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anewalternia · 6 years

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Title: the strength to force the moment to its crisis

Rating: hard PG-13/soft R Warnings: suicidality, clear suicide attempt, self-injurious behavior, discussions of other suicide attempts, self-loathing, precognitive/prescient trolls, miscommunication, quadrant vacillation, existential depression, mentions of forced medication. Relationships: Pinyix Idcaye (fantroll)<>Velyor Phates (fantroll), Pinyix Idcaye <3 Velyor Phates (mostly one-sided), Pinyix Idcaye <3< Mituna Captor (Psiioniic) Characters: Pinyix Idcaye, Asyeva Ilkami, Velyor Phates, Xhezet Arvien, Mituna Captor/The Psiioniic (mentioned) Additional Tags: Ancestor-Era, Pre-Signless Word Count: 5637 Summary: Your name is Pinyix Idcaye. When you are six, you try to self-cull over the future you have seen. You don’t succeed. Then, you realize, that even with your prescience, even with your foreknowledge of calamities that have yet to come to pass, you are not alone, and that there is still so much left for you to live for. Like your moirail. Like everyone else. Like yourself. You have never been as alone as you had worried, or even, in your darkest moments, had hoped.

@psychopyro813

“I grow old ... I grow old ... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.”

- T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Your name is Pinyix Idcaye, you are six and some perigees sweeps old, you recently slit your wrists in a cursory attempt to either self-cull or quiet your emotions regarding some of your prescient visions, but, guess what?

You are still alive, you are still emotional, and you can still see forward. You have failed on every possible front.

Surprisingly, your first visitor in the infirmary is not your moirail, but one of your instructors. Asyeva Ilkami. A prescient, like you.

Elder Asyeva has always come to visit you when you were stuck in the infirmary for one reason or another, usually for psychic overexertion. You have not yet learned the meaning of the word “limits”.

She gazes at the slightly scabbing over marks on your forearms, and the stitches in the cuts that were deepest, and gives a heavy sigh, her mouth set in a thin line. Auxiliatrix Xhezet slathers all the wounds in antiseptic, and bandages your arms.

“Psion Idcaye, you need to stop doing this,” Elder Asyeva says. “I cannot technically force you into compliance, but what purpose does this serve?”

It serves so much purpose. So much she would not understand, because how could anyone understand your urge to hurt yourself before your visions hurt you more?

“When I do this, I don’t feel much of anything. And I never want to feel anything again. If I hit my veins deep enough, I thought I’d never have to see or feel anything again.”

“Is that so?”

You nod.

“I’ve seen too much, Elder. It’s in my head, all the time, everything that will come to pass. And I can stop none of it. You wouldn’t get this. You couldn’t hope to.”

Elder Asyeva quirks an eyebrow.

“I would not understand precognitive depressive disorder?” she asks. “I’ve been having prescient visions for far longer than you’ve been alive, Psion.”

That much is true. That, you had forgotten in your seemingly insurmountable distress. You think of Velyor carrying you to the infirmary yesterday morning, his tears falling into your hair.

You push that memory away before it makes you break down weeping. Velyor did not deserve that. He really did not.

And Asyeva is around fifteen sweeps your senior. Of course she would understand precog depression.

“You seem so okay with it, so calm all the time,” you say to her. “As if it doesn’t affect you.”

Asyeva gives you a sad little grin, and shakes her head.

“It always affects me. Had most of my clade not died when you were two, they could tell you about how I used to be.”

“How you used to be,” you repeat.

“Not unlike how you are now,” she goes on.

She rolls up the sleeves of her yellow and black jumpsuit, to reveal an uncountable number of old, straight-line scars, many of which criss-cross each other. Hers are deeper than most of yours have ever been.

“I used to do that all the time to modulate my emotions, or even trying to self-cull, but that scared my moirail so much that I eventually stopped,” she says.

“Your moirail?” you ask.

You feel like if you’d told Velyor what you were doing, he definitely would have asked you to stop. Shoosh-papped you until you no longer wanted to hurt yourself.

And you know next to nothing about Elder Asyeva’s quadrants, except that most of them died in the pestilence.

“Yes,” she says. “I get the impression that none of you are particularly fond of him. It’s just as well, he’s let his grief and ambition twist him into someone entirely unrecognizable. He is not my moirail anymore.”

It takes you a few moments to close your mouth, as you let that information percolate.

“You and Elder Irvaan…?” You ask.

Elder Asyeva smiles weakly.

“We were wigglers, once. Then we grew up, and got up close and personal with calamity. And if there’s anything I regret about you and your peers, it’s that...”

