Chapter Text
Your name is KARKAT VANTAS.
You are currently NINE AND A HALF SWEEPS OLD, which is about NINETEEN EARTH YEARS, not that you know what Earth is, and it is your WRIGGLING DAY. It just so happens that you don't give a shit about this fact, but you don't want to get into that. You are a MUTANT, and would be dead by now if not for the ALTERNIAN CIVIL WAR. You would have been killed by IMPERIAL DRONES sweeps ago if the LOWBLOODS had not declared war on the HIGHBLOODS. But since this is a thing that happened, you are an UNOFFICIAL THRESHECUTIONER and happen to serve in the LOWBLOOD ARMY.
What will you do?
You never expected life to be a cakewalk upon joining the revolution, and you knew it would only get harder when the war began. But this is ridiculous.
At the moment you are stuffed so far into a crevice in the cave you found that you can't move another inch. You can't help but remember the countless times you've told someone "Well, you can shove it up your ass!" because this must be exactly what it feels like to be shoved up someone's ass, besides the rockiness. You're curled in on yourself to the point of pain. Through the crack you've squeezed through, a sliver of your hideout cave is visible.
More importantly, the footsteps that prompted you to hide in the first place are clearly audible.
Maybe you're overreacting. A lot of lowbloods know where you're squatting while infantry moves north; they could be coming to deliver news or check up on you. They actually care, surprisingly. It's weird. After sweeps of living with the fear that anyone who knew of your mutant status would shun you, it's surreal to know that a ton of those trolls you've never even met would die for you. But that's the motto of the lowblood rebels: United as one, together we conquer.
Still, you're not risking it. For all you know that's a highblood soldier with orders to kill every damn lowblood they can find, and one look at you is enough to tell them that you're a target. The bright red pupils are a big fucking clue. On top of that, you're not exactly wearing clothes that scream "I'm a rich nooksucking highblood." Your hooded cloak is tattered and dirty and definitely lowblood.
You strain your auricular sponge clots to listen. The visitor is at the mouth of the cave, judging by how close they sound. You really hope they aren't a highblood. Mainly because this cave is out in the middle of the fucking desert, and if the highbloods are searching out here, then they're not giving up easily. Also, your hiding spot is good, but if the fuckass bends down or kneels, they'll spot you in seconds.
They're walking slowly. You have your sickles clutched in both hands, even though attacking would be stupid. There's a good chance they're not an enemy. And if they are, there's a good chance they're not alone. You really don't want to jump into a fight where you're outnumbered, especially in your state. The last meal you had was a few nights ago. It wasn't even a meal, really, just a bowl of Kraft grub sauce that one of the older soldiers smuggled to you.
The mystery person finally steps into the light. It's just another lowblood, thank god. You don't recognize him, but that's no surprise. There are a fuck ton of lowbloods in this army. You can't tell what his place is on the hemospectrum is, either. Also not a surprise. Any indication of blood caste (certain clothing, symbols, etc.) is banned by your army's leader. The whole basis of the rebellion is to abolish the caste system entirely. This mission comes from the teachings of the Signless, some peace-loving mutant who preached a few sweeps before you made it out of the trials. Apparently the guy is still alive somewhere. You think that's crap, and the highbloods killed him, but it's not up to you to make assumptions around here.
"Pst," you hiss. The troll jumps and immediately draws his weapon, a lance. So, probably a brown blood.
"Oh, it's you." When he sees you, his lance pops back into his strife deck and out of sight. "I recognize you. Mutant bro, right?"
The way the guy says "bro" reminds you of your former moirail, so you struggle out of your rocky prison and dust yourself off, leaving your hood down and returning your sickles to your deck. "Yeah."
"I'm Trenor," he says in greeting, nodding to you.
You kind of want to be an ass, but instead decide to be halfway decent for once. "Karkat."
"This your cave?" he asks, waving one hand at the general surroundings.
"For now," you answer, scowling at the damp, leaking roof. It hasn't been a fucking picnic here. "When the Summoner gives the order, I'm getting the hell out of here."
The Summoner is the troll who was ballsy enough to start a full out war between highbloods and lowbloods, and now commands an entire army of trolls, without any help. Pretty cool guy, actually. No one really sees him. He mostly keeps to himself. The only troll he contacts frequently is one of the head cavalreapers, and that's only to give an order, which the cavalreaper relays.
"Didn't mean to infringe, bro," Trenor says, holding up his hands. "I'm just looking for a place to bunker down. Whole fuckin' airship flew over the canyon earlier, had highblood written all over it."
