under the hallucinogenic influence of the Great Milenko, master of the unreal, and his retinue of mysteriously night-waking undead.

The performance concludes with a slam poetry sermon about the man in the moon and the minstrels that will reap the rewards of his harsh whimsies, all to the rhythm set by several drum with paint flying on their surface.

The audience trickles out in raucous mood as the lights begin to turn off and the clean-up staff drops by to do their thing.

"It's time," says the Wringmaster in sobering tone, and the ring gives way to a set of gigantic underground stairs. He beckons Karkat to follow into the underground.

"Are you taking me to a second location? I mean, the first one was bad enough." His remark is met with a low nasal chuckle.

The darkness of their descent shifts and morphs in the afterimage of the lights above, shaping itself into silent shrieking faces and desperate grabbing prongs and spirals resolving into spirals that resolve into spirals themselves. There's no reprieve to his senses for the grotesque sights engrave themselves behind his sight spheres as they close. splatters of blood cover the steps increasing in density the more he walks.

They enter a block or what appears to be an over-the-top home theater with a questionable sense of style that could only be described as concocted by clowns of a grim persuasion which may not be in full possession of a fucking grip on reality.

Near the farthest wall, in a grublooking screen, sits a grown man on a throne, his long horns are testament to his age, weighing him down enough to have put on some impressive neck muscles. He's wearing the kind of skull adjacent make-up you're only bound to see in your worst kinds of nightmares or a pedestrian edgy tattoo, his wild mane spreads outwards in wavy tendrils defiant of gravity. Despite the darkness his visage is not obscured in the slightest. No, it's more like shadows exude out of him with an aura of danger for the sole purpose of showcasing him in unmistakable clarity. His circle pattern clown pants and his sign shamelessly stamped on his crotch can do nothing to diminish the awe-inspiring hostile presence of this gladiator of a troll.

Where has Karkat seen that sign before?

The livestream has been going for over twenty million hours. It's true when they say the upper crust has all the time in the world.

"Grand Highblood, the witch's pet project has come to seek your blessing." The Wringmaster pulls him toward the screen by the scruff of his neck. "He's a solid one."

The troll in the screen leans forward, he then makes a series of signs with his hands, a faint noise like quick keyboard presses can be heard. After a while, some subtitles show up.

< Well met, low blood. Do you have any good jokes for me. >

"Yeah. I mean, I know a few." He flounders and mulls it over for a second. "For instance: Me."

The Grand Highblood raises an eyebrow.

"I'm the joke, it's me.

"Whenever I enter a block a laugh track starts playing. My lusus is so stupid he once dragged in a goddamn tree for 12th perigee eve. When I built my hive the whole neighborhood evicted itself and then sued me for damages.

"I won a talent show by default because all the competition got KO'd from second-hand embarrassment. The last time I took a shower the drain spent the rest of the day projectile vomiting. The only thing worse than my coding skill is my nub shriveling halitosis.

"I'M A DISGUSTING WORTHLESS BILGESACK ON THE GARGANTUAN TEAT OF A LABORING, LEPROUS MUSCLEBEAST AND MY ONLY QUALIFICATIONS ARE A MASTER'S STRATUM ON SCREWING UP IN EPIC PROPORTIONS WHILE FONDLING MY AUTOEROGENOUS SHAME GLOBES."

Karkat catches his breath, the Grand Highblood and the Wringmaster exchange a wordless look.

"Hahaha as I said. Solid."

The troll in the screen smiles wide and squeezes his nose twice, the screen dims until it's turned off, it then rotates exposing a wall fully covered in blood prints.

The Wringmaster without any warning grabs Karkat's wrist to rubs his hand against the wall in a vigorous attempt of painting with the violet blood still on it. He's not content with the result, the blood has mostly dried on his chittin by now, neverheless he continues undeterred.

To Karkat's horror, a jagged stone on the wall catches on his palm, making it bleed slightly.

The Wringmaster notices something and turns it around to inspect the odd hue. There's an almost invisible haze quickly starting to fill the room, infecting Karkat with a fear that can overpower reason, that can numb the senses, that when abused can lead some trolls to commit unspeakable acts.

"You are..."

"Not on the spectrum, jackass," he spits, fully offended. He then growls, "What. Nobody told you?" With a sweep of his sickle, he gains some distance and takes to his long practiced fighting stance.

"Such things cannot exist," mutters the Wringmaster, face unreadable.

------

You are outside. At last.

You breathe in the cool dim season air.

You look up at the star sprinkled sky.

You feel the sand shift minutely beneath your shoes. It spells the end of one grisly trial and the possibility of getting to experience the next one. The hourglass may be turned but the memories of those be-felled grains remain.

You don't suppose they'll come looking for you, you're 'in the canon' after all, even if you're still not clear on what exactly that is.

You wander aimless for what feels like hours. The screams from the carnival's attractions have long been replaced by sparse sobs and gasps. Only background noise you can easily pretend is just the wind.

You keep coming back to your shocking discovery. Well, one of them.

Meenah didn't tell. Nobody knew about your blood except maybe three people. What's worse, in stupidly prancing around assuming the whole world knew, you gave your own fucking self away. Twice. You slam your face against your palms in dismay.

Your friends thought you had committed a galactic offense to get that special treatment from the authorities. Until you disclosed your mutation and they reacted the way they did. In real time.

Fuuuuuck. You're overdue on that apology.

You spy Gamzee typing away at his palmhusk. You're... fairly sure he wasn't there a second ago. He nods at you and starts toward a cotton candy stand, walking slow for you to catch up.

Something's off. Something's deeply wrong with Gamzee, it's been worrying you for a while but you dread finding out what it is.

Everything from your stint inside the big top begins to rush back to you as you close the gap. You struggle to keep your breathing steady. It feels like you're shoving your way into a wall of steaming water.

"Did you get your understanding on?"

"Uhh!?"

"Did you get your motherfucking standing on to all what's motherfucking up?" he bellows, then he mutters "it's all fake, their slammed poetry and their mirthless mess a lies. If those unfunny motherfuckers took a peek at the truth they'd claw their blasphemous sight bulbs out and weep with their grape jelly dripping down their greased mugs."

"I couldn't give less of a shit about schisms of faith or your insane cult getting overrun by misinformation. I-- Gamzee, I think I died. I'm freaking the fuck out."

"Hmm? Now that's something I can get my belief on," he purchases two bags of cotton candy from the machine and proceeds to take a big messy bite out of one of them, not even a little bit alarmed by what you just said.

"I must have overdosed. Or maybe there was poison in the Faygo? No way, the bottle never left my side. We were having a gross murder party and then poof. Nothing. Next thing I know I'm waking up in a freezing batch of slime, I climbed out and there was a lot of whooping? Whooping's good right?"

"In context means come back soon."

"Okay, yeah. I thought so. The ringmaster gave me this and shoved me out the door... " You point at the basket full of fruit you've been carrying around.

"I heard some noise that they do that sometimes. Though at usual is all wicked manners of permanent dying. Can I get a gander up on those?"

"Go ahead"

"Yeah, you should probably ditch this bitching bunch of troublemakers," he says picking up a wriggling thing from inside an apple.

"First day in office and I'm already being framed of corruption, this is going to be a long term."

"HONK honk"

-----

twinArmageddons [TA] 1 HOUR AGO opened memo in board raiinbow rumpu2 hotliine.

TA: ii can't hear hiim anymore, what the 2hiit'2 goiing on over there TA: ii2 he okay? TA: gamzee TC: MoThEr FuCk DuDe, YeAh I'm AlRiGhT. TA: no. not you, kk. GC: G4MZ33, HOWS K4RK4T? TC: I dUnNo. HaVeN't SeEn ThAt MoThErFuCkEr In A wHiLe. TC: MaYbE hE kIcKeD tHe MoThErFuCkInG wIcKeD sHiT. TC: WaSn'T hIs ClOcK aLl Up AnD rUnNiNg OuT oF tOcK? GA: Youre Not With Him GA: Why Did You Decide To Go Along If Not To Keep An Eye On Him TC: He CaN hAnDlE hImSeLf. TC: BeSiDeS i ThOuGhT tHaT wAs ThE pLaN. TC: If SoMe MoThErFuCkEr'S mEaNt To GeT aT oUr GoOd BrO kArKaT iT's NoT uS wHaT's GoInG tO bE sToPpInG tHaT fRoM hApPeNiNg. GA: When You Put It That Way, The Plan Doesnt Sound Very GA: Sound GA: Or Benign For That Matter TC: HoLd On, PrOcUrInG sNaCkS. CA: snacks? you havve to go check on him wwhat if something happened CA: hes not answwering TA: fuck iit, ii'm on my way GC: DONT! GC: 1F YOU C4NT H34R H1M 4NYMOR3 TH3N TH4TS 1T GC: H3S GON3 AG: I can't 8elieve he actually AG: I mean, th8re has to 8e s8mething we can do AG: Aradia can he8r ghosts, we could hunt his down 8nd 8ring him 88ck. Right? AG: Right???????? CA: and then wwhat? he wwould still be fucking dead CA: i kneww wwe should havve taken him awway wwhen wwe could AG: 8xcus8 me for not 8eing all 8n for kidnapping th8 l8udest guy in t8wn CC: Well, glub. W)(at should we do now? It'd be nice to at least )(ave clos)(ore or something. AT: i WOULD SUGGEST REMINISCING BUT UM, hE ERASED HIMSELF FROM PRETTY MUCH EVERYTHING WE COULD HAVE USED FOR THAT, GC: H3 R34LLY D1D, HUH carcinoGeneticist [CG] joined board. carcinoGeneticist [CG] RIGHT NOW responded to memo. CG: HEY, GUESS WHAT. CG: I'M STILL ALIVE. CG: MOREOVER, I PLAN TO OUTLIVE EVERY SINGLE FUCKING ONE OF YOU BASTARDS. Tc: tHaT's NoT wHaT yOu SaId At Me EaRlIeR. CG: COULD YOU NOT RUIN THIS FOR ME? PLEASE? TC: UuUuH, oK. TC: Is AnY mOtHeRfUcKeR lOoKiNg To BuY sOmE eMbEzZlEd BeEtLe GrUbS? CT: D --> You are both a no%ious discredit to our people and should have been culled upon conception arsenicCatnip [AC] banned centaursTesticle [CT] from responding to memo.