She trails off and balls up her fists.

“Yes, Elder?” you ask.

“We - Irvaan, and the others in my clade - we were adults when we faced the pestilence. But all of you were so young, too young to have to see what you did. And you, in particular? You were only two! I should have been able to see more than I did. If I had, maybe I could have...”

Her ears twitch. She stares holes into the tile floor. You take her hand off your shoulder, and hold it tightly. You think of something she told you not long after the pestilence.

“We cannot prevent. We can only see. So we should not hold ourselves responsible.”

You repeat it to her. She nods, and sighs, once more.

“When you say that I do not know precognitive depression,” she starts out. “It’s always there for me, that faint despair about knowing what will happen and knowing I can do nothing to alter the course of the future.”

“I wish I did not know,” you say. “I wish I had never been given this ability. I want to know nothing. I want to feel nothing.”

“When your moirail gets bored and puts little braids in your hair, you don’t want to feel the happiness you do when you two are together?”

You think of Velyor, braiding lavandula into your hair, a skill he probably got from Arcsin or Arctan. How quiet he can make your mind as long as you hold still, and the soft joy you get from listening to him purr.

“I…”

You can’t finish your statement without saying anything either way.

“You can’t gray out the negative emotions without losing the positive ones,” Asyeva says. “So the trick isn’t to feel nothing, it’s to feel what you feel, and then let the emotion dissipate. It always does, even faster when you get better at tolerating your distress. Don’t get lost in your head. Pry yourself free. You have to.”

You exhale sharply.

“So much happens in my head, Elder Asyeva,” you say. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to leave it alone. I can’t help but get lost in it.”

Elder Asyeva nods.

“That is when you find your moirail, or your kismesis, or just some of your friends, and you talk to them. Don’t isolate and hurt yourself. That won’t change anything, it’ll just land you in here for a while.”

“I’m aware. Now, at least,” you say, because you truly are. “But I don’t want to tell Velyor about what I see, and scare him.”

Asyeva appears to consider her words carefully before she speaks again.

“You know, to my knowledge, Velyor Phates has had two prescient trolls in his quadrants,” she says. “First Alhena Aelius as a matesprit, and then you, as a moirail.”

How is this relevant, exactly?

“So what?”

“If listening to prescient trolls muse about the future truly scared him, he would probably not have entered those relationships,” she replies. “And for the record, after he brought you to the infirmary, after I convinced him that I had this situation well in hand, the only real fear he articulated was fear that you had hurt yourself beyond repair, along with guilt that you had not felt able to tell him that your visions were overwhelming you so much.”

Oh. Well, then. You are the idiot, Pinyix Idcaye. The idiot is you.

Perhaps sensing the self-loathing turn your mental state has turned, Elder Asyeva hands you a small object, wrapped in brown paper. After you untie the twine and carefully unwrap the paper, the motion making the wounds on your arms sting, you have a chocolate truffle in your hand.

You devour it gracelessly, relishing the sweet taste and the subsequent sugar rush. That makes Elder Asyeva smile in earnest.

“I thought that might make you feel better,” she says.

And for a few minutes, it does. Then, you think about your latest set of visions, and you’re depressed again. Depressed and afraid. You raise your hand, as if this were a schoolfeeding lesson.

“Yes, Psion Idcaye?” she asks.

“I’ve seen the future,” you say, slow and tremulous.

“And?” she says. “Is what you saw the reason why you did what you did?”

“Sort of,” you reply. “Something unavoidable and awful is going to happen to me in a sweep. It’s going to be the most painful event of my life. But this calamity will be necessary for the greater design.”

“Necessary,” she repeats, and then with a smile somewhat bitter, adds, “I am far too familiar with the terrible and the necessary. And if I’m thinking of what you’re thinking, I have seen this too. I am sorry for what will happen to you, that I will not arrive in time to prevent it.”

“Yeah, and… oh, you don’t have to be sorry. It’s not your fault, what’s going to happen,” you say, licking the leftover chocolate off your fingers. “I’m really scared about it, but this has to take place, and it’s going to go down no matter what. I just wish there were another way.”

“As do I,” she says. She idly tucks a lock of your frizzy hair behind your air. “I so want to say something reassuring to you, but…”

You take a long, slow inhale.

“For what it’s worth, I live through it,” you say.

“You should not have to face this, Psion Idcaye.” Elder Asyeva looks equal parts sad and angry. “And while I can’t stop it entirely, I can try to help you afterwards. And I can try to help you now, in any way I can.”

