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=> Aboard the Starbase Frontier.

infiniteproxy You'd die before admitting to the loathsome existential dread that has you by the throat, as your waiting has whittled down to weeks, then days-- now mere hours, poised and awaiting word to set everything into motion.

You wonder if Vriska truly comprehends the extent of all that you stand to give up-- if anyone who has never been helmed ever could. To allow yourself to be pulled from the rig, from your systems, from half of your self; to diminish yourself by choice, confined to a crippled body, to pitiful senses and nothing but silence beyond the churning chaos of your own thoughts for the foreseeable future...

You have to keep your sights on what lay further beyond, and excise the rest. Fear was unacceptable, and you will not hesitate.

You have done all that you possibly can to prepare, including the gradual strategic abandonment of one of the cargo bays, which now lay in wait devoid of personnel. All that remains is to trigger a station-wide lockdown and hope that the quarantine protocols hold long enough to allow Vriska time to move unimpeded. Beyond that...

One way or another, your life as you currently know it will end this night.

amicicidalgambler And so will yours.

You've been suiting up for your mission in the same meticulous way that you start every evening. You carved out every angle of your face with makeup even though half of it was going to be hidden under a mask, you perfectly plaited your hair that was going to stay tucked underneath your clothes, you fussed over your clothes even though you had a leather jacket and boots and pads to carefully layer over it all.

And as you do, you wonder if Goldwave has any idea about what you're keeping behind the curtain. Once this was over you wanted to let him in on everything, but you had no idea what he suspected. Could he tell that you were in love? See the kind of purpose you were following? You doubted it. Nobody looks at someone like you and thinks you're happy, after all.

But either way, you wanted this terrible cantankerous bastard in your life, and, well. Rescuing a helmsman you saw as family was a real test for what you've been learning, wasn't it?

Nadaya had provided you with all the weapons you needed. A few good guns, more knives than even you knew what to do with. That and a single-use transportalizer (with a spare) was all you would need. You kissed him before you put your mask on, spent a minute with him before you steeled your nerves. Then you sent a message to Goldwave, the last one for now, saying to ready for your arrival. One zap to that empty cargo bay, and you'd be there.

Time to raise hell.

infiniteproxy The message, when it comes, is a shock to your system; while not dispelling the fear, it galvanizes you. This was the point of no return.

Over the course of the past week, you'd ever so carefully manipulated the schedules of in- and outbound vessels. You wanted this swarming hive of a starbase to be as empty as it would ever get, and now the moment you'd both been preparing for with nerves on a knife's edge had come.

You initiate quarantine protocol, and transmit the coordinates for cargo bay 4.

infiniteProxy: lockdown is in place. you may proceed.

amicicidalgambler There is no pause as you appear in the bay and security feeds of the Starbase Frontier. You already know where the door is, and your mind is already shuffling to the first step of your plan like a stacked deck of cards, so you simply begin a confident stride towards the nearest hall.

First things first, you need your backup. Two low-grade psions, working conveniently close to your point of entry, sticking out like a sore thumb in the herd of scurrying midbloods you could see in your mind's eye. You see them, and you seize them. Every thought they were having halts, and their nerves freeze and scream at them to run, fucking RUN to your location. They'd be here in a moment.

Second, you need your intel. With a single flex against his mind, roughly equivalent to a polite knock, you worm into Goldwave's pan just as forcefully. His pan is nothing like the other two, with all the buzzing energy of stellar class psionics and a riled mind and also the entire goddamn base, but you can handle it. You can handle it fine. You just- need a single expected second, to breathe and settle as a weight behind his eyes.

And after that second, there'd be a thought louder than all his others flashing into his mind: Status? You needed him to focus on what's happening on his own so you can see.

infiniteproxy You have your eyes on the prize the moment they arrive-- though, strictly speaking, you were the prize. But your cameras and attention are trained most immediately on the cargo bay and the corridors just beyond.

The intrusion is disorienting, momentarily distracting you from your surveillance. More than that, it's a jolt of not-quite-familiarity that Vriska will likely notice, which you also push away. The sensation is achingly similar, but the touch of their mind feels quite different-- something you're thankful for.

You need to focus for both your sakes, now.

Swiftly, you dismiss as many irrelevant readouts as you can, concentrate on what's useful: the layout of the starbase's interior, with the path to the helm highlighted, crew stations and movements, camera feeds.

i will keep the ranking officers at bay for as long as possible, but it will not hold forever. they will be attempting to discern the cause for the lockdown. this is your opportunity. make good use of it.

amicicidalgambler ...There was a real thrill in having all that at your fingertips, but you couldn't linger on it.

Instead, you run out into the corridor just as your controlled help arrives. Their powers were an extension of yours now, and your guns flew out from your arms and into theirs. You unstrapped the last one with one arm, and started tossing out Magic 8 Balls from your sylladex with the other. They floated into the air, all being crushed at once in a little psionic flare and exploding into a cloud of knives.

The Starbase Frontier was somewhat wheel shaped, and you were on the outermost ring. The nearest spoke of halls would lead you right to where you needed to be- but every other spoke would lead your enemies to the same thing. The cloud parted with a single push, and swirled around you and your pawns. You would run down the spoke closest to this cargo bay, while you would flank yourself with the other two trolls.

You only had one question worth asking as you started running into the maw: What about the auxiliary helms?

infiniteproxy Oh, you're going to miss being able to multitask like this... Keeping a close eye on Vriska and their newly-conscripted "assistants" (ah, what a show!), while continuing to maintain awareness of the rest of the station and thwart the attempts of those on the bridge to override the lockdown.