"Bastards," you mutter, moving cautiously to the mouth of the cave and checking the skies. You see nothing but the moons and the stars. "It looks clear now. We'll probably get the signal any minute now---"
As you speak, the sound of a bone hitting a drum three times in slow succession is heard, echoing across the valley of sand and stone. The signal means to move carefully towards the destination. As far as you know, the army isn't poising to attack, yet. Just getting closer to the coastline. Last you heard, the Summoner is planning a serious fight with the highbloods stationed there, to gain control of some of their ships. If all goes well the army might not have to sneak through deserts and whatever else anymore to get where they're going. For now, though, you're stuck taking the long way to the coast.
"Finally," Trenor laughs. He darts out onto the ledge and begins scaling the rock with his bare hands. The cave happens to be about thirty feet off the ground, but this fact made you feel safe when you found it. Trenor pauses on his way down and says, "See you later, mutant bro. Got some people to meet up with."
He disappears into one of the other caves drilled into the rock. You take a glance back, to make sure you haven't forgotten any of your meager possessions, then swing your legs over the ledge and make your way down the powdery rock. You drop to the sand easily enough and see lowbloods popping out of crevices everywhere, a sea of soldiers appearing out of nowhere. You move close to the rocks that jut out of the sand whenever you can as you begin the trek.
No one knows how far you'll be walking, so you're prepared to move until imminent sunrise. As you've said before, being a soldier isn't easy, but it's worth it. Ironically, it's the only reason you're still alive.
The sand is weighing down your boots and getting in your eyes. You pull your hood down over as much of your face as you can and struggle on, thankful that it's at least a cool night. You groan when you realize that you'll have to deal with this until the infantry stops. Then, unexpectedly, another signal rings through the air. Bone on drum, two times and lightning-fast.
You know this signal well: Prepare for battle.
With the weight of your sickles in both hands, you feel just badass enough to take down a few highbloods.
~ATH
Your name is JOHN EGBERT.
Actually, John is a nickname for JOHONN, but you don't tell people that. You happen to be NINE AND A HALF SWEEPS OLD, and a BLUE BLOOD. CERULEAN, to be exact. Recently you have been recruited to the IMPERIAL FLEET as a GAMBLIGNANT to defend the Empire against LOWBLOOD SCUM. You don't really think of lowbloods as scum, but they are a DANGER TO THE EMPIRE and therefore need to be fought.
What will you do?
Not a lot of people would believe it, but you are a Gamblignant.
For pretty much all of time, the word Gamblignant was associated with bad things: pirates, mutiny, massacres, political unrest. Mainly because that's all true. The marauders have, throughout history, proven to be involved in the most vicious of crimes, and the bloodiest battles. You have read the texts---about four centuries ago, a particularly nasty Gamblignant fleet even killed the reigning Empress and set aflame the capital.
Things have changed, however. No one knows exactly what happened, but the generally accepted story is that the Empress somehow convinced the Marquise (quite possibly the most terrifying troll you can name off the top of your think pan, besides the Condesce herself) to ally with the Imperial Fleet. By that logic, you are a Gamblignant and an Imperial Soldier, but most of the marauders still think of themselves as, well, marauders. Only now they're getting double the coin for murdering and pillaging.
In any case, you would never have considered joining the most ruthless fighting force on Alternia. It's mostly to follow your moirail and keep a close eye on her, since she is definitely a handful and could get into quite a lot of trouble on a pirate ship. Vriska insists that she doesn't need you grubsitting her like a chump, but she hasn't outright objected. Another reason you decided to sign onto the Gamblignants is that as a troll who is no longer an adolescent (though you wouldn't call yourself and adult, either), you are required by order of the Empress to be an active part of the fight against the lowbloods.
So, to sum all of that up, you are a Gamblignant and so is your moirail.
You blink your eyes sleepily. Once the sopor is mostly cleared out of them, you sit up in your recuperacoon, using the lip of the pod to drag yourself up. You sit on the hard outer shell of the 'coon and allow more of the slime to drip from your bare skin. You're the first person awake, thankfully, so none of the burly and muscular trolls on the crew can laugh at your small frame. You can't help it if you're only nine and a half and a little wiry! Jeez, some people.
You rub your hands on the shorts you wore to sleep and climb out of the recuperacoon. The seven other 'coons in this cabin are still occupied by snoozing pirates. You'd been dismayed when you'd learned you'd have to share a room with several marauders, since they are quite unruly and not unlikely to slit your chitinous windhole in your sleep. Now, after several weeks aboard the ship, and no injuries to report, you're less worried about your personal safety.