For the first time in a while, tears fill your eyes. Asyeva had always been the kindest Elder you knew, but this is different. She’s on your side. She’s on your side, and unlike anyone else in Sigma Block, she is a prescient troll as well. She understands your despair, and does not blame you for it.

The temerity of your next question surprises even you.

“Why do you care so much, Elder? Not just about me, but about the others in Sigma. What’s the point? You already know what’s going to happen to most of us, for better or worse.”

“That is exactly why I care so much,” she says. “Until the Ferryman comes to bring revolution and righteous destruction to Alternia, I am responsible for all of you. Seeing what I have seen of what will happen to many of you, I cannot afford not to care. And you must also remember that before I am an Elder, I am an Instructor. All of you are my charges. Even Vogreu Terbim.”

That gets a laugh out of you. A few weeks ago, Vog cursed Elder Asyeva out for marking him down heavily on a written schoolfeeding module exam, getting all up in her face with threats, and while she kept her cool as easily as she always does, the second he left, she gave the doorway a look of mild irritation.

“The next troll to do that is getting immobilized and taken to the infirmary for psychiatric evaluation,” she’d said.

All of you had exchanged glances and kept your eyes on the schoolfeeding lesson for the day. None of you wanted to be stuck on psych eval, since most of you had managed it at least once.

“So, Elder?” you ask, now.

“Yes, Psion?”

“They’re going to keep me in the infirmary for a while, probably,” - well, more than probably, you made a self-culling gesture 24 hours ago - “and I was wondering if you knew what the Auxiliatrix and the others were planning to do to me beyond this. I can’t see this, so I have no idea.”

“They’re going to start you on antidepressant medication, hold you for a few nights, no more than a week, and then send you back to Sigma, at least that’s what the plan sounds like it is,” she says. At your look of mild disquiet - you’ve forseen what mind-altering drugs will do to Jishui Avehoa once she properly hits the helmsblock - Elder Asyeva returns her hand to your shoulder, and squeezes it reassuringly. “Don’t worry. These drugs are not heavy. Auxiliatrix Xhezet would not try to control or let anyone try to control your mind. This medication will merely be given to you to improve your mood.”

Great. You’re going to be stuck here for multiple nights instead of keeping up to date on your assignments, and high on whatever the hell gets prescribed for major precognitive depression, probably. Fuck your life, in its short entirety.

“That’s it?” you ask.

“That’s it,” Asyeva says. “And if it makes you feel any safer, I’m on similar medications. Yet, I am still myself, am I not?”

You will your anxiety to drop intensity-wise, and find that if you only focus on the present, you can.

“Yes, you are, least as far as I can tell.”

Elder Asyeva stares at your bandaged-up arms again, and looks sad.

“You have been through so much pain,” she says. “And you will be through so much pain, without putting yourself through more pain. That is what you have to accept. You cannot eliminate your pain by hurting yourself.”

If your respect for Asyeva weren’t already skyhigh, it’s somehow higher after that. She has never invalidated you, tonight or ever, instead choosing to point out the facts of this situation.

“I know it was the wrong thing to do,” you say. “I just wanted everything to be quiet, for once. But I did that, and I scared Velyor.”

“It’s not your fault, Pinyix. Even Alhena would get like this sometimes, before he…” She breathes in and out a few steadying times before she finishes. “Before he got conscripted. You see too much, and you end up with precog fatigue. That’s how prescience tends to work.”

That, you had not known.

“Oh,” you respond. “Oh, I see.”

Elder Asyeva nods, contemplative, yet curt. You do not ask her anymore questions about Alhena.

“I will see to it that whatever schoolfeeding modules can be brought to you are brought to you, while you are here,” she says, making notes on a sheet of paper with her stylus. “Is there anything else you might need or want to ask before I go back to Sigma?”

“Will Velyor be allowed to visit me?” you want to know, in a soft, almost wiggler-like little tone.

If Velyor never wanted to be your moirail again after this, you would understand. Nevertheless, you would like to have the chance to see him, if that is the case, to hear him out, to clear the air before you return to Sigma.

“As of now, visitors have been restricted to your clade, mostly so you do not feel overwhelmed, so yes, Velyor can visit. I imagine that even if he were not allowed, he would find a way,” Elder Asyeva replies. “If you want trolls other than Velyor and Mituna to visit, let Auxiliatrix Xhezet know.”

“Okay,” you say. “I can do that.”

You think of Velyor again. Of that flushed kiss you idiotically gave him. Your face grows hot.