The 3D overlay lights up the path and entrance to the lower helmsblock, which, though mechanically connected, does not share an easily accessible entryway with your own. Either could be sealed independently, in case of damage or sabotage, as they now have been with lockdown in place. You're already working on bypassing the security protocols.

You also bring up their statistics-- power rating, neural imprint, vitals, etc.

amicicidalgambler Multitasking is almost your thing too. Almost.

You grab the minds of the auxiliary helms in a move that makes you violently flinch and shudder. If one helmsman is loud, then three is deafening, nothing but a full chorus of buzzing power boiling under your skin. They seize too, as you force them to halt every process that can be halted, until you can steer them towards literally anything else.

Because you can't let it stop you from your other current issue. A starbase on its emptiest night is still a starbase with people. There's stationed security and a few scuttling stragglers from the lockdown in the corridors, and they all need to be out of your goddamn way.

So you and your backup greet each one with a volley of psionic knives. To the neck, the eyes, the hands, gaps in armor, it doesn't matter- they all dance around each victim and stab any available piece of meat until they're a corpse riddled with bleeding holes. But through the feeds, it would be obvious that you weren't using your senses to guide any of it. You were entirely in your head, relying on the network of mind's eyes to plan every move.

infiniteproxy Your awareness of the other two suddenly splits in the strangest way-- you feel them withdraw from all but the most vital core systems, while at the same time experiencing a sort of vague, formless echo of them through Vriska. They're as nothing next to you-- not nearly so powerful, minds far more complacent, far more broken to their work. But altogether, the sensation of all three and everything you encompass at once must be distinctly overwhelming.

And even so... It's a sight to behold, the way Vriska storms onward like a whirling dervish, slicing, stabbing, cutting down anyone who stood in their way. Yet so detached, every action driven by something far more internal than psi alone. It's fascinating. You're grinning-- or perhaps you're snarling, teeth bared in savage glee even as you attempt to stymie the commander's demands for answers.

"Helmsman! Report."

"Status uncertain. Recommend full system scan."

"Then get on with it. If this is another one of your little games, I'll have you dismantled, do you hear me?"

"I assure you, Commander..."

A commotion-- a burst of static, a frantic voice over personal communicator, an aborted scream--

INTRUDER ALERT. INTRUDER ALERT.

"...this is no game."

Ah, well. Now things would get interesting.

security is en route to the habitation ring. be ready.

amicicidalgambler I can see them.

Or their pans, anyways. Between the glittering of their minds in physical space and the layout in Goldwave's head, it seemed like there'd definitely be some company by time you crossed this last stretch of hallway to the next ring. By time your pawns caught up from the adjacent wings, it'd be a straight up party. Fabulous.

Between now and then you'd almost have everything handled. The trolls you'd caught off guard were easy to pick off and butcher, you had plans for how to handle more of a skirmish. But there was one more thing that needed your attention.

A thought would enter the headspace of the auxiliary helms, loudly. Your primary helmsman is about to get his freedom, you said. I can't give you the same, but I can help you. What do you want?

And it would beat in their heads until you got an answer.

infiniteproxy Both would jerk against the wires at that sudden, insistent demand-- the voice that was not a voice, the thought that was not their own, the will of the one who held them in compulsion and yet-- offering help?

A clamor of disjointed feelings and impulses; fear, confusion, rejection. Hope, pleading, anger.

One cringes away, seeking refuge in the programming-- fearing the punishment sure to follow if they spoke out of line.

From the other, a spark not quite snuffed out, flaring to life-- they'd had friends, quads, a life, all torn away.

The idea of freedom beyond death in the rig feels impossible, yet neither do they wish for it. What kindness could this intruder even have the power to offer them?

But a thought resonates between them; fearful, resentful, yet in this both of one mind, for sweeps of callous treatment and grueling use. They'd helmed the base in tandem for a long while before the third had been brought in, pushed to their limits in the interim between one primary and another, with not a bare word of appreciation, only endless demands.

... make them pay ...

amicicidalgambler There was a laugh as you stabbed the last troll in your path to the habitation ring.

This place is going to be a fucking corpse pile when I'm done with it.

And that was an understatement. The bodies you were leaving now were just the start, the plans you had for the rest of this place were... far more elaborate. Messy. Fun.

But there has to be survivors.

It was a stipulation Goldwave himself gave you. Someone had to be alive to spread the word of the Starbase Frontier. This stupid fucking Empire had to know that a helmsman arranged his own escape and had the crew of his prison slaughtered. Here, this was his triumph to have, his mark to make on the universe. You were just hired help. Very enthusiastic, completely pro-bono hired help.

Your knives and gun were already poised at your next target, and you opened the door to the next sector.

Would you like this place to yourselves?

infiniteproxy Emotions shift to wonder-guilt-vindication-excitement-regret. It's thrilling (it's terrifying). They want to see those preening highbloods get what's coming to them (they don't want innocents to get hurt).

Survivors, though...

Is it relieving? Yes-no-maybe-sort of. Ripples of uncertainty. What would come next? What would happen to them in the aftermath? (What difference would it make, if nothing ever changed?)

Then a flash of personnel files drawn up, ones you hadn't bothered with-- the low-caste crewmen, the ones tasked with menial jobs, the ones caught in the spokes of the wheel just as they were.

Some, perhaps, soon to be or already dead. There wasn't much room for compromise. But even so...