[knights-unwelcommentary]

Die by the mouth ch4

You take a detour to move your lusus from the parking space to the nearest holding facility, you pay for his stay with the cash you got from the dead olive blood you looted on your way to Sollux's place. You don't have it in yourself to risk his life against another round of unbeatable foes.

You hug him tightly before you leave him behind to regroup with Gamzee, who kindly offered to help you get to the Dark Carnival. Because he's a great friend after all and nothing like some double-crossing reprobates you know.

You take care to play the part of low blood servant walking respectfully behind his boss whenever you encounter people on your path.

"So… Your silly Faygo cult's the government's other government?"

The gravel under your strut pods crunches with every step which is nothing short of annoying.

"Yeah, but not really. If a government's meant to get at administratorial and shit, then that's not what's all happening here."

"Okay? I’m listening."

"Man, there's not much to be getting my telling on about that business. The circus' run by clowns and that's all that can be motherfucking said on the matter. It's how She likes it."

You get the sense that he's trying to tell you something important, but it's hard to focus on his words when there's a sizable chunk of his face swollen around the bee sting he still hasn’t bothered to remove.

"If the government's just an intermediary for your dark carnival then, where do I fit in all of this?"

"Shrug. That may be the best question I ever did hear spoken."

"Ok. So helpful! What's that supposed to mean?"

"Whatever a motherfucker wants it to." You're talking around in circles with this moron. "Don't think too hard about it, best friend, she's a wishy-washy bitch on a good day. The puzzle you’re looking to solve’s a heap of shredded bills for all we motherfucking know."

"I'll be the one to decide that."

"Honk."

"Yeah, keep honking away you cryptic nook wipe, it still beats having you high off your ass going on and on about miracles."

"…"

"Sorry, touchy subject. My bad."

“It’s chill.”

"Great, thanks. Uh… Where to?"

"Hm?"

"The Dark Carnival, you said you knew the way."

"Naw, brother. I said I'd take you there, there isn't a way to the Dark Carnival for your lowly bad self."

"Wow, I didn't take you for an elitist. Someone's smug now that his secret's out. Hey, are you feeling special yet?"

"Wouldn't be the only motherfucker."

"Got me there." You pause, this is kind of nice. If you let yourself forget why you're here you could almost believe you're just taking a serendipitous moonlit stroll with your best friend. Saddly you don't have the time to indulge on that phantasy."Let's get this show on the road already. If I have to wait out the sun in a circus tent, I'll do an acrobatic fucking pirouette off the handle and get hired on the spot."

"Soon. I've got to find it first."

"Don't tell me you've never actually been there." He’s never been there, the fucking piss head. "Serves me right for taking directions from you of all people. Whatever. I'll just follow the coordinates I guess, you still can come if you want."

"I've got it."

You turn to witness the surreal view of Gamzee reaching his prong into a nothing something that's a fucktangle of etymological violations but has suddenly found itself bestowed the deepness attribute. With a well measured pull the world glitches the fuck out before you. Not that anybody except you and him seems to notice.

A tapestry of undecipherable symbols slowly unfolds in a pattern you can't begin to comprehend until it dawns upon you that it's a page. A smattering of letters that form words that form sentences. A sloppy one at that.

Was it always there, your life scripted and choreographed since forever ago?

Or did it start last night? That moment your privacy felt weirdly intruded upon and never stopped feeling like it… was it not just your asshole neighbor snooping on you?

"There's more layers all beyond this one but this we're with's where we can cross the line to our destination."

You're momentarily rendered speechless by the snapping rubber band of your existential framework.

You must have opened your squawk blister half a dozen times looking like a doofus before anything came out.

This thing, you muse, poses a threat to the capacity of any sane individual to give a shit. You feel like the implications are best left ignored and unacknowledged.

"Do we have to hop in or…?"

When your best friend produces a rift in reality out of thin fucking air after you've become an unwilling participant to so many shenanigans lately, there's no reaction you should have other than resignation that any new bullshit ass pulled turn of events might as well happen.

You copy along Gamzee's quick descent through the text until you encounter a very familiar line. A scene break.

It is, beyond a doubt, the stupidest thing you've ever seen.

------

"We overshoot it. Back up a few."

"How do you know. Didn't you say you've never been here?"

"Not in this lifetime."

"Hrnnngh, very informative. Anything else you want to share with the class maybe? Should I expect a few hundred Gamzees huddling around ridding one-wheel devices two sizes too large crashing together in a massive orgy of fractured limbs forever?"

"Something to share... Right! Dark Carnival law's a free for all. Anything goes so long as the rumpus doesn’t get at too heinouswise treasonous. Whatever's happening, it's allowed. Don't get too judgemental's what I mean."

"I can't begin to imagine the objectionable dump you're bringing me to."

"Their posse doesn't deal in my kind of miracles. You'll see." He extends his prong to offer you a bottle of Faygo, you captchalogue it without a second thought. Then you're being spit out onto solid ground again.

Once the nausea becomes bearable you shake yourself out of it and keep moving.

"And on that ominous fucking note, I'm going in. Wish me luck."

"Don't have to, brother. The Messiahs are rooting for you."

You're not sure why you left Gamzee behind, it just felt like something he wanted you to do? That's right, you have to keep your friends out of the empress' radar. You're doing well so far.

You take in the place, it's something for sure. The carnival spans the size of a small town so much that you can't see the other end from where you're standing past the entrance. Behind you there's an unmanned ticket booth gathering muck and a chilled out Gamzee waving at you in what his unpolished social acumen must understand as an encouraging gesture, but just comes across in the same degree as stupid as it does flirty.

An obsidian plaque a few steps ahead reads "ioculator rex est", the words decorated with imperial red diamonds and gold threads. The frames of the tents resolve into a mesh of various kinds of high end plastics, giving them a colorful spiraling pattern.

You step forward and wariness drapes over you like a cold, sodden rag.

A shrill scream of agony rises from deep within a tent titled The Hive of Mirrors and goes on and on with no stopping in sight, until it cuts off abruptly accompanied by a sound like shattering glass.

You recoil at that but keep yourself going, you're *not* turning back with nothing to show for the trip.

The sun won't rise again for many hours, you note, then shrug off that thought. That doesn't figure among your other more pressing concerns related to finding yourself here, with the expertly crafted high tops and the luxurious looking shops, and the uncanniness that the backdrop lends the unusual configuration of shapes and forms and dried up gore everywhere you look.

Your careful steps lead you into the least imposing tent of the bunch, as soon as you cross the entrance the fortune-teller hides her palmhusk like you just caught her slacking off. The candle lights flicker unsteadily as a result.

"Hello? You're part of the staff here, right? I'm supposed to meet with your boss." No response. You keep pushing. "Do you know where I can find him?" She looks you over with a disturbing sharp gaze. She doesn't bother to stand up from her seat.

You stare at each other for a long, uncomfortable while, you're relieved when she's the first to cave in.

"No invitation. No ticket. Yet you've found your way to us. A rubberneck perhaps?" the troll across from you giggles quietly like she's remembering something funny. She looks somewhere around five sweeps old but talks like an old hag with a bad case of the flu.

"The HIC sent me. I don't fucking know."

"A rubberneck is one that comes in, to inspect the proceedings. They don't much feel like talking when they come back out. But that's not quite what you are, I don't think. Would you care for a reading, visitor?" She's too chuffed to use that deck on you for it to not be a trap ready to lure in some schmuck lacking in common sense.

As you mull over your options you are abruptly overcome by a feeling not unlike the ones that plagued you constantly as the sweeps counting down to exile for you went down one by one and with them your naive hopes to earn your way up the ranks, social standing be damned. The ones that when put into words would sound something akin to "this is it" and "they know" and "it's over". It crushes you for all of five seconds until you start berating yourself for your inability to keep your shit together and stop being such a massive fuck-up, once you do the feeling settles into your regular paranoia -- just kicked up to eleven.

You don't flinch, and you don't crumble. You don't think you can, you're too familiar with it.

"No thanks, ma'am." You take your time checking around with your torso pillar half frozen, you find her name signed on some loose paperwork and file it down to use later for well-mannered points if you have to. "I don't need some cards to tell me my luck's a lump of dried out shit smeared under a cholerbear's muddy bottom. Really, it's a widely known fact back home."

"Very well." She sounds impressed, it confuses you a little. "Very, very well." She disappears, only to reappear behind you a second later and nudge you further into the tent. "You may wait here, if you wish. I'll let the Wringmaster know, of your arrival."

And with that she leaves you on your own.

You're alone.

Holy shit what are you even doing here? What made you think this was a remotely good idea?! Oh god, this is bad. You need to get out, you have to fetch Gamzee and leave. Now!

Now...?

You can't move a muscle.

You can't do anything.

You're stuck.

Fuck.

The clock ticking overhead is all that's left to keep you company in the surreal space that your own thinkpan has become, and the feeling of terror doesn't wane. You're still breathless, paralyzed. You realize a little too late that you're beside yourself with fear.

...

Karkat remains in place stiff as a corpse, despite his better judgment.

By the time the fortune teller returns and points him in the direction where he can find his target he's got barely enough presence of mind to follow her instructions to the letter.

By the time the cheers of the crowd inside the big top shocks him back to his senses he's already being greeted by a different, even more menacing stranger.

He's stunned by the blinding lights for a second, so much so that he can barely distinguish the features of his interlocutor. He internally curses the sadistic heathen that decided the place had to be bright enough to make the sun look like a fairy light in comparison.