“I have a really fucking stupid wiggler question, Elder,” you say. “Pretty sure you’ve heard this sort of nonsense before.”

Elder Asyeva resists the urge to laugh at your word choice, and tells you to go on.

“I think I might be flushed for my moirail,” you say. “Not flushed in a way that I would break off the moirallegiance, and I do know and believe that the best quadrant for us is pale, but the feelings are still there sometimes. How do I make them go away?”

Elder Asyeva squeezes your shoulder again.

“You are right,” she says. “As an Instructor, and an Elder, I have dealt with many of my charges experiencing similar things. Shit, even when I was a wiggler, this was a thing. You really want my advice?”

“Please.”

“First, keep in mind that you’re not even seven yet. Quadrants tend to be more fluid until you’re ten or so. This is your time to experiment, so your feelings are natural. Everyone goes through a certain amount of quadrant confusion in adolescence,” she tells you. “And, in terms of the last thing you said, you really cannot make the feelings go away, nor should you try. They won’t leave, and repressing them may make them intensify. Try to accept that they are what they are, and you are who and where you are, and be mindful of how much this moirallegiance means to you.”

“What if I’ve seen, that two or so decades from now, we will end up in a redder shade of pale?”

Elder Asyeva takes that one in, thinking for a while.

“It’s not two or so decades from now yet, Psion Idcaye,” she says. “Let yourself have your visions and your knowledge, but stay in the present as much as you possibly can. That is the path of least mental turmoil.”

She asks you if you have any more final questions for her, and it’s probably rude what you’re asking, too personal, too private, but you ask her about the first time she ever saw forward, and what it was she saw.

“I had a fever when I was two. Troll Influenza, nothing serious, although my temperature was so high and I was so ill that I was stuck in the infirmary for a perigee,” she begins. “I don’t know if this is a true vision of the future or just fever delirium. But I saw a troll, far in the future, with long spiralling horns, wearing East Alternian dress, wandering the streets of a dead, half-destroyed Alternia, with a bitter smile on her face. Like she was expecting the arrival of someone she disliked, but someone who would be necessary.”

Oh. Well, then.

“The Ferryman?” you ask, with an air of reverence. “You saw The Ferryman?”

“That’s what the rustbloods in Rho and Lambda thought, at least,” she says. “As for me, I don’t know. Maybe I did.”

“Wow,” you say. You’ve never had any visions like that.

“I guess. As for my first legitimate vision, that one came after I was no longer ill, and back in my place in Psi Block. I was nearly three by then, I think,” Elder Asyeva says. “Either way, I saw how I would die. And, to be honest, it was not the most terrible way to go.”

“Really?”

“I die saving many trolls from a worse fate than the one they would have if I had decided not to intervene. And by then, I am so old that I have lived most of my natural life.”

The way she looks away from you betrays that she is not telling you the entirety of everything she’s seen, but you do not push the issue. She does not owe you a play-by-play of her demise.

The two of you exchange pleasantries for an hour, and you even tell her some of what you first saw - your own death, although you spare her the details because they still confuse you - before she says her goodbyes.

By then, Auxiliatrix Xhezet is ready to administer your first dose of antidepressants, which she does. You swallow the packet of powder and then drink deeply from the glass of water in front of you. Elder Asyeva ruffles your hair, gives you another sweet, and takes the tie out of her hair, to let it down, before she exits.

Then, once she’s immediately outside of the infirmary, you hear her chiding a certain troll.

“I thought I had told you to go back to your lessons when I last saw you.”

A male voice. “All due respect, Elder, but I’m not going anywhere until I see my my moirail.”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Elder Asyeva asks.

“Time for me to see my moirail. I heard you two talking. I know I’m allowed in.”

“Very well,” she replies. “One hour. Then, I expect you back at Sigma Block.”

“Yes, Elder Asyeva. One hour.”

More like three hours, if Velyor has his way.

You feel a little sick after that. If Velyor heard that he was allowed to visit, then he most definitely heard the confession you gave regarding your feelings toward him. But when he enters the infirmary, it’s with a handful of lavendula flowers. He does look afraid though, and you don’t understand why until he articulates the reason.

“I fucking hate this place,” he says, sitting down next to the recuperacoon you’re half hanging out of. “The goddamn district of bad memories, or that’s what Mituna calls it.”

“The what of what?” you ask.

“Before Alzirr got culled, she spent a while here. When Alhena tried to self-cull, he spent a while here. When I tried to self-cull, I spent a while here - thanks for saving me by the way. When Jishui tried to wreck herself enough that she’d be useless to the helmsblock, you and I both know she spent a while here. When Mituna tried to self cull, and when he had a manic episode, and when he got zapped pretty hard by the fence, yeah, I think he’s spent more time here than a few Sigma Block trolls combined. I hate being here. There are next to no good fucking memories here.”