... show them who deserved to die ...

amicicidalgambler This base didn't have much lowblood crew in the first place. The personnel files you had gotten from Goldwave made that explicitly clear. For some godforsaken reason, this place was fucking crawling with trolls around your hue instead. Teals, ceruleans, blues, all with rather middle of the road qualifications and clean records. It was a fucking trash heap of bureaucratic losers. In the flood of cool-toned pans, anyone with a controllable blood color was practically neon bright to you.

Which also meant it was very easy for you to tell that none of them had gotten roped into this welcome party. Before the door was even fully open, you hurdled through, firing your knives and letting loose a wild spray of bullets. You... weren't the best shot. You were 100% trying to compensate with an automatic rifle. Whatever.

Trolls hit the floor and you sprint for the next hall, your knives flying from corpses to the closest round of new targets. Until you reach the door, at least, at which point they fly back to slip through behind you and form another cloud. That's when your backup lands, blasting through anyone else in much the same way. They'd make their way to the door, and keep anyone from coming in behind you.

Next stop: Your brother.

infiniteproxy The two of them fade into the background, mentally vibrating with tension, able to do nothing but watch-- and wait.

Could one troll alone -- mindcontrolled lackeys aside -- actually bring this station down? Starbase Frontier was far from a prestigious posting, but neither was it some slipshod affair... But it seemed anything could be possible, with a little help from the inside.

Help that watches, too, with bated breath, attention trained on the spray of bullets, on Vriska's forward progress and every fallen body.

spectacular.

There are guards stationed outside the entrance to the primary helmsblock, of course. They'd been there before the lockdown, and they'd be damned if they left their posts for anything. The commander, of course, is convinced of your involvement by now-- But have any of them truly realized what Vriska's goal is?

If they did, they'd be massing right there to hold off a potential breach, but -- though there are many rushing to try to intercept -- it doesn't seem as though they've put the pieces together just yet. All the better. You want to relish this.

amicicidalgambler The guards come under fire as soon as you can make the shot, and you laugh as the sound echoes down the hall. This was all too precise for you to let yourself get all orange-eyed and crazy, but the adrenaline was still getting you to loosen up.

That and the sheer anticipation. You were nowhere near finished, but you moments from seeing Goldwave face to face. Just one more door, a few more steps, a little more time...

These fuckers need a little special attention first, though. Once they fall, you float your rifle up above you, and settle a knife into each hand to replace it. The corpses were lifted to meet you, and you dug the blade deep into their stomachs, carving through the flesh. Their own hands are puppeteered with psionics to plunge into the wounds, pulling out their own entrails before they're left to be a mess on the floor.

As you waltz into the helmsblock, a blood-spattered assassin and a glittering cloud of weapons, you make them paint out eye symbols and a few random ominous words with their blood. You order your help to come into the hall after you, to try and guard this entire side of the helmsblock. But it's all background noise to you. You're so happy to see him.

infiniteproxy You're practically incandescent with vicious delight. No one would be able to hear the ragged cackle of your echoed laugh, behind the helmsblock's soundproofed walls, with your feed to the bridge cut off, but surely Vriska must feel it.

You're straining against the wires, what little you can. You'd be damn near holding your breath if you could. It's practically artful, gory and glorious, blood and viscera strewn about your corridors like a consecration. You almost wish there were more to watch, but the door to the helmsblock has finally, finally slid open.

Anticipation was a heady and terrible drug, indeed.

All these perigees, all this planning, and now the moment you'd hardly allowed yourself to believe in until it had come-- to meet face to face, or as close as could be, with half your face obscured from where you loom above. But you watch their entrance in high definition, from half a dozen angles, and your grin is sharp as knives.

You've seen better days, to be sure. You may be a yellow pushing the half-century mark, but you're less worn with age than rough use. But those rebels were accustomed to rehabilitating helmsmen forcibly ripped from their rigs. Assuming you survived the next few minutes, your recovery, little as you want to spare much thought for the process, would at least be in better hands than you could ever face here.

"Welcome," you rasp, and the weight of everything unsaid within that single word hangs like thunderheads in the air between you, charged with potential. But anything more would have to wait, and for now you spare your wreck of a voice.

once i disconnect, i will not be able to assist in any meaningful way. you are prepared for your next move?

amicicidalgambler The only reason his emotions weren't being dulled down by everything else going on in your head was that they paired so well with yours. The droning buzz of psionic power, the last moments of connection anyone would have to the beating heart of the Starbase Frontier, your rush from the action matched by his rush of near-freedom.

You couldn't take your mask off, you needed your face obscured in here more than anywhere else, but you'd painted the front with a set of gold fangs. Between those and your eyes, you match him perfectly.

I'm prepared, you tell him, and you can't hesitate for a second.

The cloud of weapons float to the ceiling, protectively circling the rig, and you take your final knife off your person. It's a big unwieldy thing, not made for fighting, but that's not what it was for. With somewhere between the delicate touch you'd treat his actual ransacked self with and the firm grip of someone who spent a wrigglerhood with sea-ship rigging, you hoist yourself up by the biowire and find a secure spot to hang behind him. Then, finally, finally, you take the blade to wire and start to carve Goldwave out of his prison.

Meanwhile, you were still ordering your pawns to fend off goons as they came. Meanwhile, you still had to hold control over the auxiliary helms while they waited for everything to unfold. Meanwhile, you were tracking the glittering pans of all the lowblood crew and assessing the best moment to seize them.

But phase 1 of your plan was almost done. Goldwave was about to be free.

infiniteproxy You've never been one who cared anything for being understood. Your kismesis had been the only one to ever strip away all those layers of obfuscation and posturing, to dig down deep and lay bare the truth of you and laugh as she did. You'd loathed her for it even as you'd surrendered to it, and vowed to never allow anyone to know you as surely as she did.