There's a modest chest bolted to the creaking wooden floor next to your pod. You've put a pretty heavy lock on it, but only because you wouldn't be surprised in the least to see one of your blockmates breaking in and stealing something. You unhook the key from the chain around your neck and unlock it. The chest is divided into several sections; the largest one is where your clothes are folded nearly. Your husktop rests on the stack of garments. The smaller compartments are just for little things that you won't bother to wrestle into your stupid sylladex. Vriska keeps bugging you about changing your ridiculous stack modus, but you're determined to master it in one day.
You make sure your hands are clean before carefully extracting your clothes, which you carry with you out into the hallway and then into the hygieneblock. A quick dip in the bath tub to get the sopor off and then you're out. You won't dilly-dally in there, on the off chance that one of the Gamblignants actually wakes up as early as you and has a hankering to wash up. Once you've dried off, you yank on your pants and boots, struggle to correctly button your shirt the first time around, and finish it off with your coat. The heavy thing is standard-issue among the Gamblignants, though yours is black with cerulean blue buttons and cuffs. The higher-ranked pirates wear versions that are solidly colored with their hemospectrum class.
You stop back in your shared respiteblock to throw your shorts into the chest and lock it up again. The others are just beginning to wake, so you hurry out of the block, fixing your cutlass around your waist as you go. Though your main strife specibus is hammerkind, all Gamblignants also have swordkind and pistolkind in their strife decks. Speaking of pistols---you find yours in the inside pocket of your coat, which is a relief, because you'd been sure you'd lost it. Once the pistol is secure in its holster on
your left thigh, you are officially in full uniform and at least twenty-five percent less likely to be culled by the captain.
There's still the lightest tinge of orange on the horizon when you make it to the deck, but the deadly sun is out of sight and this half of Alternia is rising from slumber. You have a routine where you wait for Vriska on the deck, watching the waters roll by, so that the two of you can go down to the nutritionblock together. Right now the ship isn't too far out---you can just see the coastline in the distance. You zero in on the stars overhead before someone comes up behind you.
"Stargazing again, Egbert?" Vriska questions. You don't have to see her to know she's wearing her trademark wild grin; it's evident in her voice. "Lame."
"It's not lame!" you protest, pointing to a very familiar constellation that looks a bit like a scorpion. "See, there's the cerulean star system."
The scorpion-shaped constellation is the star system believed to guide trolls of your caste; some cobalts even pray to these specific stars in times of need. You never have, but then again, you've never had the need.
"Well, that one''s not lame. But only because it's the best! All the other ones are lame." She nods assuredly to herself, confident that the other eleven star systems are inferior in every way.
"Yeah, yeah." You're used to this kind of talk from her. "How'd you sleep? You didn't kill anyone again, did you?"
You can't help but remember your first night aboard the ship, where some creepy pirate troll had hit on Vriska in her cabin; she'd promptly stabbed him through the blood pusher, because that's just the kind of stuff that people do when they're part of the Gamblignants. Regardless, you'd had a discussion with her about refraining from murder. The whole thing went over her head, and now she's basking in the respect that the rest of the crew gives her for proving herself to be a huge 8itch, as she puts it.
"Oh, have a little faith, John," she says flippantly, complementing her words with a characteristic hair flip. "No one messes with me anymore, you know that."
She seems genuine, so you let the matter drop and suggest, "Let's go down to the nutritionblock already. I'm starved."
In the corridors, more of the crew is up and about, but you're less worried about your well-being with Vriska. Because you're pale with her, your shipmates seem to assume you're just as murderous by association. You've decided it's best not to dispute this.
The nutritionblock is mercifully empty, so you sit down to eat some of the exotic fruits the ship has stocked up on recently. The evening meal is pretty uneventful, up until the captain's arrival. The captain is a navy blood with a strong jaw and jagged horns. He's holding a letter in his hand, sharp teeth bared in a lopsided grin.
"Your attention, please," he says with mock-courtesy. Few of the trolls in the now-full block seem to care, until he adds, "I have a message from the Marquise."
The silence is almost instant. Some trolls lean forward eagerly, others halting in mid-chew. Across from you, Vriska watches with rapt attention. You're smart enough not to engage her in conversation. Marquise Spinneret Mindfang is her hero; in fact, when
the two of you met over Trollian, she even introduced herself as the Marquise, all those sweeps ago. She speculates that Mindfang is even genetically related to her, though you don't encourage her to get her hopes up.
"That's better," the captain appraises, still grinning. "Now, according to this, those lowblood scum are planning an attack on Dualscar's ports. The Marquise wants the whole fleet there when it happens. We're heading for the coast as we speak. Also, you filthy goddamn bilge rats, have your blades sharp, and try not to get too mucked-up in all the piss blood we spill!"