You nod, understanding.

“You don’t have to be here if it’s too much for you,” you say. “I’m stable enough. Xhezet and Elder Asyeva say I’ll be fine, at least physically. And I know that this is not how I am going to die, so...”

Velyor grabs your hands for dear life. You don’t tell him that the action is making the stitched up cuts you’d made down the path of your cephalic veins more painful, but the expression on your face must betray some of that, because he lets go.

“I’m sorry, Pin,” he says. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Again, you think of him carrying you to the infirmary, covered in your blood, crying but resolute, determined to get you to this place, so someone could fix you.

“You have absolutely nothing to apologize for,” you tell him.

“I didn’t notice that anything was wrong,” he goes on. “I just let you isolate and withdraw and believed you when you said you’d be fine.”

“What else could you have done?” you want to know.

“Looked deeper? Listened to Arccos when she said your daymares were getting worse? Realized how detached from reality you were becoming?” he tries. “No. Instead I left the compound with Xhogar to steal a stereo from a midblood shop, wrote sonnets to Arcsin when I was in my respiteblock, and either sparked or glared at Arctan when we were in the communal nutritionblock. I wasn’t giving you the attention I should have been.”

On the verge of tears, you duck your head so Velyor doesn’t have to see them fall.

“It’s not on you to always save me, Velyor. It’s not on you to always protect me. That’s not how this works.”

“You saved my life when I tried to self-cull after Alzirr, and after Alhena, even if we weren’t yet moirails after the first thing. And even before I did anything, you were practically attached to me, always asking me if something was going on. You knew something was wrong. And you acted.”

You sigh, loudly.

“Because I am a prescient, Velyor. I knew you would try to do something. I had seen it. I knew I had to save you, because you meant so much to me. I did not care how I managed it.”

At that point, it doesn’t matter if you’re trying not to cry, because Velyor starts crying harder than you ever would.

“But what if you had managed to self-cull, Pinyix?” he asks, thickly. “What if I’d never gotten to say goodbye to you?”

You shrug, and rest your head against his chest. He puts his hand on top of your head. “This would not have been my undoing. I already know how I go. It is not here. And it is not now.”

“So, then why did you…?”

“Just in case my first vision was a false vision, Velyor. In case I could make everything go quiet forever,” you say, tears streaming down your face now. “I did not even think of you, of how it would affect you if I’d succeeded. It was all about my selfish desire to no longer see, know, or feel what I do, and the realization that I did not want to burden you with my visions anymore, especially not this one.”

Velyor cups your face with one of his large hands. Your bloodpusher starts to beat double time.

“You have never burdened me, Pinyix. You are my moirail, and I will listen to anything you feel like you have to tell me, or even want to tell me,” he says. “I wish… I wish you would have felt like you could have told me something. I would have listened.”

“I know, I know. I guess I did not tell you because I did not want you to be afraid, and I did not want anyone to stop me. But I know you,” you say. “You always listen to my nonsense.”

“And you listen to mine, although it must be insignificant compared to yours,” he replies.

You tell him that you two will have to agree to disagree with regards to the significance of your respective nonsense.

He kisses you on the forehead, and your eyes momentarily close. You’re just taking it in, just taking him in.

A sensation starts at your scalp, and it takes you a moment to realize what’s going on. He’s trying to braid lavandula into your hair. It’s a regular thing with him. He says the lavender reminds him of your eyes when they glow, either with prescience, or when you’re charging up attacks or shields. Also, the repetitive motion of braiding relaxes him. It relaxes you too, the movements of his deft fingers.

“I’m so sorry, Pin,” he murmurs, as he finishes the first braid and moves to the next. “I’m sorry for everything.”

You let out a low whine of distress, and his hands stop moving altogether.

“Pinyix?” he asks.

“Please,” you grind out. “Please don’t apologize. This is all my fault, Velyor. Not yours, or anyone else’s.”

Velyor embraces you, holding you tightly, a little too tightly, almost uncomfortably, as if he’s convinced you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“You think I don’t understand what it’s like to want to avoid pain to the point of wanting to just end it all? You think I’ve never been there?” he asks. “I’ve been there so often that you had to save my ass, twice. So I don’t blame you. I just wish I’d known you were ever in that much pain to begin with.”

You nod, still angry at yourself.

