Twelve kids. Four trolls. Twelve guardians, four ancestors, one doloros, four lusii, seventeen lands, one megaplanet, one session, one two three one team. One more chance to win.

Or A Brief Sketch Of An Ideal Outcome For An Entirely Fictional And Deeply But Unnecessarily Disturbed Relationship Dedicated To Certain Individuals Who Even When Figuratively Armed With Vessels Of Water And Saccharine Coatings Cannot Take A Hint

A peaceful Earth, five major powers united in global governance. An International Space Service, exploring the stars for new homes and signs of life. An ever-expanding Alternia, convinced of its own supremacy, willing to tolerate no threats, willing to acknowledge no others. A species with a history drowning in its own blood, in turning on itself, in destroying anything that seems other, in taking any excuse for a war. (That last one was humanity. Trolls are about to find out they've made a big fucking mistake.)

Things you are capable of doing that nobody knows about: * An acrobatic fucking pirouette off the handle, and not out of rage. * flipping yourself, not just your shit. * pas de poisson. aka The Fic Where Karkat Does Combat Via Ballet (with the work-inspiring art by elanorpam).

More than two sweeps after being returned to a restored Alternia, the trolls face impending adulthood and banishment from the planet. Gamzee Makara fully expects to be culled on conscription for poor health and sopor addiction - what he doesn't count on is the personal attention and protection of the Grand Highblood.

Your superiors think you are the best possible agent for the tough cases, and if they don't quite understand why you have, at your young age, enough skills for any two trolls—well. You tell yourselves that of course most people aren't clever enough to figure you out, and you try to be more smug than furious.