With that there's a great cheer; you even grin, despite yourself. Even though you've never been much of a killer, you're a troll, and it's in your blood to get hyped about these things. You make a mental note to polish your hammer before the fight and make sure your pistol is loaded.
"This is going to be fucking awesome," Vriska announces, smiling so wide that it looks like her face is going to split in two. "Our first fight as Gamblignants."
"Yep," you agree, with less gusto than her, but considerable enthusiasm.
After the evening meal, everyone has something to do on the deck. For you and Vriska, since you're the youngest trolls on the crew, you're stuck with coiling spare ropes around the masts and rails. It's dull and rubs your hands raw. Nonetheless, the air of excitement buzzing through the rest of the crew helps you make quick work of it. Once everything's in place, and the coastline grows closer by the moment, quite a bit of slacking off takes place. Most of the pirates begin a rousing chorus of some old sea shanty, which the rest of the crew dances to. You twirl Vriska across the port side of the deck. It's fun to be pale.
The party must come to an end eventually, though. The once-distant coast has grown close. Other Gamblignant ships join yours, until the whole fleet has gathered. As impressive as the fleet is, it's crowned by its jewel, the sleek black vessel that Mindfang herself commands. Your head turns in awe as the Marquise's ship cuts through to the head of the fleet and drops anchor. Your ship, as well as the others surrounding it, anchors as well.
The coastline and docks are soon swallowed up by a fog, and anticipation grows. You squint through the thick mist. The closest ships to you are barely visible. These aren't good conditions for a fight, making you glad that the lowblood army doesn't have the kind of resources to stage any kind of attack against the Gamblignants. You feel at ease.
"I don't like this." Vriska's flat voice distracts you from your thoughts. You give her a look.
"What are you talking about?"
"I have a bad feeling," she elaborates, eyes scanning the fog rising off the bay. "We're sitting quackbeasts."
"You're just paranoid," you laugh.
Turns out she's right.
The first ship to take a hit is the one closest to the shore. You don't understand what's happening until the entire ship is crumbling in on itself engulfed in flames. Gamblignants are screaming. The ship begins to sink beneath the surface of the water, and as it goes, the shell-shock wears off. Pirates are hard to take by surprise; and when you manage it, they don't take kindly to it.
The second ship to get hit is close to you, so you can see the missile-like projectile make impact and explode. You can even smell the smoke. Amidst the pirates jumping overboard, you catch sight of the main mast giving into fast-spreading flames and crashing to the deck, speeding up the submerging of the ship. You're so transfixed by the sight that you don't notice a third missile screaming towards the ship that you happen to be standing on.
"Son of a---!" It's only because Vriska is paying attention that you're still alive. You don't even know what's happening; one moment, your feet are planted firmly on the deck, and the next, Vriska's flinging herself at you, and the two of you are tumbling over the rail in complete free-fall.
Halfway to the water, the ship explodes.
Halfway to the water, you and your moirail are flung by the force of the missile at the crashing waves.
Halfway to the water, the fleet is burning.
~ATH
You like to think that you are a GOOD SOLDIER, loyal, obedient, even though it's NOT WHAT YOU WANT TO BE. You had dreams of being an ARCHEOLOGIST, but since the ALTERNIAN CIVIL WAR began, you've PUT THEM ON HOLD. The lowbloods' revolution has no place for archeologists, so you are just going to get through this alive and HOPE FOR THE BEST. This is hard, since you have to deal with the VOICES OF THE DEAD, but you're nothing if not OPTIMISTIC.
What will you do?
You sigh longingly at the trees as you march. You and the others in your unit are currently trekking through a southern jungle, batting away blood-sucking insects and slogging through the ice that coats the ground. The plants have adapted to the cold weather by becoming carnivorous; every now and then, an inattentive soldier gets snatched up by thick vines and devoured alive.
Just another day on Alternia.
You have your whip out, ready to lash out at anything that so much as blinks at you funny. You have no intentions of dying out
here. Even though the cold is seeping through your cargo pants and boots, and your shirt and vest aren't much warmer, and you're likely to collapse any minute, you simply must go on. You have people waiting for you out there.
Though it may surprise the other trolls in your unit, you really do have friends. You have a friend named Sollux that might be more than a friend. You have a friend named Tavros who is hopefully still alive, though with his timid disposition, he's not always the best partner in a fight. You have some other friends too, or at least, you had them, because they're highbloods and apparently that makes them better than you.
That's what your unit's leader tells you, anyway.