“Then I should have told you rather than keeping everything to myself, instead of scaring you with my actions,” you reply. “Which was my own stupidity getting in the way. Either way you look at it, it’s still my fault.”

Once again, a place where you two will have to agree to disagree. Velyor continues to braid your hair, and occasionally kiss your face, until you start to purr.

“You can tell me about what you’ve seen, what you see. Please level with me more than you do. I won’t leave,” he says. “I love you too much to want to leave, Pinyix.”

Love is an awful word. It is a word without quadrant specifications, although it is generally reserved for the pale or the red quadrant. But that lack of specificity, that is the last thing you need right now.

“Don’t tell me things you don’t mean, Velyor,” you say. “And don’t tell me things you’re only saying because you’re scared.”

He gazes at you carefully.

“I don’t know how what I said upset you, but I’m sorry for saying it if I did.”

He gazes at you as if he wants an explanation so he knows to never repeat the mistake

Well. Velyor desires the truth from you? You figure that you might as well give him that. You take his hand, ignoring the twinge of pain in your arm alongside the gesture.

“I’ll be honest, if that’s what you want,” you say. “And I feel like you already know the score, since you were eavesdropping on my conversation with Elder Asyeva, and since my advances on you a few perigees ago were not exactly subtle.”

What you did was kiss him full on the mouth, your body flush against his. When he pulled away and started telling you how he only really saw you as his moirail, you did your absolute best not to cry.

Here, now, Velyor looks momentarily confused, and then you see understanding dawn on his face.

“Oh. The vacillations?” he asks, as if they are absolutely nothing in the scheme of things.

Your ears fall.

“Yes, Vel. Precisely.”

Seeming almost pained over what he’s about to say next, he murmurs, “I used to vacillate with Alzirr all the time, way back when. Think she probably wanted to smack me for it.”

“It doesn’t bother you?” you ask. “How inappropriate I am being?”

“You kissed me once, then backed off when I said I didn’t see you that way, and then you never tried again,” he says. “Feelings can’t really be controlled, but actions can, and you’ve been keeping your actions under control. Also, look at everyone else in Sigma Block. Have you ever seen a group of vacillators as pathological as they are?”

“From what Jishui had to say about Psi Block, I think they were just as bad,” you offer. “If I’d been two sweeps older, maybe I would have noticed.”

Velyor snorts, then bursts out laughing.

“We really were, to be honest,” he says. “I don’t return your feelings, at least, not the way you would probably want, but there are worse trolls who could be flush-crushing on me than you. I think there are worse trolls who are. I won’t end our moirallegiance over it. I would never even dream of it.”

“I seriously try to self-cull and terrify you, and am enamored by you in the wrong quadrant sometimes, and you still want to keep me around,” you say, half shocked, and half despondent. Despondent because you know he deserves a better moirail than you, but for some weird reason, doesn’t want one.

“I’ve seriously tried to self-cull multiple times, needing you to save me, and occasionally wax pitch on you, and you don’t seem to give a tenth of a shit,” Velyor fires back. “So, y’know. This is probably not the most textbook moirallegiance, and we really need to work on communicating with each other better than we have these last few perigees, but… I could not see myself having a moirail who is not you. I wouldn’t even dream of it. You are a fixed point in a world of chaos.”

At that revelation, he seems almost anxious at how bold and vulnerable he has managed to make himself.

“Velyor,” you say. “From the time you became my moirail, I’ve never considered being pale for anyone else. I am so pale for you that it hurts. I want nothing but safety and happiness for you.”

You don’t add “I want to protect you from the agonizing future and cull anyone who even looks threateningly at you”, “I want to braid autumn leaves into your hair because they remind me of your eyes”, “I want to save you from all the pain you’ll ever face and I can’t save you and that’s where a lot of my precog depression comes from”, or “The main reason why I put up with the indignities of this life, of Alternia, of my visions, is because I know that you’re still here and I do not want to be without you” or “When I hear you have daymares I want to wake you up and shoosh-pap you until you nearly forget the pain of everything you’ve ever lost”, or “If you ever broke off our moraillegiance, I would fully understand why, and I’d survive, but I would rather not test that hypothesis”, or any of the other confessions streaming relentlessly through your mind.

Velyor starts crying again, but not as hard as the first time. He repeats his statement, that he loves you, that he is pale for you, lily-white pale, even makes the diamond gesture with his thumb and forefingers.

Then, he redoubles his efforts toward braiding your curly hair. You never like having more than four braids at once - too many to maintain on your own - but Velyor is most adept at braiding small sections of hair, so you sit around in this infirmary recuperacoon, while he adds more flowers to your hair. You hope the sopor doesn’t do anything to damage them when you go under to sleep later.