No other troll seems bothered. Weird.

It's glaringly obvious to anyone not fully absorbed by the spectacle that he is an outsider, which is why he's attracting more scrutiny than he's ever been at ease with.

The troll introduces himself, his words almost inaudible under the persistent honking taking place in the ring. Karkat's of half a mind to throw a tantrum about it, that is, until he realizes the jugglers under the spotlight are playing with actual rounded, squelching, sickly orange gander bulbs and he's reminded that he is still in immediate danger.

This high blood has an air of mischievous cruelty. On his head lays a carefully centered but noticeably worn out top hat and his makeup mimics the appearance of a sinister smile along with a goofy pair of arched brows fused together, a combination that pays homage to the sign displayed in the lapel of his, in Karkat's opinion, pretentious black suit.

"Word I've been told's that you're the Vantas guy who's gone and made a dare with her imperious consternation. What was it again?"

"Classified, is what it fucking was."

"Oh, I'd bet. Haha hahaha!"

"Are you The Grand Highblood or am I looking for a different clown."

"Minstrels, no, ha ha!. I am but the humble wringmaster of this miraculous little venture. I will take you to him when the show is over. Interrupting his entertainment would be mad unwise.

"Too bad we're not in season, not much to look at right now, just us and a few regulars keeping the lights on." Karkat gets the distinct feeling that he's being laughed at. He is not enthused by the notion. "Say. Maybe you can elucidate me on something. A favor for a favor, are you game?"

"As far as I'm concerned the empress is the one you want to charge for your hospitality."

"Your empress; Has little we don't already own and far less than she hopes, low blood. So if you'd be so kind."

"Ok. Hit me." He heeds Gamzee's advice and brings no attention to the wringmaster's disrespect against the HIC. He only gets slapped by a glove for his troubles.

"Haha, careful what you ask for!" An evil grin follows, "we're very literal minded people."

"..." He only realizes it's an order instead of a jab once the silence grows long and unbearable. "Yes, sir."

"What's your purpose?"

Karkat's face alights in recognition. This one he knows, he's seen this very same exchange in several period movies from back when adults were still allowed on planet.

"Trolls as low as me don't have the luxury of a purpose," he parrots.

"Yes! Haha hahaha! As long as you remember that we'll play nice." He brings his hands into a fork shape and crosses them in opposite sides with a meaningful expression, although the meaning behind it is lost on Karkat. "If you stick around you might learn something interesting about my purpose," he adds, voice cheery, doused with toxic smoke.

With that, the wringmaster takes to the spotlight to introduce the next act, and Karkat gets some room to think, he needs a plan if he's to get out alive. He searches around for anything he can use or-- his sight lands on a troll that, like him, doesn't look too thrilled to be here, he strafes closer.

"Hey, hey you," he whispers -- not the kind of shout whispering he does when he wants to make a nuisance of himself.

"Who me?"

"No, I'm talking to the other scantily dressed girl the other tent over. Yes you."

"No one talks to me"

"Why, don't tell me they still think cooties are real."

"Because I'm the Nympho."

"Good for you?" She grunts. "Really, what's the big deal?"

"The Nympho, dumb dumb, is like this whole roleplaying thing where you're like part of the rites, but instead of doing cool stuff you have to stand there, look slutty and die sometimes."

"Well, fuck! Sounds like a great gig," he quips.

"Heh, what do you know. At least I get to participate in ebbrithing. Not like the rest of the bimbos."

"I'm just saying, you couldn't pay me to do that shit."

"Whatebbs. A gal learns to take any offer she can get in this field. Odds of finding a good one are practically astronomical."

"Yeah, that's a great piece of wisdom coming from someone who acts as a prop for a living, it must be so tough to rub shoulders with the top brass." She rolls her eyes in response. "How's this for an offer. Tell me how to get through an audience in one piece and I'll owe you big time."

"Don't think you'll be off the hook soon as you get out. I'm making you pay and I'll track you down if I have to." A nod. "Just stand your ground without disagreeing with their shit. Carnies can take some shade, but they got no patience for a clueless sycophant. And whatebber you do, don't get deemed unfunny, you sound like a regular smart alec so... halfway there at least." It's not much but it's more than he got out of his friend earlier.

"Thank you, I can work with that."

"Wait, are you that guy from the HIC's announcement?" Karkat hums noncommittally. "And you're signing anon grey at your age? Wow, you're either really bold or shit out of luck."

"Oh god. You have no idea."

A vehicle races in through the wall, a scuttlebuggy whose innards have been trimmed into a bare floor with a steering panel.

It does a couple of turns at full speed around the available space and comes to a halt to unload its passengers, of which there are exactly five clowns and twenty six sea dwellers.

Once the wringmaster finishes the introduction he slides out of the way and gestures for Karkat to move to the back with him.

"This is going to get good," he whispers, giddy.

“I’m under express instructions to be a nosy shit so I'm going to have to ask.. Do you do these sea dweller roundups often?”

“Hmm, hard to say. We just grab the sneery ones when we happen upon them, --”

“Sneery!? All I reed was go on land!” The youngest among the group complains, having overheard their conversation. He can't be a season over three sweeps.

“AlL i dId WaS gO oN LaNd.” The flash of steel is all the prelude that the following decapitation warrants. The wringmaster's ceremonial hatchet claims another soul. “Maybe you should know better than to strut around our turf when you're so pestiferously jinxed." He then tilts his head towards Karkat. "Tie him to the wagon.”

Karkat tries to swallows back his immediate reaction. There'll be time to process it later, or there won't. But he still can't keep himself from responding, since the deceased doesn't seem inclined to.

“Funny thing how trolls can't help being unlucky.”

“Exahahahactly! I see you're already in with the wicked news," he raises his voice so the public may hear, "it's not what you do, or Lord forbid, what you believe! What lands you in hell's pit is none other than how you. were. made. and infidels were made to bleed, and to suffer. You can't help-it,

"The Messiahs have weighed the fate of the worthy against the rabble and their judgment's cast as the mother grub broods!" Silence, without looking at Karkat again he lowers his voice and repeats himself. "Tie him. To the wagon.” A threat goes unspoken.

Karkat hesitates, but there's not much else he can do. He takes one of the frayed ropes trailing behind the vehicle and does a thorough job on the corpse, first around the ankles, then around the waist. Making sure the body won't get dismembered once the vehicle departs.

He doesn't know what to do with the head though, after a bit of fumbling he settles on placing it under the sea dweller's elbow --like one would casually hold a ball-- and wrapping it all together with the rope.

The remaining sea dwellers cower in group, trying not to stand out in the slightest.

It's reminiscent to a crowd of low bloods accosted by a patrolling drone. The troll that looses their nerve first and splits from the group's usually the only one to meet the wrong end of a culling fork. Any absconding rogue is to be assumed guilty, of lacking mettle if nothing else.

But this is not a drone check up, Karkat wouldn't bet on any of them getting out alive no matter how much they stick together.

The wringmaster looks and laughs, and every so often he does a sudden movement that makes the whole mass of bodies flinch at once. Until he finally makes to pull something out of his pocket that turns out to just be a watch, and the motion is enough to prompt everyone to close their eyes and hold on for dear life. Once they collectively let out a relieved breath the hatchet is swung against them once again.

Several deaths follow in a blur of violence and insanity.

Karkat dutifully ties each body to the accursed wagon, content to check out of it all and let the events pass by him through a wide stream of blank numbness. He's playing a game of Bobbing for Grubs and he has submerged his head in the barrel indefinitely with the only purpose of no longer listening to the commotion outside.

As the expectation mounts higher, a couple of clowns pull some items into view to build the next scene.

A pile of pies is set neatly on the carapace of the vehicle; one of which finds itself on Karkat's hand a second later somehow.

The drum rolls like a hummingbird's wings, the spotlight squints its gaze to provide a better view, some breaths are held and some seats squeak as their occupants shift forward.

The order finally comes to throw, and the pie is launched with haste.

His aim is true and as such the humorous projectile lands on its intended target, a tall sea dweller with an embroidered starfish on each boot

Thud, splatter, squelch, the skull is revealed as the chitin and flesh and sinew melt away upon contact with what seemed like innocent cream on first glance, and then and there does begin the loud round of applause accompanied by a single euphoric exclamation of "he did it, the absolute madman!"

He can do nothing but stare and gape as his brain catches up to be met with yet another unwelcome shock. There's only so long one can keep their head underwater, unless you're a sea dweller of course. This, this wasn't supposed to happen. They are just pies, aren't they? There's a pungent smell in the air, something he doesn't recognize but has a cloyingly sweet, inorganic quality to it. The liquid burns and drips and the hair burns and drips and the clothes burn and drip away and down, down, down to the floor like a particularly unrealistic cartoon. He's not-- what happened. What's going on, did he do that? Did he kill that sea dweller, did they set him up? It must be, but is it really a deception if he knew the goal of the whole thing already? He knows those trolls-- they're done for. He's not really at fault here. He's just following instructions, it's them or him basically. Who would be naive enough to abscond, play dumb or resist.

It's funny, that's what he settles for. He chuckles with muted unease, he fell for one hell of a prank -- he has to find some hilarity in all of this and be a good sport. 'Don't be unfunny' he thinks to himself, repeating the words like a mantra.

Unaware of Karkat's internal turmoil, the sea dweller kneels and subsequently flops face down to the floor -- or, as it may, what used to be a face -- where he takes one last excruciating gulp of air. The flames only continue for a little longer before extinguishing all at once. Karkat idles close and prods at his... victim? as if looking for signs of life. He resolves to avoid a similar fate at all cost and steals his belongings with an exaggerated flourish.

"You know, you're pretty damn adorable Vantas," The Wringmaster laughs, placing a hand on Karkat's shoulder with all the casualness of an old time pal. "Where do you live?"

