CG: HARLEY, WHEN I SAID THAT I WOULD RATHER CULL MYSELF WITH THE DULL END OF A SCALEMATE BEFORE I EVER GAVE YOU THE CHANCE TO RECOIL IN ABJECT REVULSION BEFORE MY HIDEOUS VISAGE CG: WHAT THE FUCK GAVE YOU THE IDEA THAT I WOULD SOMEHOW BE AMENABLE TO INSTEAD PERFORMING A DAPPER SHOW AND TELL ROUTINE?

You start hanging around troll 4chan for the Mediaconflagration links. You, uh, stay for the porn.

You're a late bloomer at nine sweeps, and you don't yet have a concupiscent quadrant filled. This leaves you alone and self-pailing for the duration of your mating cycle—at least, that was the idea. When Karkat bursts in on you, it sort of throws off your plans for the week.

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Why the Beforan equivalent of yourself didn't appear here, you're not sure, though you suspect it has something to do with direct and indirect transference and the extent to which each of you had contact with game code prior to this remix of the universe; the Ancestors from Alternia had vague memories of being their Beforan selves, so both versions re-instanced, but as far as you know you're the only version of Sollux Captor the game was aware of. Poor Sollux, you jeer internally, all alone in the world. If you were to quadrant yourself, you're not sure whether self-hate or self-pity would be the dominant emotion, but either way, you're getting off on it. God, you make yourself sick. You hold your bulge like you're trying to restrain it, but who the fuck are you kidding. It wraps around your fingers, both tendrils snaking and coiling harder the more you try to will them to stop, like don't-think-of-a-trunkbeast, and you rub at them distractedly because you can't stand not to. Sollux Captor, system architect of the new universe, reduced to thinking with his bulge by two copies of his ancestor being obnoxious at each other. Fuck your hot life.