He never asks about what he must have heard when you and Elder Asyeva were talking, that your moirallegiance could become a double-quadrant relationship in the future.

All you two do, as he styles your hair, is trill and purr at each other. Few words, if any. And when it’s time for him to leave, unsurprisingly, it’s been three and a half hours since he showed up. You are utterly shot through with conciliatory feelings for this troll.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night,” he says. “I’ll get your lessons from Elder Asyeva.”

“Yeah, and right now, you should probably go back to your respiteblock and sleep. I’ll catch up fast if you even if you can’t come each night,” you assure him, “Besides, I know you remember shitty things when you’re here. So only come here if you want to come here.”

Velyor gently bops you on the nose with his index finger.

“I want to, Pinyix. I’ll come every night until you’re back at Sigma. I swear.”

When he starts crying again - you’re not entirely sure of the cause this time - you shoosh-pap him until he calms down.

After he kisses one of the lavender flowers in your hair, he takes his leave, with one last, lingering glance on your small form.

You feel complete, but also, strangely empty.

You cannot wait to get out of this place.

It does not matter how you feel about him. Or at least, the things you feel other than pale do not matter.

What matters now is that you are alive, and fairly soon, you’ll be able to stand at his side once again. You will stand there, complain about how loud his music is, and wonder how in the shit he ever got this tall. It is really not fair.

Velyor, you think to yourself, smiling. Velyor Phates. Your own fixed point. Tall, steady, stably emotionally unstable, and brilliant.

Then, you see him, in mind’s eye, older, his hair more gray than black, deep lines in his face. You watch your future self grin, them and older Velyor sharing a look of commiseration and total understanding, standing on the banks of a river you cannot yet identify.

So you sink down into your healing sopor, imagine Velyor laughing, hear it ringing in your ears, and drift easily into sleep, one hand clenched around a lavender flower he could not find room to braid into your hair.

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anewalternia · 6 years

Text

give me a complete statement of my actions

Rating: PG-13 Warnings: slavery, suicidal ideation, references to attempted suicide, severe corporal punishment (i’m serious about this one). Relationships: psiioniic/fantroll(s), psiioniic & fantroll Characters: The Psiioniic (Mituna Captor), various fantrolls. Additional Tags: Ancestor-Era, Pre-Signless Word Count: 6828 Summary: One of your fellow trolls from Sigma Block does not want to become a helmsman on the Battleship Condescension. You do what you have to prevent that from happening. However, you did not contend overmuch with the possible consequences of your actions, and who would be made to face them. As your group watches another troll receive punishment for what you’ve done, all of you find it in you to rise up. To rise up, and retaliate.

When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages.

...

Give me a report on the condition of my soul. Give me a complete statement of my actions. Hand me a jack-in-the-pulpit and let me listen in. Put me in the stirrups and bring a tour group through.

- Anne Sexton, Anna Who Was Mad

“Happy wriggling day to me,” Arccos says. “For some value of happy.”

“To us,” Arcsin says. Arctan nods, holding back tears.

They were all hatched at the same time, and some uncreative auxiliatrix with either a head for caste-inappropriate mathematics, a strange sense of humor, or both, named them. They left the caverns at the same time. They have the same blood color. The bond between them is unbreakable. Except.

Well, all of you know what’s going to happen later. None of you really want to think about it.

And like you guys have done every sweep for every troll in your little group, since you were four, two of you left the compound to get a cake and candles. This sweep, it was you and Velyor. And you also acquired a few bottles of spirits.

All of you are going to get warned for this, but seriously, all of you are down to no warnings, except for Arccos, who’s leaving to be installed in a temporary rig when evening starts, unless they actually decide to third-warn and cull her. You doubt they will.

Maybe if Elder Afkami were still alive, she’d cull Arccos. She probably would. As an act of mercy, and as a middle finger to the Empire. That’s probably why she’s not still alive.

Meanwhile, Elder Irvaan’s ten kilograms of shit in a five kilo bag. You remember him before he became an Elder. Back then, he was eight kilos of shit in a four kilo bag.

And as for Elder Asyeva? She can do nothing. She probably would, if she could, but she cannot. Still, you cannot find it in your bloodpusher to be angry at her. She cares for all of you, which is more than you can say for Irvaan.

“Do we stick ten candles on this thing or do we stick thirty?” Xhogar asks. It’s a long-standing joke that he uses whenever the trigonometric triplets have a wriggling day. Last sweep it was “do we stick nine or twenty-seven?” It still hasn’t gotten old.