"Watch out, this one sneaks into people's blocks to nibble at them in their sleep. Freaky shit," warns one of the jugglers.

"Is that right? Haha Ha."

This exchange goes unnoticed by Karkat, focused as he is in burying it all as if it were just another embarrassing moment in a text conversation.

He looks at the violet blood in his hands, none of it is actually from his victim but there's something perturbing (outrageous) about it.

Upon seeing Karkat so distracted by the sight of his bloodied up hands directs one of his buddies to nudge him out of the ring while another is struck by the idea of sticking on him a note reading 'caution: wiggler's first mercide °<:o)'.

He barely notices the impromptu duel indulged by the Wringmaster between a knife wielding sea dweller and himself, he mocks and dodges with ease as if it were but another routine. Business as usual, probably. The sea dweller, severely injuried and humbled had been let go to tell the others that he shall come for them, one day.

Karkat's still staring intensely at his hands as the final few of the kidnapped fishies meet their end under the hallucinogenic influence of the Great Milenko, master of the unreal, and his retinue of mysteriously night-waking undead.

The performance concludes with a slam poetry sermon about the man in the moon and the minstrels that will reap the rewards of his harsh whimsies, all to the rhythm set by several drum with paint flying on their surface.

The audience trickles out in raucous mood as the lights begin to turn off and the clean-up staff drops by to do their thing.

"It's time," says the Wringmaster in sobering tone, and the ring gives way to a set of gigantic underground stairs. He beckons Karkat to follow into the underground.

"Are you taking me to a second location? I mean, the first one was bad enough." His remark is met with a low nasal chuckle.

The darkness of their descent shifts and morphs in the afterimage of the lights above, shaping itself into silent shrieking faces and desperate grabbing prongs and spirals resolving into spirals that resolve into spirals themselves. There's no reprieve to his senses for the grotesque sights engrave themselves behind his sight spheres as they close. splatters of blood cover the steps increasing in density the more he walks.

They enter a block or what appears to be an over-the-top home theater with a questionable sense of style that could only be described as concocted by clowns of a grim persuasion which may not be in full possession of a fucking grip on reality.

Near the farthest wall, in a grublooking screen, sits a grown man on a throne, his long horns are testament to his age, weighing him down enough to have put on some impressive neck muscles. He's wearing the kind of skull adjacent make-up you're only bound to see in your worst kinds of nightmares or a pedestrian edgy tattoo, his wild mane spreads outwards in wavy tendrils defiant of gravity. Despite the darkness his visage is not obscured in the slightest. No, it's more like shadows exude out of him with an aura of danger for the sole purpose of showcasing him in unmistakable clarity. His circle pattern clown pants and his sign shamelessly stamped on his crotch can do nothing to diminish the awe-inspiring hostile presence of this gladiator of a troll.

Where has Karkat seen that sign before?

The livestream has been going for over twenty million hours. It's true when they say the upper crust has all the time in the world.

"Grand Highblood, the witch's pet project has come to seek your blessing." The Wringmaster pulls him toward the screen by the scruff of his neck. "He's a solid one."

The troll in the screen leans forward, he then makes a series of signs with his hands, a faint noise like quick keyboard presses can be heard. After a while, some subtitles show up.

< Well met, low blood. Do you have any good jokes for me. >

"Yeah. I mean, I know a few." He flounders and mulls it over for a second. "For instance: Me."

The Grand Highblood raises an eyebrow.

"I'm the joke, it's me.

"Whenever I enter a block a laugh track starts playing. My lusus is so stupid he once dragged in a goddamn tree for 12th perigee eve. When I built my hive the whole neighborhood evicted itself and then sued me for damages.

"I won a talent show by default because all the competition got KO'd from second-hand embarrassment. The last time I took a shower the drain spent the rest of the day projectile vomiting. The only thing worse than my coding skill is my nub shriveling halitosis.

"I'M A DISGUSTING WORTHLESS BILGESACK ON THE GARGANTUAN TEAT OF A LABORING, LEPROUS MUSCLEBEAST AND MY ONLY QUALIFICATIONS ARE A MASTER'S STRATUM ON SCREWING UP IN EPIC PROPORTIONS WHILE FONDLING MY AUTOEROGENOUS SHAME GLOBES."

Karkat catches his breath, the Grand Highblood and the Wringmaster exchange a wordless look.

"Hahaha as I said. Solid."

The troll in the screen smiles wide and squeezes his nose twice, the screen dims until it's turned off, it then rotates exposing a wall fully covered in blood prints.

The Wringmaster without any warning grabs Karkat's wrist to rubs his hand against the wall in a vigorous attempt of painting with the violet blood still on it. He's not content with the result, the blood has mostly dried on his chittin by now, neverheless he continues undeterred.

To Karkat's horror, a jagged stone on the wall catches on his palm, making it bleed slightly.

The Wringmaster notices something and turns it around to inspect the odd hue. There's an almost invisible haze quickly starting to fill the room, infecting Karkat with a fear that can overpower reason, that can numb the senses, that when abused can lead some trolls to commit unspeakable acts.

"You are..."

"Not on the spectrum, jackass," he spits, fully offended. He then growls, "What. Nobody told you?" With a sweep of his sickle, he gains some distance and takes to his long practiced fighting stance.

"Such things cannot exist," mutters the Wringmaster, face unreadable.

------

You are outside. At last.

You breathe in the cool dim season air.

You look up at the star sprinkled sky.

You feel the sand shift minutely beneath your shoes. It spells the end of one grisly trial and the possibility of getting to experience the next one. The hourglass may be turned but the memories of those be-felled grains remain.

You don't suppose they'll come looking for you, you're 'in the canon' after all, even if you're still not clear on what exactly that is.

You wander aimless for what feels like hours. The screams from the carnival's attractions have long been replaced by sparse sobs and gasps. Only background noise you can easily pretend is just the wind.

You keep coming back to your shocking discovery. Well, one of them.

Meenah didn't tell. Nobody knew about your blood except maybe three people. What's worse, in stupidly prancing around assuming the whole world knew, you gave your own fucking self away. Twice. You slam your face against your palms in dismay.

Your friends thought you had committed a galactic offense to get that special treatment from the authorities. Until you disclosed your mutation and they reacted the way they did. In real time.

Fuuuuuck. You're overdue on that apology.

You spy Gamzee typing away at his palmhusk. You're... fairly sure he wasn't there a second ago. He nods at you and starts toward a cotton candy stand, walking slow for you to catch up.

Something's off. Something's deeply wrong with Gamzee, it's been worrying you for a while but you dread finding out what it is.

Everything from your stint inside the big top begins to rush back to you as you close the gap. You struggle to keep your breathing steady. It feels like you're shoving your way into a wall of steaming water.

"Did you get your understanding on?"

"Uhh!?"

"Did you get your motherfucking standing on to all what's motherfucking up?" he bellows, then he mutters "it's all fake, their slammed poetry and their mirthless mess a lies. If those unfunny motherfuckers took a peek at the truth they'd claw their blasphemous sight bulbs out and weep with their grape jelly dripping down their greased mugs."

"I couldn't give less of a shit about schisms of faith or your insane cult getting overrun by misinformation. I-- Gamzee, I think I died. I'm freaking the fuck out."

"Hmm? Now that's something I can get my belief on," he purchases two bags of cotton candy from the machine and proceeds to take a big messy bite out of one of them, not even a little bit alarmed by what you just said.

"I must have overdosed. Or maybe there was poison in the Faygo? No way, the bottle never left my side. We were having a gross murder party and then poof. Nothing. Next thing I know I'm waking up in a freezing batch of slime, I climbed out and there was a lot of whooping? Whooping's good right?"

"In context means come back soon."

"Okay, yeah. I thought so. The ringmaster gave me this and shoved me out the door... " You point at the basket full of fruit you've been carrying around.

"I heard some noise that they do that sometimes. Though at usual is all wicked manners of permanent dying. Can I get a gander up on those?"

"Go ahead"

"Yeah, you should probably ditch this bitching bunch of troublemakers," he says picking up a wriggling thing from inside an apple.

"First day in office and I'm already being framed of corruption, this is going to be a long term."

"HONK honk"

-----

twinArmageddons [TA] 1 HOUR AGO opened memo in board raiinbow rumpu2 hotliine.

TA: ii can't hear hiim anymore, what the 2hiit'2 goiing on over there TA: ii2 he okay? TA: gamzee TC: MoThEr FuCk DuDe, YeAh I'm AlRiGhT. TA: no. not you, kk. GC: G4MZ33, HOWS K4RK4T? TC: I dUnNo. HaVeN't SeEn ThAt MoThErFuCkEr In A wHiLe. TC: MaYbE hE kIcKeD tHe MoThErFuCkInG wIcKeD sHiT. TC: WaSn'T hIs ClOcK aLl Up AnD rUnNiNg OuT oF tOcK? GA: Youre Not With Him GA: Why Did You Decide To Go Along If Not To Keep An Eye On Him TC: He CaN hAnDlE hImSeLf. TC: BeSiDeS i ThOuGhT tHaT wAs ThE pLaN. TC: If SoMe MoThErFuCkEr'S mEaNt To GeT aT oUr GoOd BrO kArKaT iT's NoT uS wHaT's GoInG tO bE sToPpInG tHaT fRoM hApPeNiNg. GA: When You Put It That Way, The Plan Doesnt Sound Very GA: Sound GA: Or Benign For That Matter TC: HoLd On, PrOcUrInG sNaCkS. CA: snacks? you havve to go check on him wwhat if something happened CA: hes not answwering TA: fuck iit, ii'm on my way GC: DONT! GC: 1F YOU C4NT H34R H1M 4NYMOR3 TH3N TH4TS 1T GC: H3S GON3 AG: I can't 8elieve he actually AG: I mean, th8re has to 8e s8mething we can do AG: Aradia can he8r ghosts, we could hunt his down 8nd 8ring him 88ck. Right? AG: Right???????? CA: and then wwhat? he wwould still be fucking dead CA: i kneww wwe should havve taken him awway wwhen wwe could AG: 8xcus8 me for not 8eing all 8n for kidnapping th8 l8udest guy in t8wn CC: Well, glub. W)(at should we do now? It'd be nice to at least )(ave clos)(ore or something. AT: i WOULD SUGGEST REMINISCING BUT UM, hE ERASED HIMSELF FROM PRETTY MUCH EVERYTHING WE COULD HAVE USED FOR THAT, GC: H3 R34LLY D1D, HUH carcinoGeneticist [CG] joined board. carcinoGeneticist [CG] RIGHT NOW responded to memo. CG: HEY, GUESS WHAT. CG: I'M STILL ALIVE. CG: MOREOVER, I PLAN TO OUTLIVE EVERY SINGLE FUCKING ONE OF YOU BASTARDS. Tc: tHaT's NoT wHaT yOu SaId At Me EaRlIeR. CG: COULD YOU NOT RUIN THIS FOR ME? PLEASE? TC: UuUuH, oK. TC: Is AnY mOtHeRfUcKeR lOoKiNg To BuY sOmE eMbEzZlEd BeEtLe GrUbS? CT: D --> You are both a no%ious discredit to our people and should have been culled upon conception arsenicCatnip [AC] banned centaursTesticle [CT] from responding to memo.

