The most you ever knew of Han Xin was that he always took his coffee with hazelnut shots, and found stakeout more boring than throwing rocks at stray meowbeasts, or so he always said in his hick drawl.
You had to leave his body, green and red rings still on his fingers as his ruddy brown blood pooled. You don’t even know his quadrants’ names.
A shot clangs into the pavement, in the shadow of a high-hanging passageway strung between two hivestem spires. You run between bright light and deep shade from the skyscrapers and the ships passing overheard; when you swallow, you take in salt and blood.
You’ve already called your vehicle, and in a few more seconds -
“Thought you could get away with selling our goods, slurryspill?” shouts the voice of a young troll who pops over a billboard for fleet recruitment, a few others bobbing behind him, only the glow of their eyes visible from this distance.
Could you throw an acid grenade up there? No; you have the strength, but the angle is wrong. You’d just cause random property damage.
You’re better than that. Than them.
The thrum of the hoverbike’s power cell purrs above you -
- as you get bowled over and over, face cut up and ear nicked by the grenade they threw.
You look up to see a face you have to blink at a few times to believe.
Her name almost slips out - almost, but you take a breath and push yourself back up to hear the disbelieving shouts and curses of the other gang as you see them pouring back down from their vantage point.
“Miss,” You gasp. “These ruffians are illegal helm traffickers - may I ask for your help with dispatching them, as a member of the Corps? After we get away, of course.”
You whistle, and the bike hovers down to your level. Thankfully it takes two.
Indrid not having any teal on her person is a momentous occasion.
She’s going with Nemmon, her palecrush, but it’s likely nothing will ever come of that given she’s about to have her whole life begin to crash down around her soon and never be allowed to be a full legislacerator. So this is the last bit of happiness she’ll have for a while.
I’m tight on time and also I want to get back to replies once I finish my HA round, so I’m just going to paraphrase the next thing that happened to Indrid:
She underwent the Laughing Trial, which is a Circus of Fools tradition where if a low-ranking member of the church wants a favor, they have to be put in a voodoos-induced suggestive state where everything is hilarious, and survive that state for a week with everyone doing their best to make them laugh. Because you have to prove your Mirth, and thus your worthiness to be helped.
Have you ever laughed so hard it hurt?
That’s what eventually happens, except to a much higher degree. Trolls hurt themselves from laughing so much, dislocating their jaws or getting seizures, and occasionally someone dies. Indrid survived, but she’s currently healing up.
She’s also having her dreams meddled with by Plaske Wilhem, who was brought in from @glowtrolls‘s dream circus sect to help restore her loyalty to the church. By you know, brainfuckery. \o/
Her hands rest on your shoulders before you can even open your mouth.
You’d jumped to your feet when you saw her from the bench, ready with explanations, ready to protest and plead and argue, whatever would work -
The tent’s light is dim, but you still have enough illumination to see the play of her face; she doesn’t want you to speak right now. Your ears lower deferentially, shoulders hitching back down. You’re not a pupa at her first culling show. You can wait.
“Indrid.” she says quietly. “We cannot solve this for you.”
Her yellow-and-purple gaze from the foot and a half she has on you feels as if it’s coating you with paralysis, and your throat seizes up.
Shame follows swift on its heels, and anger at yourself. What were you expecting? For her to wave her hand, and brush your troubles away?
Stupid.
You try to shake off her hands, to turn and leave, but she presses down.
“I didn’t say we would refuse to help. Come with me.”
A bitter retort shrivels on your tongue. What is it, Sister? What’s your answer? Is it one thing or the other?
Words, so many endless words, painting a picture of the world you know isn’t accurate. Clinging to beliefs belonging to a time that died several Grand Highbloods ago.
Is this a joke?
Only all your court training keeps your anger from showing on your face at the thought...or so you think until Melodine smiles.
“You don’t need to trap your feelings so, bedbug. Those legislacerators.” She tuts, clicking her tongue as she leads you outside, back into the wet grass and the light of the moons. “Always suppressing everything, like that makes them better trolls. Silly teals. They’ve no teeth, but what else can one expect of midbloods?”
They’re a good caste, you retort silently. A very useful caste.
She studies you further. “Speak.” She says, with far less warmth.
“It’s not right to put them down.” You mumble. “Teals are very important.”
“What are you, a maroon? Look me in the eye when you talk. Put strength into your voice, Indrid! We’re not here to speak of teals. We’re here to discuss how you’re getting out of this mess you landed yourself in.”
You brought it up! You shriek in your head. But you arrange your features into something...if not pleasant, than certainly eager. You never have this trouble in the courtblock; what’s wrong with you? Was this a mistake?
“What assistance can the church offer me?” You manage.
Melodine gives you a look of distaste mixed with amusement.
“Would you have him voodooed? Would you have him imprisoned? Would you ask us to rip his fins off and take his gills, make of him a mockery of a caste that is already a great joke? You know full well who Thrixe Varzim is, who he belongs to. We cannot touch him without answering to the Condesce’s aids themselves. Unless your time among the lower orders has blunted your wit, Indrid, you know all this. Stop playing those silly blueblood games and ask.”
Finally you hiss, and resist the urge to clamp your hand over your mouth, to offer apologies, to behave as you’ve learned a highblood should. Melodine looks smug, smug and proud as the pair of you finally stand at the entrance to a grand tent, torches burning at its entrance.
“I want him unable to speak out against me. I want him to suffer like he did to me. I don’t care if he’s the Empire’s; he’s a dangerous tool, and he needs to be corrected.” You say, quiet, but an indigo glow dances around your eyes, reflecting off your glasses.