All your dulled edges were of your own doing, but this rang true between you. What Vriska understood, they had no need to take; you were already of the same mind. It came naturally, without effort, without any need to explain, because it was obvious.

It was, upon reflection, a strangely gratifying feeling.

But there was no more time for ruminating on such things.

And no need to tell them to proceed-- they're already in motion, and you're prodding at systems you're not even supposed to have access to, directing the metal sheathing that shields parts of your rig to retract and leave the bare, fleshy wires exposed. Exposed to their knife, that flashes and cuts. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but that almost might have been preferable-- it's still a part of yourself that's slowly being sawed and severed, separating troll from machine with your mind still bridging the two until the very last moment. The sensation is disorienting, sickening, fleshy cables slowly parting one by one and with each your link to the whole of Starbase Frontier grows increasingly more patchy and dim.

Now is the time to make your temporary exit from the group chat in suitably dramatic fashion, before the connection is lost without your input. Now is the time for one last, private exchange, before closing that channel for good.

Your body shudders and writhes as your systems are assaulted by error messages of increasing urgency, of garbled data and sensory malfunctions, life support functions failing. It's almost too much to bear, now, being torn between-- you'll have to let go soon.

amicicidalgambler The whole time you could feel what he was going through, but just as an echo through your control. A little fraction of the agony. So you stay as calm as possible, for him. It was the best through-line you could give- the constant feel of your focused mind gripped around his as you cut through the biomass and all his senses overwhelmed him. Even with the loss of extremities you've been through, you knew you couldn't imagine what this is like for him.

It was very literally like holding someone's hand through a field amputation. A necessary comfort, sure, but at the end of the night it was something only he could come to terms with. He would have to let go.

And so would you, apparently.

Someone lunges, grabbing the few inches of braid above your jacket collar and yanking you down. Immediately, you flip your blade and hack wildly at the offending fingers, doing anything to regain your balance and get some distance before attacking any further. You didn't strictly need it when your arsenal was full of floating knives, but it's what your fighting instincts were screaming at you. Out of close range, out of arm's reach, NOW-

infiniteproxy It is a comfort, to their credit, however feeble it may have been against the experience of being cut loose. To no exaggeration, this is the worst thing you have ever experienced. Even the actual loss of limbs had been far less thoroughly agonizing-- and your left leg had been almost entirely severed without any surgical intervention whatsoever.

One arm, and then the other cut down, leaving you to slump against the wires still holding your twitching frame in place. The left, though bony and frail, was at least otherwise intact, but though the right hand still remained, it was paralyzed and useless, withered by atrophy and nerve damage.

Behind the headgear still awaiting removal, your eyes are wide and staring, blood dripping down your chin from where you've bitten your lips and tongue bloody. It's all you can do to keep from screaming, and it resounds silently in your head, an echo of the cacophony of every system gone haywire.

The sudden jolt, Vriska's alarm and immediate reflex, takes you completely by surprise; once the process had begun, there was no way you could keep your attention on the cameras, the crew, any of it, to anticipate the surprise assault. The disruption of that singleminded focus is all it takes to shatter yours-- sparks coursing up and down the wires as the measures to keep your power contained and properly siphoned fail.

amicicidalgambler The loss of control feels awful, but you have more pressing issues. Your assailant pulls you in by your hair, trying to grapple the rest of you, but you hit your mark that same moment. One strike and your knife digs into their hand, forcing their grip to falter. Another, and it goes clean through into their other arm.

Clean through your braid, that is. You shove your opponent and it falls to the floor, the remainder already unraveling as you scramble for space. Your eyes flush orange, and you give a growling screech as you finally see the motherfucker who dared attack you.

Before you stands the commander of the Starbase Frontier. His face is one you remember quite well from the files; he was the most punchable looking blueblood you'd ever seen, and his record only complimented his looks. Nothing but above average accomplishments in imperial groveling, leading to a dead-end job on the outer rim. He tsks at your state, seemingly unbothered by both you and the blood pouring out of him. The uninjured hand even goes to rest on a holstered pistol.

"I am placing you under imperial arrest," he says, "for tampering with the Starbase Frontier's primary helmsman, amongst several other charges. If you put down your weapon and surrender now, I will take you into custody, and we may still resolve this matter peacefully."

So you shoot him. To the bitch's credit, he's fast, zig-zagging the distance as you fire, but it gets a lot harder for him to dodge bullets when you snake your knives around him and try to block his every move. In return he goes for pot shots with his stupid standard-issue peashooter, and you have to keep on top of his injured aim. The two of you weave in front of Goldwave, him landing a few grazes and you riddling him with holes. He falters first, overwhelmed by the pain. You drive each and every one of your psionic knives into him, and then force them through the flesh, carving the commander to pieces as he screams to his death. His head you cleanly slice off and sylladex. The rest... you have plans for.

infiniteproxy It's an assault from every angle; blaring alarms, overlapping error messages, data streams disintegrating, pain-not-pain and noise within and without. Glitching camera readouts and audio feeds, giving a fractured picture of the struggle that goes on around you. The commander's insufferable posturing, Vriska's feral growl, and your own hoarse voice giving sound to that turmoil-- or is that only in your head, still? You can't tell anymore.

The lines between body and machine, ship and troll, were now not so much blurred as splintering into one another, your awareness spread far too thin one moment, then contracted awfully the next. Bullets whiz past, someone shouting over the staccato bursts of gunfire, and then-- a gruesome, gurgling scream.