[knights-unwelcommentary]

Die by the mouth ch5

You make it back to the government hive dangerously close to dawn, the day shift having started already. You're welcomed in by the same guy from the first time, as you trudge through the endless corridors you can't seem to lose him, so you do the next best thing; tune him out.

Upon entering your drudgeblock you encounter a messy bundle of paperwork waiting for you.

You give an honest try to making sense of the documents but the moment you get distracted the events from earlier come back in all their gut wringing horridness.

You resign yourself to trying to unpack that instead.

The dark carnival is running the show, not the empress, then what the hell is her role in the homeworld?

If Meenah delegated governing land dwellers to them that means they are the ones making policies. Not the actual government and definitely not her.

If they spend their time hunting people down and painting walls with their blood for entertainment or to make a statement or what the fuck ever. "If there's anything you'd like to know, I'd be happy to help."

If they believe only trolls in their dingy hyper exclusive club are worth anything.

If they honest to god want the fucking world to fucking end— “I’m fairly knowledgeable about forestry and, well, other less interesting stuff.”

That means.

That means.

Everything you thought you knew is a lie.

There has to be something you're missing. This can't be the whole story. "Mister Vantas, did you hear me?"

Why's this douche so persistent?

"I know that there's shitty trees and there's less shitty trees, that's plenty," he visibly deflates, maybe it's in your bests interest to try to salvage this interaction before you make more of an ass out of yourself to the only bozo giving you the time of day. "I just had to dispatch a sea dweller on short notice and got a bunch of life changing news hurled at me, it's been a long, harrowing day. So let's maybe rain check your fun facts sharing sesh for when I'm not navigating my way out of an existential crisis." There, civility achieved.

"That's intriguing. You're intriguing." You shrug. "Not feeling like elarborating? I get it, no worries. No, seriously. I'm in a hell of a good mood now that there's a new— Huh, I sure hope you weren't friends with the old one." You shake your head. "He got axed last shift, can't thank you enough for that."

"Well... You're welcome. Alright, since you're allegedly so knowledgeable do you think you can get me up to speed with what this... is about?" You gesture vaguely at the everything that's around you.

"Cedarnly, just give me a moment." You see him peek his head out of the door and gesture at somebody outside. "Mister Vantas has returned from culling an awful wader on OFFICIAL BUSINESS, if he doesn't have a good cup of coffee in his office in five minutes you will not like what happens next."

"What the fuck do you think you're doing."

"Helping? You seem like a decent person so let me handle the politics for now."

"Politics, huh. Thanks but for one, it would be pathetic for the new boss to need training wheels. I personally don't appreciate the suggestion that I do. From now on don't overstep, and that's an order." Pause for effect. "Aren't you too blue to be an axistant anyway?"

He makes a face in a way that says 'so what?'.

There's a knock on the door.

Your coffee arrives within the minute of being requested, brought by a terrified little kid that must have just finished settling down in the area. The kid delivers your coffee and exits the block in complete silence.

The first thing you're taught is how to use the toxin screening grub, under the excuse of people that aren't starving themselves learning faster. It's a come on, you'd have to be freaking oblivious to not pick up on that.

The day goes by in a blur of cramming information into your sponge.

You start getting the feeling that something's amiss in the middle of introducing yourself to the personnel; But it's when you're reviewing the projects your predecessor left incomplete that it finally hits you.

You forgot your lusus at the facility.

***

You're in the new hive. Your new hive. It's actually new, and clean, and built to your old specifications. As closely as it could be without making it impossible to extrude on a stem.

That's a surprise.

The first thing you notice upon turning on the lights is the ludicrous pile of hive warning handouts waiting for you on the lounge plank, some of them attached to sassy got well cards.

Who would have done something like that, you wonder. Not.

At a cursory glance, a few of the items are things that you totally would have bought for yourself and the rest are the most aggravating bullshit you've ever seen. Really. You're going to have some words with your friends, just because you caved in to "keeping them updated" despite their mutiny doesn't mean they have permission to track you down and break in.

The respiteblock contains a recuperacoon, along with a new husktop in replacement of the one you wrecked, and the basic fixtures, no doubt courtesy of the empire.

More impressively, this new hive has a mealblock stocked with every crockery imaginable, hell, there's some that you wouldn't be able to name — you're used to getting creative with the bargain bin stuff but this is overkill even for you. The mealblock occupies a good half of your inferior prismage and you get the distinct sense of shenanigans being afoot with that, you really don't want to ask. You're going to have to ask, aren't you?

As if summoned by your vexation, your palmhusk pings for your attention.

Meenah's checking up on you again. For the fifth time today.

She tries to get you to go open the weird metal box mounted on a stick that's outside your hive, you can tell it's some kind of trick, so you respectfully refuse.

Her disappointment is short lived.

You ask her about the mealblock, one thing leads to another and before you know it you're apparently baking the galaxy's best vanilla muffins under the strict tutelage of her imperious condescension. Live from dumbfuck nowhere, redacted coordinates.

"Don't you have anything more important than this in your agenda?"

"Who says I can't do multiple things at once? If you must know I'm taking advantage of my stay in orbital space by reviewing current events. Heh, current, that's a good one."

"Did something happen or...?"

"Yes and no. Nothing that would ring a bell to a planetlocked teen anywave. Most news are relatively old. My news feed doesn't synchronize on route."

"Why."

"Ship's too fast."

"Like that explains every fucking thing. I think these are ready."

"Let me sea, let me sea!"

Later that night, you pause another bout of desperate searching — through blatant misuse of your access to the city's surveillance network — to just... stand in your respiteblock.

You're seven sweeps old and have shit all to show for it.

So this is it. Your new life. Back to the start and this time everything feels a little bit worse.

It's way more than you deserve and nowhere close to what you wished to make of it once upon a time.

You should put up some decorations.

The idea of hanging movie posters again feels juvenile though, you'd be so embarrassed if someone saw them.

You might leave it as is, a raised middle digit to a past Karkat.

If you knew you'd die at seven you would have tried harder, leaving your mark instead of only ever dreaming about doing some grandiose thing in the far off future. As it stands all you left in your wake was a trail of mild inconveniences and shouted improprieties.

You're still worried about your lusus.

The story of you having culled a sea dweller spreads like wildfire. In a blink the rumor mill is showcasing you as some sort of ruthless dictator to be obeyed precisely and without delay by the lowest echelon in the chain of command.

The rest of the staff has lukewarm reactions to you ever since you shot them down when they started gossiping about your hemoanonimity, even then they still address you with begrudging respect.

It's all you ever truly wanted and yet it's doing nothing for you. You don't know these people, why would you even care.

Your friends on the other hand keep treating you with the same long suffering annoyance as always, but then again they don't know a fraction of what you've gone through.

The one thing you can say about the day shift as a whole is that it's united in its shared disdain for having to keep diurnal working hours and in not giving enough of a fuck to do anything by the manual.

So you keep coming in at odd hours to hole yourself up at work and send out hundreds of missives and memos. Trying to make it look like you know what you're doing. Buying time, in essence.

You occupy yourself at night reading everything politics you can get your grubby appendages on.

The more you learn the more infuriating carnival buffoonery you discover. To think you used to be proud of your planet, to think you used to feel pretty un-fucking-worthy of being part of it.

When the functions of a foolfiller came to your knowledge you made an earnest attempt at bludgeoning yourself with the book you were reading.

They hire some random clown to scrapbook at boring laws before approval. Because it's easier to let voters complain at stupid than deal with actionable feedback.

***

Your unfortunate misplacement of your cranky custodian ends up sorting itself out, all thanks to Tavros. He was with him the whole time and the only reason he didn't tell you was that the crab monster in question was disappointed at you for ditching him.

You met in an alley so he could drop him off and just kept overstaying his welcome — he says he's sufficiently convinced now that you didn't do something awful to merit your botched execution —, he's no help at all but he's there at least, sometimes. When he's not sleeping... On some degree of physicality. It's kind of like he's place-holding the position of supporting cast for when someone more suitable comes along,

Equius drops in pretty often too, if you can call standing at ground level to stare like a creep at Sollux's hive whenever there's a meeting "dropping in". Something's seriously wrong with that prick.

Feferi and Sollux are also on your side except Feferi was on your side from the get go for some insipid reasons you wouldn't entertain if you were her, she's good natured like that. A great friend through and through, you're counting on nothing tragically horrible happening to her because it would really break your bloodpusher to not tell her how grateful you are at a time it can't be minsconstrued as romantic.

