In which all sixteen kids live reasonably happily ever after in the Veil. Alternately: that one AU where trolls have sex by barfing blood into buckets.
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.
"You've got no fucking clue which end is up about this kind of thing, do you?" Karkat asks, almost gently. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have gone off on you. You're such a huge bitch it's easy to forget you weren't hatched like this."
"They just watch," John says, kicking the mop bucket into the broom closet after a hard day's asteroid-cleaning. "I guess chores are like a spectator sport for trolls? It's pretty weird! But... that's trolls for you!"
He walks like a cat who has tape on his paws, and has had tape on his paws for a very long time, and who never expects to ever again walk without scrunching miserably from side to side in a tangle of self-loathing and confusion. It hurts to look at him, but it hurts more not to.
“It’s like, his little hornzorz!” Latula says. She rips open a new pack of Flamin Hott Fire Crispoz with extreme prejudice, manic with food dye and pity.
“I’m probably not going to like you, and you’re definitely not going to like me,” she says, all in an urgent rush, “but circumstances being what they are I do believe we need each other.” She holds up a piece of paper: your ad, printed out. One room8 needed, ASAP!!!!!!!! (Alternatively: Rose Lalonde, Vriska Serket, and the bodies left in their wake.)
You get culled.
CG: DO YOU WANT ME TO COME OVER? CA: oh my god really CG: YEAH. I MEAN, IF THAT WOULDN’T BE WEIRD. CA: fuckin hell i shoulda got gillpox prevvious if that wwas all itd take for you to accept my standin invvitation to come and hang
Dave leans forward. You can see a camera reflected in his shades, in the high-rez screen, you can see his own face peering out of the camera in his shades, his reflection reflecting itself into infinity. Not you. You’re not there -- he’s not here.
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?
House sorting under here I will fight you
He is fourteen and sweaty sparring lessons with shirtless well-built men are starting to leave more than just her shirt damp.
This apartment, these walls and corners, these floors and doorways, they’re Dirk’s refuge. His shell, his armor. This place is light and warmth in an endlessly empty dark sea, a piece of the past to cling to in the wreckage of the future. A gift from his brother, a birthday present, the present of having birthdays, of being a human in a place meant for humans. Dirk could go out on rocket board, on rap-bot, on rafts, following the gulls, living free out under the sky, sailing by the light of the stars, but always he’d return to his sanctuary, his roost, his home. This apartment is Dave’s cage, and he spent thirteen years crammed up against the bars by a man who did not love him.
Dave says, bouncing his heel on your thigh for attention, “Are you drunk? Holy shit, are you— like, are you tripping out? Did Rose just roofie you with her pretentious fuckin’ leaf water? Oh my god.” “Oh my god,” Rose repeats, and colors brilliantly across her cheeks, blood coursing bright and close under her skin.
“You ready?” you ask, and the most important human in the galaxy sticks her tongue out at you. Several of your organs do a giddy flip. Then the knot is tied and that’s it, you’re moirails.
“Get out,” Karkat growls, from the top of a staircase. His voice is thick and unsteady and he reeks of that red smell, it’s pouring off him, spiking up your heartrate. Sollux takes a startled breath, then another, and crowds up against your back. “I mean it,” Karkat snarls. “I told you guys we were through, why the fuck are you here?”
This particular smuppet is sewn out of some kind of blatantly artificial orange microfiber, the nap of the plush so silky it almost feels slick. When you give it a squish the body seems more firm than his regular model, denser. Bro usually keeps his toys light, too fluffy to feel like anything but props and puppets, but this one’s pleasantly dense and heavy. You don’t think you’ll be ripping it apart as easily as the last few. And then, of course, there’s the unusual addition of a tail.
A fantasy: Dave doesn’t leave a block as soon as you enter it.