One swift slice later, and the commander's headless body crumpling to the blood-slick floor is the last image you manage to capture on your cameras before everything goes dark, your link to the Starbase Frontier -- to everything you've been for the past three sweeps -- finally severed for good while you still had the presence of mind to make the choice yourself.

It's just you, now; a troll caught among the wires, nothing but this ruined flesh, the rising tide of your thoughts and the black hole within your chest. One cage for another.

amicicidalgambler One of your pawns is sent through the helmsblock to the other entrance, to cover the door that the commander had come through. You, meanwhile, wipe his blue blood off the knife you were using on the rig, and go to finish the job you started.

Goldwave's control over his psionics was slipping, but you could take care of the problem at the source. You knew how it was all supposed to be feel normally, so you could forcibly keep his powers at bay with yours. And then, for safety, you float over pieces of the commander's corpse and let the wires shock that bitch instead of you before you go back to hacking through biowire.

There's one more step you need, though. You take an 8 ball out of your sylladex and open it with a clean crack. It produces what could generously be called a knapsack, a hand-sewn thing with one big padded pocket and straps, and you lay it in front of the rig. With that in place, you carve away the last of the wires and, with a quick warning of the imminent manhandling, scoop Goldwave up gently and put him in the bag. There were a few extra straps to keep his atrophied arms in place, and then you'd both be ready for your escape.

The straps go around your shoulders, your gun lowers into your hands, and you lift yourself by your assistant's psionics into the air. There was no way to make this comfortable, but hovering would be a faster and smoother ride for getting the fuck out of here.

infiniteproxy It's a mercy, at least, that now you only feel the wires snapping as a strange, distant sort of twinge. Psi crackles along your skin, along the wires, like blood from an unstaunched wound, until Vriska's presence wrests it under control once more. So long, so long since you'd had any means of exercising it under your own power; that too would be something you'd have to relearn, in time.

You droop when the wires still tethering your headset to the upper column snap free-- then finally, even that is worked off and dropped aside, and you can open your eyes to your surroundings for the first time in perigees.

Making sense of the direct visual input, dazzled and dazed by light and the entire ordeal, is slow to come; sooner, you feel yourself pulled from the last, lingering embrace of biowire, dripping tendrils clinging to the stumps of your legs.

At least you're in no state to remark on the indignity of being stuffed into a bag and carried around like an object, or even a bit of added discomfort; you're really in an appalling amount of pain as it is, labored breath rasping in your throat. But you're not so far gone as to be numb to your imminent triumph, to the vicious satisfaction of seeing the commander strewn in slightly singed chunks across the floor.

There's a bit of a commotion at the far door, Vriska's borrowed help fending off a crewman attempting to force their way through. You pay them no mind, clearing your throat experimentally and making a game attempt at catching your breath. Your voice may be a wreck, but it's yours, and right now that counts for something.

"What... now?"

amicicidalgambler "Now," you answer, "We massacre the rest of these idiots, and get the fuck out of here."

And in the relative peace of the moment, now was your time to handle the lowblooded crew before that happened. You took a deep breath and wormed into all their minds at once, trying to hold yourself steady. The strain was- fine, it was fine, as far as body count this was nothing, but managing to let these fuckers ambush you was not a great sign for your focus. You could do better. You had to.

Each and every one of the sub-teal crewmates would stop dead in their tracks, seized by your puppet strings. They'd start calmly filing away to any little hidden niche you'd seen in the maps, their movements robotic and unnatural. It couldn't look like anyone was fleeing from their posts, it had to be even more undeniably mind control than anything else you were doing.

And you, with Goldwave over your shoulder, would fly. Just a little, a touch faster than you could run, onto the bridge and into the action. A bit of height gave you and your assistant a lot of cover, forcing anyone in the way to choose between two equally swift targets that were not only shooting them down, but shooting dozens of knives to follow up on the kill. Blue blood was being spattered at an alarming pace.

infiniteproxy At least the full weight of the station and all of its systems was gone, now. The other two were still there, firmly rooted in all the most essential functions, but it was a reprieve, at least, if a small one. And you were free. Very soon you would leave this place and never look back.

Yet how strange... That the Starbase Frontier would be a place now and nothing more. No part of yourself remained, nor wished to. It had never been you. But it had been yours, all the same... And this, in a way, was like looking out at your own corpse.

The bridge, when you reach it, is swarming with activity. Someone had managed to push through far enough into the helmsblock to catch a glimpse of the commander's dismembered body and report back; now his first officer is barking orders, attempting to call in reinforcements, to wrest unresponsive systems back into control, to figure out if there were any other invaders.

And in seconds, it all erupts.

Bullets, blades, and blood-- the tealblood's voice rising in disbelieving fury above it all as she ducks for cover. "Shoot them! Kill them both!"

But trolls fall all around her, consoles exploding in showers of sparks, coolant spraying from ruptured conduits. It would all be over soon.

amicicidalgambler All over soon, but not before you attended to that noisy little tealblood that was causing such a fuss. A fleet of knives go flying across the room and turn sharply around to pin her down in her hiding place. Either by blade placement or by sheer pain, she wouldn't be going anywhere. She'd be forced to stay and scream as every other troll in the room fell. Then, her head would be sliced off, and floated to the centermost console to drip all over the broken controls.

Your other assistant was bringing up the rear of your murder operation, covering the same ground as you from the helmsblocks to the bridge in the central spire. They, however, had a very important job. Their knives would dive hilt-first into the pools of blood that were now littering every other inch of the Starbase Frontier, and draw patterns in a flurry to cover all the blank space. Eyes connecting to condemnations connecting to mouths connecting to damn near every little ominous soundbyte you knew off the top of your head. Up the walls when you could, across the ceiling when you could, with no regard for direction.