Sollux has made it his personal goal to take the piss whenever you think things are going to work out but generally doing what you ask him to do with only some mild bitching about it. You're not going to waste any more mental space on your pringle knobbed cretin of a best friend.

Which brings you back to the only other person present that's fully committed to the task.

If you were to describe Feferi Peixes bubbly would be a good start, followed in no particular order by impractical, stubborn and criminally optimistic. She boasts of the kind of genuine self-assuredness you've come to expect of someone that's never had to face something as mundane as failure.

As per your agreement she brought her ideas for your team to review this meeting. It's a hastily edited copy of a half-thought-out plan, but it's something concrete. Even if most of it is straight up unworkable.

"What's this well fare bullshit, and who's the hypothetical resident of idiot village that would sign up for it."

"People that need help of course! It's all in the draft."

"Uh-huh, sure… Picture this: You're a good, mother grub fearing citizen and you're struggling to stay alive for one reason or another; one day some good for nothing asshole nobody the empress left in charge for undisclosed reasons announces he's gathering information about possible cull risks to 'help them'. Would you offer yourself up just like that?"

"Yes! It could turn out to be a good thing! But I'm guessing that's not the answer you wanted."

"Pretty much." You sigh. "Tavros, same question."

"No. I would, probably, not even consider it."

"Can you tell us why?"

"Well, there's the questionable way you would be going about it, as the new face of the government. Then, there's uh. The risk of someone that knows me finding out. And being not nice about it. In the best case scenario. In the worst it's like, I get culled. It would suck if that happened to me, therefore I wouldn't sign up."

"Yeah, all of that. Anyway this sounds like forcing the public into some weird corporate spin on quadrants. We'd be crossing more than a few boundaries and stepping on a veritable shit ton of toes."

"Fine, you can skip it. But when I become the empress you better believe I am going to implement all of this and then you'll sea how much people will love it."

"Oh yeah, like that's ever going to happen."

"Who knows, anything's glubbing possible lately."

"askldn jfv. Low blow, Peixes." You flip her off and go back to reading.

Overall, she's decent enough for a high blood.

***

Your first edict is a raging success. Too much of a success even.

To the casual observer it would appear like the craze of an eccentric collectionist given the resources to indulge his hobbies but in reality it's just step one of a grander scheme to, in short, make the wilderness of Alternia your bitch

And best of all, you're crowdsourcing its execution so you won't have to deal with superfluous bureaucratic red tape.

It's open season for lethal rampaging things and you're reaping prizes like a cheater at the arcade.

You enter your hive full of yourself, but also full of disconcert.

"How is it possible that most of our society is run by a doomsday cult of lame jesters and yet last I checked Alternia hasn't stopped being a thriving conglomerate of epic badassery."

"Simple. They're antinomies," someone answers matter-of-factly. You home-in to the source of the voice.

Sollux Captor sits on your lounge plank with a portable console like he owns the place, disregarding all the locks you've installed to discourage any further intrusions to your private property.

This is outrageous, but what else is new.

"Wow, what are you some kind of nerd?"

"Rich coming from someone that has used the word apophthegmatically in a joke."

"Snrkkk, can you say that three times real fast."

"Dude. Screw you."

He lies down on your loungeplank facing away from you, putting an end to your discussion.

Your lusus shoves past you and makes himself scarce.

Gah! You're surrounded by assholes.

"There's gamer swill in the hunger trunk. I'll be in my respiteblock." He gives no signs of life.

You head upstairs.

Yeah, they're antinomies alright.

When it comes down to it the Alternian empire is the galaxy's most successful civilization in spite of the worst mismanagement history has ever seen. If anything that makes trolls even greater and capable of even more extraordinary things than anyone's wildest hopes, so you're going to take your planet to a new golden era and it will be so fucking easy it will make angels shriek songs of awe.

Now that you've settled that, Sollux's despondent mood left you itching to pick a fight.

Things on the internet should have calmed already. You try to log in to LUE. It doesn't work, a message pops up reminding you that your account doesn't exist.

Right, the virus.

You're too tired to try hacking your way back in the register so you go to an anonymous chat room to blow off steam instead.

To your dismay, the only topic in your usual ones is still you.

The general energy surrounding your rise to power isn't what it was in the hours following the announcement - confusion, mockery, vindictiveness. There's just thinly veiled wariness and people trying to find anything at all about what to expect from you and how it might affect them.

Out of curiosity you check the comments to your brash response on the imperial announcement from days ago, you're surprised to find that the trolling tapers off quickly as it gets drowned out by offputting copypasta, each one starting with your sign in varying hues of gray:

Hell hath no fury like His

He who has arrived

For whom we wait on

To usher in the reckoning

Vast equalizer

Let us bleed all the same

Praise be

Praise be

Praise be

Praise be

The praise bes just keep coming after that until they max out the character limit. There's hundreds of identical comments from presumably hundreds of trolls. You turn off your palmhusk and turn in to sleep, wanting nothing more than to forget what you just saw.

[knights-unwelcommentary]

Die by the Mouth ch6

You're being observed. Intensely.

Fuck, could it be another assassin? Didn't Meenah say she was done playing around?

You've fended off more danger in your time under her wing than you ever had to in your seven sweeps of life. It's stressing you out.

You casually set out your sickle and swipe your prong over the blade, doing your best to come across as a seasoned fighter.

You're not prepared at all to defend yourself against a well planned ambush — you should come forward with the truth already and let everyone know how much of a screw up you really are — but no one needs to know that.

Your glance nuggets race to find the intruder, going over every diffuse silhouette in the moonlit rumpus block.

At last you locate a pair of mismatched luminous orbs glowing red and blue taking up space on your loungeplank, not exactly hard to miss, and give yourself permission to relax. It's only that idiot.

"Hey, shit sponge," he says, holding out your palmhusk and shaking it playfully. "It doesn't delete your local files."

"What?"

"Your wipe out code. It doesn't delete your local files."

"No, why would it do that?"

"Because your chat client stores the logs there, stupid. Anyone can just grab it and check inside. Damn, you really thought of everything. Except the most likely thing to happen."

"Shut up. I didn't know! It was an honest mistake!" Then it sinks in. You claw your scalp imagining what would have happened if— "Fuck, I almost got everyone killed. Oh god. What was I thinking?"

"Oh no, this is not going to turn into another fit of hysteria. I'll shove all my throwing stars in your protein chute if you start blubbering again, I swear."

"Those stars are a fucking joke, they'd crumple like paper mache. I almost want to see you try."

"I don't give a shit if they crumple or not, I'd still do it. But I didn't drop by for a saucy slapstick routine."

"Your face is slapstick."

"Hahaha that one was so bad it actually stank up the place K-K. Wait no, that's just your regular eau de self-loathing."

"Ok, not my best work. Let's not get started on smells though, would it kill you to floss your teeth every once in a while, captain fart breath?" He snickers. "What's up bro."

His earlier levity is all but abandoned at your inquiry.

"Your mystery haxxor," he says, finally down to business. "Whoever it is was determined to keep your shit from falling in the wrong hands, your devices are rigged to explode. They also left a backdoor in your system. I followed the trail all the way to an unregistered satellite in the Rivstalk belt."

"Are you planning to get to the fucking point any time this perigee." None of this is news to you. Well, except that you should delete your local files the next time you get shanked for crimes against the empire— it's not entirely out of the question if someone wants to enact a street justice number on you.

"You're involved with some seriously dangerous people and I need answers if you want me to keep helping you out. Why did they let you keep your palmhusk after capture. Why didn't you ask me to make that virus. Where the fuck did you find someone to do it for you. And. Who's. That. Douchebag?"

"My neighbors said—"

"Your neighbors are in on it two?!" A psionic flash punctuates his yell of indignation, leaving you stunned and nearly blind for several terrifying minutes.

"In on fucking what! Careful with that thing! You’re fucking up my sight!"

"I'll fuck up more than that if you don't start talking. Wait, are you hurt for real?"

"No, I just like to play pretend I'm in grievous pain. What do you think!" you hiss. The stream of tears running down your face remains stubborn to your best efforts to contain.

"Stop fucking panicking, you’re being a grub. It'll go away soon. Iit wasn't even that bright the block's just two dark."

"Excuse you, the block is not the over-sized strobe lamp that just assaulted my gander bulbs. Seriously?! You could have turned on the lights whenever instead lurking in the shadows like a creep. Augh!"

"Don't clench them you’ll make it worse."

"Fucking— You break in, interrogate and threaten me in my own hive, and to top it off you go and do this! Consider us even you lump squirting tool!"

You hear the pulsing noise of the lights going on, fueled by instinct the very next second you're already covering your face with your sleeve.

"Are you hiding your tears? why dude, I already know."

"It doesn't get any less revolting just because you're expecting it."

“I literally can't see the actual color with these on." He points at his shades with a twirl that punts you in the chin and calls you names."Let me check if there’s any real damage.”

“Who died and made you a phexcisian. Ah fuck it. I don't even care anymore.”

He wrangles your uncooperative face around for a thorough check up, once he's satisfied he offers you a cheeky half smile.

You blow air out of your nose, annoyed.

"You're okay, K-k. Stop it with the waterworks"

"A. I'm so not okay. B. I really fucking hate you right now."

"Color me surprised. You've only mentioned it like, what, two hundred times?"

He keeps holding up your chin long after that. You can feel his breath on your face drawing closer, there's anticipation in the way it hitches.

You gather all your will power in order to turn away.

"Sollux... This— It's not happening. There's too much at stake."

He sighs, clearly disappointed. Then he lets go.

"Do me a favor and don't die again. I can't believe it needs to be said what with you slipping through the cracks for so many sweeps, but stay out of trouble. Having to hear your grating voice nonstop for hours was the actual worst." You can't. "I guess I'll have a look around ok-trollcupid and pick someone that's... Not you. " Before to drones come, is what he means, he frowns having noticed that you have noticed, "full offense."

