Your name is Leonra Monark, and you are not a troll.
Deepbite found great pleasure in watching you train. Something about ensuring you were doing it right. You thought, for a while, he just enjoyed the violence. Ever since you could pick up a knife, you were training. It just became part of life. Part of routine. The routine kept you sane. Wake up, eat, train, do missions, eat, sleep. Though, some days, this training felt more like entertainment for your higher ups. Deepbite sat on the ground- how comical is that? Yet he still rose above everyone around him. He watched with morbid desire as you fought. The trolls who trained you, who raised you, observed with critical eyes, seeking any mistakes or flaws in your form.
See, your training had progressed past learning how to fight. Some days you longed for the hours wasted learning how to throw punches with Romune. You would laugh and smile back then. He was so patient- apparently unheard of. It was so fun back then, so simple. Here, with your ancestor watching, you were nothing but a gladiator in a gym. Trolls who had pissed Deepbite off were sentenced to train with you, which ultimately led to their death. Deepbite was not a merciful man. Most days it was lowbloods, batteries from other ships, lowly mechanics or pilots or janitors or cooks who simply looked at him wrong. Your task was then to kill them. You were lucky if you were given a knife but never anything to make it quick. You found with your size that it was difficult to make it an easy death, necks never snapped quite right.
The hardest fights were against those you knew. The battery you befriended, the medic who gave you extra painkillers and fun bandaids, the cook who snuck you seconds. The pilot who asked if you were okay after a hard mission. The footsoldier who smiled at you when you passed him in the hall. Kindness was so hard to come by in this metal prison, you relished in the small scraps you got. You began to wonder if he was doing it on purpose.
Did the cook really smuggle spices off that planet, or was he just kind to you? Did the medic really sell secrets for cigarettes, or was she just kind to you? The footsoldier didn’t shoot his general in an act of rebellion. He didn’t know how to fire a gun.
He was just kind to you.
Don’t lose your head, you know he hates it when you space out. Your horrible habit of getting too into your thoughts. It was so easy to let it all overwhelm you some days. But you had a switch you could turn on, somewhere inside your head. When things became too much, the switch was flipped, and everything went numb. It was like taking a sip of something warm; an almost pleasant numbness spread through your chest and replaced the intense emotions. Rust blood dripped off the knife in your hand. You blinked once, twice, three times, before registering the corpse in front of you. He was a good footsoldier. Barely older than you. At least you had a knife this time.
“Drop it.” You didn’t even register your ancestor’s words, simply dropped the knife on command. As it clattered to the ground, you felt the guilt in your chest try to spark up once more. The numbness washed it away, as always. You stood up straighter. You look down on the body. Your name is Leonra Monark, and you are not a troll.
“Very good, Leo,” His voice was practically a purr, rumbling loud enough to echo off the walls, “One more, then we’re done fer th’ day.” You finally allowed your shoulders to relax as he spoke. There was an odd sense of comfort in the way he used your nickname. It was the closest thing to a reward you could achieve.
“Siren, m’dear, get th’ blueblood, will ya?”
A chill went down your spine. You turned to watch your ancestor’s moirail leave the gym. With the chill came a slight panic. There were only so many bluebloods on the ship, hardly any you could imagine Deepbite wanting dead. You shouldn’t let your thoughts run, but they did. Was it Magnus? Romune? What could they have done? Fuck, you couldn’t kill Romune. You didn’t have a doubt in your mind that man could flatten you. To distract your racing thoughts, you kicked the rust-coated knife away, towards Deepbite. To prevent yourself from grabbing it again.
You remember looking up at the door as it opens. You remember Siren dragging a familiar blueblood by his arm, throwing him in the “ring” with you. You remember his big pale blue eyes, looking up at you in horror. You remember sneaking out of your quarters to the soldier bunkers Shuffe stayed in. You remember holding his hand as he led you into the belly of the ship, where the steam was hotter than the sun but no prying eyes could find you. You remember Shuffe’s lighthearted laugh when you admitted to enjoying puzzles. You remember the way his fingers felt in your hair, the way he cupped your face and said you were not a machine to be bossed around. You remember the passion in his eyes, the way he talked about his barkbeast lusus with a never ending supply of puppies, how he described all the places on Alternia he was going to show you. You remember the way his lips tasted, salty like sweat and steam, metallic like blood. Why did his lips taste like blood? No, wait. Your lips taste like blood.
You blink once, twice, three times, before the corpse before you finally registers. Blood has never tasted so vile. You think you might be sick. Everything feels fuzzy, like television static. You didn’t have a weapon. That phrase repeated itself in your head over and over as if trying to justify your actions. Shuffe had never looked so terrified before, he didn’t even fight back. You had sparred with him in the past, you knew he could throw a punch. And yet, he didn’t even stop you. He was just afraid. You aren’t a man, you aren’t a machine, you’re closer to a cornered animal at this point.
“Very good,” Deepbite’s content hum filled the bitter silence, “Yer dismissed.” With that, the large fuchsia rose from his seat. The metal floor creaked under his weight as he left you in silence. You couldn’t move your eyes from the troll in front of you, barely acknowledging the others who had gathered exiting the room.
It was a gruesome sight. Your teeth buzzed with the residual feeling of flesh being torn. In your panic all you could do was act on instinct, tearing like your lusus once taught you many sweeps ago, when you were still young. You never thought you’d be tearing apart the neck you once kissed, but at least it wasn’t an excruciating death. Hopefully.
A shaky exhale escapes your lips, shoulders dropping. You give your head a slight shake. You straighten your posture, and the numbness washes over you like a comforting flood. You take a moment to flip over Shuffe’s body, barely glancing at the horrific mess you made of his throat. You yank the chain with his dog tags off his neck, and tuck them into your pocket, then flip him back over.
You hesitate before leaving, and decide to do the same to the rustblood footsoldier. His dog tags are smaller, but just as easy to pull off. You attempt to wipe the blue blood off your face with the back of your hand, with little improvement. But you don’t have time to dwell. You don’t allow yourself a final glance at what remained of the trolls you knew. You leave to continue the routine.
You don't like letting others have power over you.
You liked giving people the illusion of power. You did this often with Obsidian. Though, you were certain he was aware of the façade. It was part of the game you played. The thought brings forth the hint of a smile. You glance down at the violet, who had only returned to your ship a couple hours prior. He had quickly found his way to your bed, and, at the moment, appeared to be asleep. Maybe just resting. maybe just waiting.
The air swirls around you as if the ship itself were breathing. It was difficult to focus on the paperwork in front of you. Important as it was, you found the work tedious and below you. Instead, you rest your chin in your hand, watching as the violet's chest rose and fell, as the air seemed to follow his lead. Funny how the hallucinations acknowledged him. Made the air feel as thick as it looked.
Was it trust that let him sleep in your presence? Or just plain foolishness? Letting his guard down so completely. Your quarters were secure and safe when you weren't in there with him. Sleeping by his side was part of the illusion of power and trust. Extending the olive branch far enough for it to seem real.
Obsidian couldn't hurt you, not even if he tried, not even if he wanted to. Any power he had was an illusion. One you could break in an instant.
"Take a picture, Jules, it'll last longer."
Nevermind all that, he wasn't sleeping. With a laugh, you rise to join him. Work could wait, a nap with your matesprit was far too tempting.