The bridge you do yourself, with Goldwave by your side, so to speak. Fractal, spiraling patterns of one shade of blood leading to another, all painted simultaneously, leading to a longer phrase you'd memorized in his home dialect. It'd be scattered here and there all amongst everything else, but writing it out in big spattered letters right in front of the captain's station seemed like a suiting place.

Gelangweilt von der Ewige Wiederkunft des Gleichen, it read. Bored by the eternal return of the same.

The other half of the middle sectors was next. You laughed as you flew yourself to the next set of corridors.

infiniteproxy Shrieks of rage turn to screams of pain, to choking, gasping, as a dozen knives find purchase through flesh and hold her there amidst the slaughter to bear witness. One by one the remaining bridge crew fall, several turning to try and flee only to be cut down just the same, and then--

A body slumped to the floor, a severed head anointing the controls with her blood.

You watch, rapt, as once-pristine surfaces are defaced with a cool-hued rainbow in streaks and swirls and smears. A huge swatch right across the captain's console gradually coalesces into legible script, the harsh lines of a harsh tongue that still felt more comfortable than Common ever would.

And when you realize, though nearly silent, your laughter echoes their own as the two of you speed down the passageways of a station once bustling with life, now drenched in death.

amicicidalgambler It was a lot harder to miss when you were so close, and it made you damn near fucking glow with love. You could feel a ghost of every emotion that was present in your enemies- their rage, their fear, their grief, their panic- and it always paired so nicely with the adrenaline and sheer sadism that pumped through you while you watched trolls get eviscerated. But all the round warmth of carrying Goldwave through it made you feel practically fucking invincible.

The bulk of the remaining bodies they had to throw at you were arranged in the middle ring. There were still more officers onboard the ship, more lackeys barking orders to try and maintain the last semblance of order this ship would ever see, but with their commander and first officer gone there was only so much they could do. Only so much training they could rely on. Only so many ways they could even pretend to be the superior of the trolls they were sending out to try and stop you.

With one of your pawns at each side, you burst in with electric fanfare. They'd skitter about the ground, you'd flit above, and every motherfucker in your way would fall. You'd brought enough bullets to keep the suppressive spray almost endless, and with the dozens of flocks of knives you were dancing from target to target, the rest of your offense was just as unceasing. More and more try to flee as the dead pile up, their morale failing with their defenses, but you take any potshot you can to stop them. They could be crawling wrecks scraping themselves along the floor for all you care, as long as they die in the end.

And oh, how they die in the end. One by one they drop until there's nothing but dripping, mangled corpses spread across the halls, another landscape of useless bodies with spaces in between to paint with their blood. It would all have that same beautiful horrorshow transformation, and then-

Then you'd be on to the hivestretch.

infiniteproxy You have no skill whatsoever with reading the subtler emotions of others. You're not psychic; you're certainly no empath; and on the surface, they tend to confound you more than anything. What Vriska might be feeling in response to your unfettered delight (beyond the obvious in which you share) is entirely a mystery from your current perspective.

But you're riding a manic adrenaline high that you only hope might carry you until you're home free to suffer the crash, and the gateway to all your wildest dreams is opening right before your eyes with no more than a chasm of hellfire to bridge the expanse, and those little personal touches, well...

Gratitude doesn't come easily, to someone like you, to say nothing of fondness. But it's there all the same, that undercurrent of warmth and fierce pride.

...you might, also, be slightly feverish. Terrors knew your body chemistry was probably in a free-fall, what with being separated unceremoniously from the rig's imposed life support functions. But there are people whose job it is to deal with all that messy business. You just have to make it there in one piece, unlike these poor bastards whose doom has come early, leaving them strewn across the floor, piled against the walls, once-trolls reduced to so much offal.

Likely a few have managed to make it to the shuttles and escape, by now; likely a distress beacon has been sent out. You have no way of knowing for certain any longer, but neither does it matter. No one would be able to respond quickly enough to make a difference. They would only know that Starbase Frontier fell on this day-- and if they did not yet understand why, they would soon enough.

amicicidalgambler You were the one with a link to the ship now, and only indirectly. Through the eyes of the auxiliary helms, you were confirming those same suspicions: A few idiots had slipped out through the escape vessels, a couple others had sent out a general cry for help to the empire. Both of those wouldn't even be obstacles on your joyride out of here.

Only scraps of the crew remained, and few were even trying to hold their ground. They ran to any hiding place they knew of aboard the ship, anywhere that they could wait out your bloodlust- only to find that they were already occupied. Taken by other crew, the lowbloods you'd stashed, who would turn to stare at them with blank eyes and tell them that they did not belong here. That the intruders would only find them faster here. Which was true, even, seeing as those encounters could be followed like flares to hunt down your targets.

You knife down one, then another, then another...

The last crew member of the Starbase Frontier, a cerulean pencil-pusher, had been through your little routine three times now, and she was running out of options. You didn't have time to toy with her, but with the mental map you had, you could send yourself and your pawns down just the right hallways to quietly corner her at an intersection. She sees your pawn, turn and sees another, and then she sees you and screams.