Sollux Captor, everyone. Smooth operator extraordinaire.

"Yeah. Ok. Sounds like a plan. Full offense..." Time for a seamless change of topic. "Moving on! I don't know what's your deal with your lusus lately but you can't drop in every time he kicks your ass. I promise this place is far from the relaxing retreat you're after."

"You can't tell me what to do, AA's place gets old when she's out on excursions," he waves away your warning "As for your merc situation. Let's just say they're convinced your hive is haunted as fuck now. Slurping behemoth mites would be more appealing than trying two break in again."

"Great! awesome! Is that why you were— Whatever. Thanks. Anyway, my hive my rules. Don't come unannounced. You-know-who is hellbent on torturing the holoconference button and the last thing we need is for you to catch her attention as well." You turn on your palmhusk and catch sight of several missed calls- "Speaking of which."

Sollux slips out of your hive without so much as a goodbye.

You message Meenah to ask what in sweet corpse beating delirium she wants now. She calls you again right then and there.

"I need you at your old subgrub stat. You're to get back the forks you yoinked by whatever means necessary." What? "Word on the stream's that some guppies are spreading around your little trick. The confishcation of every encryption modus in circulation is well underwave but you got to do something aboat the evidence at ground zero. I'll handle the optics, you go ahead and deal with whatever loose threads you got there, if you catch my drift."

"I don't know what the fuck you're going on about."

"That day you got captured buoy. Don't play coy with me."

"No. I've haven't thought about the grittier parts of that particular bug shittery for over a perigee. So I'm going to need more to go off of, I disarmed drones? Did I hear that right?"

"A whole swarm. Reel impressive, I'll give you that. I was nearby when I caught the news, it was a quasi-interesting blip in my radar. Bluh, I'm digressing, you should go now. Call me when you get back."

Once the call drops the first thing you do is launch your palmhusk across the block with all your strength. It doesn't help alleviate your grievances or the humiliation, but it sure as fuck leaves a dent on your wall.

You've taken to dueling your custodian in order to get him inside the scuttlebuggy. The irascible bastard can't seem to go near it without throwing a fit.

It's a sleek dark grey model that was really popular in its prime — about two dozen sweeps ago. You got it at an exorbitant price even post haggling, that you only ended up agreeing to because of the dealer's reputation for asking no questions and keeping no records. Fortunately you have money to spare nowadays.

Your lusus makes a token attempt at making himself anything resembling comfortable in the cramped back seat, he could technically ride on top but since he ran off on you to terrorize the town twice already you're not keen on giving it another go.

You should be working, you have so much to do and this mission is throwing off your whole fucking schedule.

Meenah says leadership is mainly a performance in showing up and showing off, the rest being an unholy amalgamation of delegating, psychological warfare and a winner's attitude. Once your first impression of her wore off you had to come to terms with the fact that she doesn't know the first thing about managing people.

You do though. You'll nag and yell and push if you have to. You're a hatched leader.

Your many executive orders are paying off already and you need to review the data like yesterday.

You introduced some thousands of regulations to every sector and high bloods are not thrilled, the media coverage made a terrible job at explaining what you're doing and how. The short of it is everyone wins, if only it was as easy as explaining it to them with a few diagrams. You're paying for your future projects with funds gathered from auctioning the rare stuff you have been getting on the side from the previous crowd sourced ones, and you're avoiding all the bureaucratic red tape as a bonus. Fleecing a bunch of high bloods to pay for initiatives to improve the lives of everyone on the homeworld has felt oddly rewarding.

Feferi had a different idea but it's not like they're ever going to take responsibility or face any kind of punishment for disregarding rules they don't like.

You park by what's left of your old hive.

The rubble has been moved aside to make way for a new one, still under construction. A heavy duty shadow tarp hangs stretched out high over the lawnring. The carpenter droids provide them so younger trolls can work things out without having to worry about the sun, that's about all the protection they can offer, new kids are fully at the mercy of the planet's many dangers otherwise.

It's a good subgrub, you already leveled the terrain and connected to a water source so all there really is to do is hurry it up with the schematics.

You find yourself taking a brisk walk around the neighborhood, focusing on what else has changed.

Others notice your return and glance at you briefly, turning away as soon as you glare back. Nevermind that, you know exactly where to find your mark.

Your custodian follows surly. He's focused in the search, more alert than you've ever seen him; he knows what you're doing here, you can tell.

The two of you come to a halt next to a specific lawn ring and he lets out a warning crackle, ready for whatever may come next.

You keep watch from the opposite flank. Waiting.

Before long you see it. The grass shifting in an odd way as its being compressed under something heavy and promptly left alone. You hold still right up until the trail is about to reach the edge of the lawnring, that's when you jump in and grab wildly in front of you, finding purchase on what feels like fabric.

God, what a lousy fucking power. If anyone ever lost at the psychic power lottery it would be this piece of garbage.

The invisible figure — sorry, "background matched" — tries to push you away but you're gripping those clothes like a vice.

You can almost sense the moment they give up the struggle and that's because the desperate fuck starts to shake like a leaf.

"Hey."

"Hello neighbor, I... what a surprise to see you again."

"I bet," you point out dryly. He squeals out an eeek that only serves to feed your anger. "What. Did you think I wouldn't notice a door opening on its own on a second fucking floor?" His lusus charges at you only to be put out of commission by a stomp that means business from yours.

"No-no-no-no. This can't be happening! Why are you—"

"You snitched on me you shit. Explain."

"Your lusus. It's always your lusus! He–he ate one of my fiduspawns. Henrieta! Blood everywhere. Ate her whole except her hardest quills, he spit one out first. It was, it was red. Covered in bright red fucking foam. And all I could think was thank God! Thank God he isn't purple!"

"Don't you get it? We've all been so scared of that thing, so scared for so long. But we didn't have to! He's a mutant! A mutant! All along?! A mutant's kept me from leaving my own hive?! A mutant's chased me up a frond nub!? The more I thought the more the fear became something else, something bile and I…."He breathes in, trying to calm down. "I made the call. I'm sorry it screwed you over, you're one of my nicest neighbors. But you're only a neighbor."

"I stopped him from attacking people as much as I could."

"And back then I was grateful. Not anymore, not knowing what I know."

"Fuck."

"You can say that again."

"Fuck."

"Nice."

"I think you made the right call. It's only sensible to want to get rid of a threat to your life."

"That's what I've been saying." He lets go of the psychic camouflage. Relishing in your agreeableness.

"Honestly it's a relief that you told me all of this. I had a bit of a dilemma, you know—" here goes nothing. "I can't have a repeat of you spreading my secrets around and you clearly approve of the logic, so. Nice to see you again, goodbye forever.

That's when the drones arrive, you turn your gaze to the sky, not wanting to confront their solemn expression and detached cruelty.

You don't watch as his burgundy blood splatters all over the freshly mowed lawn.

When you turn against the trolls whose only crime was growing up somewhere too close to you, the drones fall in step with you, obedient as ever.

It's done.

You've successfully carried out your first raid in the name of the empress.

The culling forks were all where you left them, stuck to the ground under the unforgivable weight of weaponized solid metal safes. No one dared to disturb the crime scene, you guess.

It's hard to believe you're the one who did that.

You stare absently at the now abandoned construction site.

The average drone isn't suited to discern between a target and a bystander. Hell, they can't even understand the difference between a victim and an offender on a good day. You can't think of a single good reason to have them on enforcer duty when the average troll could do a much better job.

Maybe the unwarranted bloodshed is the whole point.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

Your lusus kneels down to your level, he looks you up and down assessing the situation. He jerks up straight in the way of his that suggests he's got an idea.

He pats your head, picks you up by the elbows, tucks you against his chest and takes off sprinting towards the forest.

Fuck no. If there was ever a time for fishing this is not it, dumb no good fucking crustacean nutcase. You kick and shove and yell but it's useless, his shell is and has always been impervious to your attacks.

A short while later you're dodging the branches to the face your lusus isn't wise enough to consider a problem.

The canopy starts and stops in a blur of shadows skimming over you.

At the end of it awaits you a glade.

The supply shop by the lake in the glade approaches at a furious speed.

Giving no warning, your lusus drops you on the transportalizer and rings the bell.

The familiar feeling of being replaced by yourself in a different place than a second ago washes over you.

"You look surprised," you begin at the clerk in a lackluster level of small talk.

"If I'm being honest, I thought you dead by now so this is like me seeing a ghost!"

"Yeah?"

"I believe most people are dead if I dost not see them for a while. My patrons are more low bloods than not."

"Huh, I guess you usually don't get regulars."

"Very few but you are one indeed. Were?"

"I had to move out, probably not going to be swinging by anymore"

"A pity. You won't be missing much, I have to demolish the shop soon anyway. Exile waitest for nobody or so I've heard." She digs around in the shop filling a box with your usual supplies. You make your payment and get sent on your way post haste. "Farewell irons, would be miffed to have lost another faithful."

"I just told you I'm not—" coming back! The transportalizer replaces you outside and the safety lock switches back on. You arm yourself with patience. Requesting to go back wouldn't be worth the trouble just to get the last word.

You go sit at your usual spot to gut the bait. Mullet. It's the most cost effective in your experience. Your lusus squats expectant beside you.

If he's trying to piss you off it's working.

"So you're the poor excuse for a protector that landed us in this mess. I'd love to be the Karkat of the parallel universe where you're not constantly driven astray by the munchies. Too fucking bad he doesn't exist! How did you even manage to botch a snack run this much." Your rant has run its course, and it's not like he can answer those kind of questions. "And right when we were so close to making it into the fleet. Damn it, how many times do I have to scold you until you start to take our future seriously," you trail off.

He stays quiet for a while, hopefully processing at least a fraction of what you said.

He makes a string of gurgling noises tinged with shame followed by some loud snaps of his jaw.