Melodine reaches out a hand to brush through your bun, letting it down with a deft tug of your hairband.
“Who is the greatest joke?” She demands, as if you’re a wriggler fresh from the caverns, still blinking the cavern dust from your eyes.
“The fool who never tells one.” You respond without thinking, loud as if sweeps haven’t passed since you’ve answered.
Melodine’s face splits in a wide grin, and she beckons you in the tent with her.
For once, nights pass and it doesn’t mean anything to you.
You file paperwork. You go out in the field. You hunt, capture, charge, condemn, and clean up with the same efficiency that you’ve done ever since you turned nine, fresh-faced with your eyes just filled in, leaping into your assignment all a tangle of eager limbs and dewy enthusiasm.
You drink coffee. You nibble on donuts. Everything is the same.
Except for you.
For once, you’re at your hive. It’s as clean as ever; the staff always keep it tidy while you’re away. It occurs to you as you walk in the door that you rarely see dust in your home; you don’t stay long enough. Cyan comes and weaves around your legs, meowing even though you know perfectly well he’s been fed, his fur freshly groomed. You reach down to skritch behind his ears, but the ragamuffin mrrts at you and jumps on the couch instead. Typical.
It’s all the same. Nothing has changed.
You can’t stand it.
You fling yourself on the other side of the soft gray couch and what begins as a frustrated growl peters out into a sigh before it’s even halfway out of your throat. You’ve never been very good at staying angry. It’s embarrassing, really - who ever heard of an indigo who couldn’t hold onto her rage, couldn’t use it to smite the Empire’s enemies and lend strength to her limbs with unbridled fury - but you’ve been this way ever since you can remember.
Besides, you’re not allowed to hate him. He’s violet.
You could sue him for slander, you could make his life hell if you wanted. Nobody cares for fins when his bloodline is a disgrace to the Condesce herself.
But by hatchright, by pure genetics that were decreed long before his ancestor or even the Condesce was ever thought of, he’s above you.
So you know have no right to complain. Thrixe must know it. You can’t fathom why he chose to taunt you like this, but he has you trapped. You could ask him for answers, but he owes you none. Even if he never does anything with what he has - never speaks of it to a soul - you are helpless as a mutant grub in a matron’s claw to whatever he might ask of you, by caste and now by threat.
Maybe the indigos who believe seadwellers should never have ruled were right. You believed it when you were a pupa, faithful as anything, until you realized that the rest of the world didn’t care. The finest paint is nothing to gills, and you left the church long ago anyway.
Yet...could they help?
You’ve criticized the church many times, and for good reason, but you’re still Mirthful, if for no other reason than that they raised you. The touch of a sister’s hand raised your freshly pupated chin to the moons, looking out into the sky where paradise was waiting, telling you how many wonders your long life had in store.
Cyan comes over and rubs his head on your chin, and you stroke him with one hand while using the other to browse your phone’s long contact list, the light flickering against your face in the darkness of the living room.
Your eyes gleam behind your glasses as you get out of your chauffeured car, and instruct your driver to be back within a few hours. You don’t actually know how long you’ll spend with Nemmon! But you’d like to show him the city as well as get coffee.
You stroll into the place - it’s very nice, it caters to teals and above as a break place but also a meeting spot and minor work area, since it offers wifi and access to a small projector in case someone needs to make a presentation. The projector, occupying most of one wall, is first-class biotech - the screen gently pulses a soft illuminated gray, crystalline liquid common to most husktops integrated with microorganisms that can accept data intake from any organic source and analyze it.
Hm, you don’t see any seadwellers - he can’t be here yet. It’s just you, another purple, a few ceruleans, and a teal in the place right now, all the rest of them occupied with food, drink, or their phones. The smell of coffee wafts toward you, and you order an iced caramel-flavored drink with coconut milk along with a few pastries before sitting down, hands neatly folded in front of you as you sit properly upright, waiting.
EVERYBODY’S CRUSHES, now that I finally have them sorted
Cennef is crushing pale on Lancer Gattik, though she worries that it’s only because he reminds her of her old moirail, and is currently trying to sort out how much of her feelings are nostalgia and how much are genuine attraction.
Ullane is currently crushing on nobody, but she is becoming greatly attached to Widsth Orpheo, to the point where she’s appointed herself his personal doctor and may go ashen for him in the future. She was also briefly ashen for Pheres Dysseu (between him and Kilran Barbas) but felt embarrassed by it since it was clearly more of a joke to him (she joked about it too, but then got a little too enthusiastic) so she’s decided to never speak of it again. (I’m pretty sure Kilran was disgusted by the entire thing and honestly who can blame him).
Maidel is crushing pale on Dosime Solanu, thoroughly endeared, concerned, and enlivened by her presence and personality. She’s the only person he feels safe expressing annoyance at, which is a record. He has also recently gained a red crush on Budino Cadmus, because Budino’s kind and pretty (them having interests in common doesn’t hurt either) and he just wants to make him feel nice, especially when he seems sad or rejects her compliments. (She figures he likely has perfectly good reasons for being sad, but he’s lovely, so she likes to see him smile).
Gliese is crushing on Canela Moscat in red, Cateex Samash in pale, Riccin Kayata in pitch, and will shortly realize her ashen crush on Meukit London. PLAYING FOURSQUARE LIKE A PRO, and I think I’ve covered her crushes pretty well in rp and asks on here so I won’t go into the details.
Indrid also doesn’t have any solid crushes and honestly I have an entire bloody roster of trolls she could potentially be attracted to in the future, no use naming names here. She is definitely fond of Sappho Wilcox and would not be averse to going on another date with her, because she thinks Sappho’s precious as hell and #lawyer posse solidarity.