You won't dwell on it. You're feeling better, because the other soldiers have spread out to cover more distance, and being alone calms you. The rendezvous point isn't far. Though this area is usually a hub for highbloods, no one has reported anything as of yet. The electronic glasses you wear provide a constant stream of messages from the others across the left lens, and so far, everything is quiet.
For a moment.
The messages from around your unit begin to flood your vision. You stop, whip held high, and try to process the information as it flashes by. Most of the messages are by soldiers who are too far away from you to matter ― their coordinates are posted as well, and if they're not in range, you disregard for the time being.
You finally pick up on a status report from a troll that's scarily close to you.
Private Eminoh Niddus [EN] opened communications with UNIT X34.
EN: i need some help here.
EN: @nyone?
Private Aradia Megido [AM]: im here
AM: whats going on
EN: nothing just @rcher@dic@tors dropping out of the fucking trees
AM: how many
AM: private
AM: answer me
Connection to Private Eminoh Niddus [EN] has been lost.
You feel warm beads of maroon on your skin. Not good. Archeradicators are some of the best in the Empress's command, well trained with minute accuracy. They could shoot an arrow from miles away and hit their mark―
Perhaps only because of your quick realization, you drop to the snow, barely avoiding an arrow to the forehead. It lodges in the bark of a frozen tree and quivers ominously. There's only one way out of here alive, and that's to hide. No use playing dead ― archeradicators don't rest until they're certain every enemy has an arrow through the blood pusher.
You know there's no use fighting, not in the dark, not when the archeradicators could be absolutely anywhere. You burrow deeper into the snow. It doesn't cover all of you, obviously, but the winter blues of your outfit match the frost that coats the plants and trees. From afar you might look at least somewhat like vegetation.
The crunch of boots on snow and ice destroy your hopes of living to see the end of this fight. Any archeradicator that finds you like this will probably laugh in your face and dispatch you without further hesitation. You open your eyes in defeat, knowing that the bright orange-yellow of your eyeballs and dark maroon irises will attract attention. The dark, hulking figure of a male troll comes to a stop a few feet away. The moons are blocked by the trees, though, and without your night vision glasses, which were lost in your dive to the ground, you can't see much of the troll.
And yet, he is oddly familiar.
A memory you've long since buried comes back to you.
Once upon a time, highbloods and lowbloods could be friendly, have relationships, not want to kill one another, etcetera etcetera etcetera. You remember these times of your youth well. You remember having friends in all colors of the hemospectrum, and you remember playing games with them.
One moment with these friends stands out in particular ― it was when your unofficial leader, Karkat, had organized a sixteen-way video chat between your group of friends. And you saw some of your friends for the first time, really saw them, saw their
faces and how they styled their hair and their favorite shirts.
The troll beneath the window labeled centaursTesticle was far from your predictions; he had his broken teeth bared in distaste. You don't remember why. Something to do with fellow highblood Gamzee Makara using lewd language, but then again, CT had always been stuffy over Trollian. CT wore a sleeveless shirt and cracked sunglasses and had one horn snapped off almost to the base.
Even though you knew his name was Equius Zahhak, you liked to think of him as just nameless, faceless blue text.
Now, in the present, you stare at this straight-haired troll and his massive goggles and cannot believe that he might just be Equius Zahhak. He has the body, and there it is ― his arrow symbol ― splashed across his black uniform like a brand. You forget that he has an arrow saddled in his bow and could kill you at any time. Instead, you get to your knees, shaking off the snow, and stare at him.
His hesitation confirms everything. As he comes closer, he passes under a beam of purple moonlight, and you see that he hasn't changed much, besides getting bigger, somehow. His immense strength has been mastered since the last time you spoke to him; he handles the bow gently and there are no cracks in his goggles.
"Equius?" you ask.
"Gutterblood," he answers, and you realize that he really hasn't changed. Not at all.
Gutterblood. That's all you are to him and every other highblood on this god forsaken planet, nothing more than an animal. You are suddenly glad that Equius is going to kill you. You don't think you can stand to be here for another minute.
"What are you waiting for?" You tilt your head back, giving him access to shoot at your throat. "Do it."
He aims. Standing the way he is, ready to shoot, hair tickled by the wind, he looks majestic. He was born to do this, you think. Born to shoot. Born to kill.
"Do it," you repeat.
Equius swallows loudly. He's covered in sweat despite the chill. "You asked me to do this."
"I know."
His fingers snap away from the arrow's tail and it streaks forward. You look down; you are somehow still surprised to see it sticking out of your chest. A dribble of maroon blood falls from your lips when you try to speak. The words don't come out, swallowed by the burning pain in your blood pusher, and you find yourself slumping over, eyes blankly fixed on the growing puddle of rust red that stains the snow.