"No, you're right. It wasn't meant to be." You pause. "I should have guessed we were the same, why else would such a tough lusus settle for any of this... Show me." You make him open his sqwak blister. It looks gnarly. If you didn't know what happened you'd think he got around to chewing on a grater.

You whince.

He's never been hurt like this before. You don't know what you should do. You can't bring him to a fretterinarian, you'd be found out faster than you can say cleanup on attention block six. "Hmmmmm, it looks fine to me I'm sure you'll pull through."

He glares at you, unimpressed. That's fair, it probably feels just as bad as it looks.

You throw some pieces of entrails at the water, he dives in, eager to hunt.

Your night doesn't get much better than that.

You're shaping roe into neat little cubes when a strong gust of wind pushes the clouds to darken the night sky. It only lasts a minute, but when it clears again the crickets have ceased chirping and you're surrounded by loons, leering at you from a prudent distance. They crawl bounce towards you with their useless water-bound palmates, one could almost mistake them for the undead rising from the sand.

Someone screams an enraged, jarring howl from within the forest.

Sufficiently spooked, you whistle for your custodian and get the fuck out of dodge. Leaving behind the last remaining fish.

You can still hear the asylum of loons calling as you retreat safely from the woods.

In your hurry to return to the city you drive the old scuttlebuggy over the limit, causing it to give up on you deep in the middle of nowhere. You're so stranded you're forced to wait for the next nightfall inside your vehicle — covered with a piece of tarp you recovered from the construction site — and push it back to the city, all while trying to keep your rancorous crab monster inside. You cussed the universe out the entire journey home.

"Fin-ally! How did it go?"

"It was a total hassle but I retrieved all the assets and cleaned up shop. You're welcome."

"That's what I like about you nubs. So reeliable, so straightforward, and cute to boot too."

"Let me make something clear. I am not going to stroke your bulge our shoosh you to sleep or anything like that. All this fawning? it isn't going to pay off if that's what you're hoping to get in exchange. I may be convinced to pencil you in for air conditioning with a cartoonishly huge wavey fan. Big maybe."

"Hahahaha! Full of ourselves aren't we? It's not, and I'd krill you if you did. The sole idea icks me the fuck out. Might take you up on the fanning tho."

"We're on the same page then. Good."

"Good."

"What about—?"

"What aboat it. You gonna glub?"

"No."

Fuck your life. Ok you can deal with it. Business as usual, she doesn't expect shit-all from you about her creepy obsession. It's not the worst scenario you had imagined.

"Yeah, thought so. Keep it in the down low and it's all smooth sailing as far as I'm concerned."

"Hey, you're honking at the jugglers. I'm pretty damn relieved that that's not where this was going."

"I mean, it's like that thing, when you see somefin so fucking cool on sale that you just have to get it, but then the mail comes and you realize you'd reely just like to keep it in the box looking sweet for all time with all the other cool stuff you got."

"Say what again?"

"What. Mail? Do you live under a rock?"

"Of course I know what mail is." You've got no fucking clue. Probably some stupid trend for snobs and hipsters. "So, what you're saying is… that you've got a collection of hysterical douchebags?"

"Hmm. Sounds aboat right, yes."

"OK, really weird but I can live with that. Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Seariously don't, to anyone. My taste in eye candy doesn't need to be no huge fucking deal."

There's a threat somewhere in that statement. Some things are better left alone.

"Yes, of course your condescension. Fucking forgive me for wondering where I fit in your devious schemes."

"You should meet my boyfrond, you'd get along like a hive on fire. In fact—" She picks up at an elegant trot, bringing her device with her through hollow sounding corridors and liminal looking blocks. Your viewport goes dark after she exits one of several transportalizers. "You shoal meet him right now."

This is the first time you've ever seen an operative, flesh and blood, helmsman. Nothing in books or movies could have prepared for such an occasion. Even more so given that this one in particular is the stuff of legends.

The pervious living circuitry of the ship goes through and around him many times over, as if its immune system encountered a tumor somewhere along the road and couldn't decide whether to fight or encapsulate it.

What little can be seen of him below waist level is thoroughly calcified in place. And underwater.

That can't be healthy.

His arms hang up, not quite straining in position, and his head is adorned by a reeducation nugcap. An item that only the most troublesome helmsmen are required to wear. His expression reveals nothing yet he appears sallow and unkempt.

That will be Sollux one day, you're sure.

Unless.

"Honey, guess what I've got. Hellooo."

"Go away go away go away go away you're a bi-itch."

"Now, that's not nice. Say hi for me. Come on."

"H... Hi?"

"Yeah. Hi."

"Hi," he breathes out softly. He's high as shameglobes and fully compliant on whatever signal the nubcap's sending to his think sponge.

"Hey," you say back, not giving Meenah the chance to prompt you to in that uncanny simile of sweetness. You're going to be sick.

"He's not all there, you sea. That's fine by me, I don't have him around to be a smartass." She caresses his hair like she gives a solitary fuck about the guy she's got sewn into her spacecraft.

"Hi." He finally notices that he's on a call. He struggles to focus on your hologram, like it hurts to think. "Do... know you?"

"He's a Vantas. The spitting image of whats-his-face."

"Mad. No. Wah ah- funny number. See, herehrehrehr. noodle pole null break." the nonsensical quick firing stops abruptly, he breathes in a gasping gulp of air. "Do I...?"

"Sigh. I guess it's one of those days. Let's leave it there crabcakes. I want a full report of your excursion so get to it."

You're still staring at the screen for a while after the call is cut short. An eternity later you hear your lusus making a ruckus so you hurry up to check whats going on.

There's a clown outside your window.

God, you're so fucked.

[knights-unwelcommentary]

We of the home legion

Summary:

Whimsical one-shots depicting scenes that didn't make the cut for the main fic

Chapter 1: I believe hivemaking is a noble and challenging career

"Not good. Start over."

You make an aborted obscene gesture. Unfortunately, your prongs are currently occupied holding a very hot tray full of very hot shapeless blobs so you almost burn yourself in the process.  

"This is the fifth batch you’ve had me toss in the dross coffer. The recipe has to be wrong." As you empty out the tray you note the dross coffer will need to be emptied soon as well, the lid’s hanging on for dear life to a protruding piece of parchment paper. 

A projected hologram of Meenah Peixes looks down at and on you from an open cabinet, the only space in the meal block that’s not covered by a thin dusting of grub flour.

She huffs out a breath in a show of derision.

"There's nothing wrong with my recipe, you clearly got a skill fishue."

"My only 'skill fishue' is a knack for getting saddled with lousy teachers," you snark as you gather the crockery again for washing. "You can't even tell me what I'm doing wrong or what we're supposed to achieve with all this stupid baking."

The spoon zaps you remotely for the hundredth time. With a hiss, you drop it swiftly and try to rub away the pain. You've had enough of this bullshit.

"Cod. You're such a drama queen."

"Eat literal fucking shit. I'm done here."

"This what gets you to throw in the towel? My, it didn't take abalone-g at all. Must be all the going around looking for silly little shortcuts."

It says something about you that such low hanging jeerings affect you more than actual arms of bodily threat... — god damn it Kanaya — threats of physical harm do. You stipple your prongs on front of your sniff nub, audibly grit out the air you've been holding, and think some more about the process; What you're doing and why it's not working.

You start too strong. You stop too early. You're too miserly, stubborn and impatient. Not to mention, your precision absolutely sucks. 

It just seems like too much of a colossal waste of time and resources to get a hollow pastry only hoity-toity blue bloods like to eat.

So far you've managed to make the dough runny, crusty, burnt, undercooked and lumpy — once all at the same time even.

You try again, this time not just following the instructions, but also drawing from the experience you gained over the last perigee.

Chemistry and technique, that's all there is to it, and you've got a good handle on both, you just need to stop getting in your way.

It takes longer than every attempt prior. The dough is mixed, boiled, beat, dropped, baked, and filled flawlessly. Once you're finished, the end result looks every bit like ten servings of professionally made cream puffs.

"Hmmmhm," says Meenah pensively when you lower your palmhusk to show her. "That's as perfect as it can get. Now throw them away and start over."

"What! Are you fish humping insane?!"

[knights-unwelcommentary]

"Sup Vantas, you still up?"

"Don't sup me you cumjokey glabrescent ape. I can do whatever I want, I'm a god."

"Except sleeping"

"Except sleeping"

"And flying"

"Yes, flying as well"

"And—"

"We get it, ok? That's enough. What do you want"

"Nothin, just checking on my good bro who happens to be in sore need of some shut-eye I was coming all casual like to offer my 100% pure altruistic support for your slumberific troubles. Granted, it's a quart sized fucking jar and it got a single measly teaspoon of 100% pure altruistic. Who said that. "Actionable steps Karkat we need to get the board's full focus on this motherfucking enterprise or we're not making the goal this quarter."

"If you had a nightmare and want to use the recuperacoon you can just go do fucking that. As long as you turn the filter back on when you're done, of course. "These comical asides at human witching hours were entertaining at the start but it's starting to feel like you're making this way more difficult for yourself than it has any right to be. You don't need to perform for recuperacoon rights, Dave."

"Ef why eye rambling incoherently is hella soothing to me and I still like talking to you, by the way I thought we agreed you would stop assuming otherwise, and I would tell you if that ever changes. "So, no, I'm not performing for recuperacoon rights. This is me taking advantage of your indulging my stream of consciousness when you're too drowsy to get worked up about it. It's been ten years, at this point it's almost like a cozy routine to hang out after a nightmare. Chamomille tea, raining-white-noise-that's-exactly-like-frying-chicken surround dolby soundscape, bother Karkat, check check check. Now it's off to invade your respiteblock. "I could use some company in the slime tub though."

"Are you actually going to sleep or are you going to talk my hearing flaps off until your palmhusk alarm wakes the whole neighborhood."

"We'll see."