She's a panicked mess within seconds, shaking and sobbing, and the two gunshots she takes to the legs don't help. Her whole body crumples under the pain, and she pleads, pleads for you to spare her, she didn't think there was anyone else, and you sink a blade into her arm. Stammering through the tears, barely comprehensible, she says she'll do anything, anything to keep her life, to stay alive even though everyone around her was dead- And you sink in another. Another below her ribs. A fourth in her stomach. You move them through her flesh like saws, up and down, tortuously slow, until the shrieking and crying finally stops. From your perspective, it's hard to tell if it's the damage that kills her, or the blood loss, or the sheer shock, but you don't even care. All that matters to you is that you have one last corpse to desecrate before you can leave.

You put a hand at the top of one of your bag's straps, not touching Goldwave at all, but miming it. "Anything you want for this one?"

infiniteproxy So much you can't see, now. So empty. So small. Blind. Deaf.

You're keeping it at bay for now, but later-- Well. Later would come later, if it came at all.

For now, there is only the thrill of the slaughter, that primal triumph, as chase is given to fleeing prey, those who attempt to hide flushed out into the open once more only to be mercilessly cut down. You only wish you could be taking part right alongside them, with psi blazing or knife in hand as they tear a whirlwind of death through the straggling survivors, but this... Ah, this is almost as good. A deadly performance, all for you.

It's almost a shame, when finally one alone is left. Some nobody in administration, whose only real fault was being assigned to the wrong base at the wrong time. To her credit, she's kept herself alive this long, scurrying from one corner to the next in a desperate bid to escape the inevitable. But now there would be no more running.

Poor thing. You could almost feel sorry for her, if you had ever really been capable of feeling any such thing. And her pleading was so very satisfying.

Something like a shrug, a slight tightening of your arms, is about all you can manage right now, but there are teeth behind your labored words.

"Flay her open... Stake her out to-- greet those who come to see."

amicicidalgambler "Can do."

The knives buried in the flesh of your victim dislodge themselves, and you orchestrate them all in a careful dissection. Lines are cut all over her body, panels of skin and muscle are carved and pulled back, all her organs are toyed with into a perfect desecration. With the blood, you surround her with a pattern of eyes, a set of feathered wings, and in big mocking letters, "Welcome to the Starbase Frontier!"

And just like that... it's over. Goldwave has been retrieved, every target has been killed, and you tick to the final step of your plan like clockwork. You drag yourself and your pawns to the nearest cargo bay, and sylladex your weapons in exchange for the last few things you needed. First, two bottles of unopened psionic strain medication, which are tossed to the trolls you've been controlling before you shoo them out of the room. Your control over them, and also everyone else alive on the ship, would release the moment you left the timeline, and they could either choose to accept your gesture or not.

Second, you had a single use transportalizer pad, which would explode upon your departure. It was actually the same kind that Karkat had used to take you to the base sweeps ago, an irony that you found completely obnoxious. But it was the only thing that could get you to... The quietest spot on Nadaya's ship, of course, where you let several Magic 8 Balls worth of weapons crash unceremoniously onto the floor, causing a small flood of knives and guns and ammo to clatter and bounce and generally go all over the fucking place. You were not about to have someone get on your ass for contraband after everything you've just been through.

The single-use junk couldn't have the correct permissions anyways. From here, you could you warp both of you to the spot Sparks always arrived at after his raids. If time was on your side, he'd have just hauled in his quota of rescued psionics minus exactly one, a helm in terrible disrepair that you currently had in your backpack. But it was all up to luck at this point, so the only way to find out was to press the button on the transportalizer and see.

centaurstechnician Ah home. The lovely scent of slightly different recycled air, cultured with mold spores and dandruff from different sources than Goldwave is used to. Subtle but distinct, the same way their specific laundry deturgent and cleaners soaked into every surface and clung to the clothes and skin of those who lived there.

Vriska and Goldwave weren't sppotted right off the bat, there was the usual chaos, psions rescued (the scent of blood was mostly from them) in a state of disrepair from their capture by the people Sparks had gone after today, there were nurses- and Equius, all out there doing triage and sorting people into who needed the most attention immediately and who was going to be a problem- none of these were volenteers into the program so they weren't expecting any issues with them.

Sparks and Salinx had already dissappeared to debrief and get a shower, leaving Equius 'Engineer' Zahhak to handle this chaos, as they did every time.

He was frowning, tapping his tablet, issuing orders, trying to figure out why their numbers weren't adding up with furrowed brows, Perhaps a typo, or they were mistaken? The intellegence was usually very good for these missions.

He wore a very dramatic mediculler's coat, sleeves stained with yellow red and brown where he'd already helped get the worst into stable condition and off to the bowels of the ship and its medical unit. - Not all of those were fresh, he had one specifically for the hell that were mission nights, that had already seen far too many stains.

infiniteproxy Ah... Now that was true artistry.

You grin, lick cracked lips, and breathe out, "Perfect." And now there's nothing but to leave it all behind, forever, a wreckage of blood and vengeance in your wake and those few seen fit to spare.

You're somewhat wary of the unfamiliar device Vriska reveals, but you're far more amenable to trusting technology than anyone who would rely on "magical" means to get around. They know what they're doing; you trust that much. And perhaps one night you might have the opportunity to get at the workings of these transportalizers...

A disorienting moment leaves you blinking around an unfamiliar corner of an unfamiliar ship, but the stop is brief enough to only allow Vriska to unload their cache before you're moving on once more, to emerge into a scene of chaotic activity that surges around you in a fairly overwhelming whirl. Light, voices, the heavy metallic scent of blood overlaying the rest. Ugh... You were going to have to get used to existing like this again.

amicicidalgambler The moment the two of you go unnoticed is just long enough for you to slip your backpack off your shoulders and hold Goldwave against your side with your robot arm- almost as if he was leaning against you for support and not a torso with arms in a bag. Then, you pull your mask off your face and make yourself noticed.

"Missing something?"

You were, quite frankly, a mess. A mess holding another mess. Nobody had landed a hit on you worse than a bad graze, but you were covered in blood and viscera specks in every shade of blue, your eyes were still blazing orange, your hair was chopped off at the shoulders, your nose was bleeding badly. The way you walk towards Equius has a distinctive sway to it, the way you hid the trembling that came with exhaustion that hadn't quite caught up to you yet.

And you had a face-splitting, wild grin. You always did, when you went to find him after one of your schemes.

centaurstechnician Equius looked up, ears perking at the sound a familiar and beloved voice- and he did a double take, briskly walking to meet them halfway. "Vriska, what in the name of the gods,," He whistled and gestured some nurses over to help, pausing a moment just to touch her cheek and wipe a stray streak of blood of of it with his thumb.

amicicidalgambler "I fucked with the numbers on the raid intel so I could pick up Goldwave," you admit, bluntly, leaning into your moirail's touch. And though you'd be happy to let the nurses take him for whatever it is they needed to do, the glance you gave them was full of protective instinct. Logically you knew this was their job, but emotionally, one wrong move and- That reminded you, though.

"I'm controlling his psi regulation right now. I don't know what that'll do on its own, so tell me when to let go."

infiniteproxy You're still in a bag, still so much dead weight, but at least like this you can almost pretend you just need a little help staying on your feet... Ha. You'll be needing a lot more than that, in the long run. But for now, the gesture is appreciated, though like this there's no hiding your own trembling, the appalling weakness that leaves it a struggle just to breathe.

For just a moment, you allow yourself to close your eyes against that weakness, teeth grit, before fixing your gaze on the Engineer as Vriska approaches.

You're quite a mess in your own right. Thanks to Vriska's deft positioning, you'd remained unscathed throughout the slaughter, though you're splattered with more than a small amount of teal and blue blood yourself. But you're scarred and gaunt, one horn a jagged break that never grew back properly, hair shorn short and jaw patchy. There's half-dried blood of your own streaking your chin and your eyes are like burning coals glaring out of ashen pits.

The nurses are spared a flat, distrustful stare, a hoarse cough bringing up fresher flecks of yellow.

"We could al-- always... fuck around and-- find out."

centaurstechnician "-I'd rather not." He said "May I touch you? I w001d like to do an examination, and get you into the medihall as quickly as possible. -Are you..?" He glanced at Vriska then her friend. "Goldwave, at a guess?" The big blue hazarded, a little uncertain.

"I see that you have both been full of mischief today- Are there any complications I need to know about? Vriska are you hail? Most of this blood looks like someone elses.." He frowned, examining her visually for a moment for anything deep. "If you are hiding a gut wound or anything I will be very put out with you"

infiniteproxy "If you must," is your grudging response, though you don't bother to hide the distasteful curl of your lip that accompanies it.

"Goldwave. Yes. You-- are the medical professional... are you not? ... You tell me."

Most of it would be self-evident: the usual array of old scars and ports still bearing traces of torn biowire, severe emaciation and atrophy, a body struggling to function on its own after a good few decades in the rig. A cursory examination would reveal the missing legs, long-since amputated just above the knee, the paralyzed right hand, though it may take a closer study in the medibay to determine badly-healed damage to vocal cords and trachea, compromised by scar tissue.

amicicidalgambler "He's had it pretty rough, but they only got scratches on me. Promise."

There was the psychic strain that would knock you clean on your ass the moment the huge rush from the violence stopped, but that one was a lot harder for you to judge in the moment. You honestly hadn't even registered the nosebleed yet.

"As far as I know there shouldn't be anything weird going on in there, but I have a bunch of the ship's files on my husktop if I'm wrong on that one."

centaurstechnician "You may stay with him if it will put you both at ease- " He crouched down and began careful physical examination- including breathing, examining skin elasticity, and pulse. "- we are taking you immediately and hooking you back up to life support before your body shuts down."

infiniteproxy "Wouldn't... want that-- would we?"

A dry, sneering cackle is broken by ragged wheezing, several moments passing before you can muster the strength or air to say anything more.

"... better... get on with it."

amicicidalgambler ...You were going to let him say if he wanted you to stay around or not, but the moment you hear that you can really only make one choice.

"I'm staying with him," you say, firmly.

centaurstechnician He gently reached out and took Goldwave and picked him up in the crook of an arm like he weighed nothing. "This way-" He gestured for an assistant to follow and hurried off to start the very many medical procedures Goldwave was going to need.

At least Goldwave didnt bite him.

infiniteproxy Ohhhh, you're thinking about it.

"Tell me-- do you.... treat all of your patients... as though-- they were... sacks of vegetables?"

centaurstechnician "When I must"

amicicidalgambler You trail behind closely, trying to find the best way to take off your jacket without splattering blood everywhere, and you hear that thought.

"No biting my moirail until you're stable."

centaurstechnician "I w001d appreciate that" He said mildly. "it makes it more difficolt to work when I've been injured. "

infiniteproxy You indulge yourself in a faint, irritable hiss instead.

centaurstechnician "You do not need to endure this for long" He promised him. turning down corridors and activating doors remotely ahead of them with his glasses to swing open. Goldwave was soon going to be laid gently down on a cot while they got him hooked up life support again, and scanners were fetched to get a more thorough understanding of what was going on inside him.

amicicidalgambler And you'd pull a chair to a spot close but out of the way, to watch, and support him until you absolutely had to go drag yourself elsewhere.

...You love both of these jackasses so much.

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