“Thirty it is,” Pinyix says.

“We’re gonna burn down the building at this rate,” Velyor says.

“And what a great loss that would be,” Zesria says, with a grin.

“Can you guys burn down the building when I’m not in it?” you ask. “I didn’t get this far just to die in my pajamas.”

“I didn’t get this far to die a virgin,” Hiongo says.

“If you’re still a virgin at this point, it’s your own damn fault,” Arcsin says. “What’re you, like, ten or some shit?”

“Ten and a half.”

Arccos smacks Arcsin a little too hard for being a bulge. All of you either snort or laugh outright.

“Don’t be an asshole,” she warns. “I don’t care if it’s your wriggling day.” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “Well, since it’s going to be my last wriggling day in the compound, I guess burning down a building would be a pretty good legacy.”

You uncork a bottle of spirits and start drinking. If you’re going to get immolated in this building, you might as well die hammered.

“Pass that?” Hiongo asks. You do. They also drink deep.

Someone knocks on the door to Velyor’s quarters. Velyor’s also properly ten, so he gets quarters with a door that locks and shit, and he only really has to share them with Pinyix, who is equally apathetic toward the rules (although slightly better at following them).

“Who is it?” you call.

“Mianni, Etrare, and Khifos,” the latter says.

“Let ‘em in,” Arccos says. “If it’s alright with you, Vel.”

“I don’t give a shit, as long as none of them plan to get me in trouble.”

“We brought soporifics,” Etrare says. “And Khifos brought a few pail inducement publications.”

Velyor, Arccos, Hiongo, and Arcsin exchange glances. Porno mags and booze? Sign them the fuck up.

“Why didn’t you say that before?” Velyor asks. “Hey, Mituna, let these ladies in!”

What follows is the greatest drunken party of your nine and a half sweeps of life.

“I’m really not afraid of dying anymore,” Arccos says, once everyone in the room is varying degrees of passed the fuck out on the floor. You have no idea where in the hell Mianni and Khifos got all this alcohol, because you know Etrare, and she does not usually use, or encourage anyone to use, soporifics.

Arccos’s hair is tousled, and her eyes are a little red, but she seems mostly sober. Like you.

“I’m not afraid of dying, you know,” she says.

“You’re not?” you ask. “Why not?”

“I’m more scared of what happens to everyone who lives.”

“Oh.”

You are not exactly sure what to say for that.

“Tuna, if you make it to ten without being discovered, and it looks like you will, your next chance at conscription is when you hit twelve.”

“I know.”

“Do you really think you can keep the lie going another two and a half sweeps? And what happens after that?” she asks. “I’ve seen you. Your mood swings are getting worse. That’s why Mianni broke it off with you, isn’t it?”

If this were literally any other troll but Arccos, you’d tell them to shut up and mind their own business.

“Yes, yes it is,” you confirm. “But if at any point, I lose the ability to maintain this charade, I’m making a run for it. Far as all the Elders know, I’m mediocre. They won’t look for me too hard.”

“That’s true,” she says. “Still. I meant to ask you for a favor.”

“Yeah?”

You owe the trigonometric fucks several favors.

“We should discuss this elsewhere.”

She looks around, makes sure that everyone is still in some unconscious soporific stupor, and walks you, through an underground passage, to a part of the compound so ancient that there’s graffiti on the walls saying fuck Her Imperial Incandescence, who has been dead for like… two hundred and forty-some odd sweeps.

Allegedly, a troll named Smitty Jensen covered the walls of the good hiding spots in graffiti before he got conscripted, around five hundred sweeps ago, most of it decrying the Empire, bragging about the size of his bulge, wondering if several of his contemporaries had filled any buckets yet, and speculating - in the most vulgar way possible - as to which ones had.

As the legend goes, he was number one. The most powerful psion to ever live in Psi Block. Not many trolls believe in Smitty Jensen, but you do. You wish you could have met him. He sounds like he was a cool guy back in the day.

And damn, it smells musty as fuck in here.

Arccos murmurs partially intoxicated things about electrical impulses and the troll body. You don’t understand.

Well, you understand. But you don’t get what it has to do with anything.

“I used to come here when I needed to think,” she says. “But that’s not why I’m here. I have about nine hours left as a free troll.”

“Fuck, ‘Cos, they’re even more depressing when you count them down.”

“Maybe so. Could you help me with something, though?”

“I guess?”

She takes your left hand, the one you favor ever-so-slightly, and she puts it on her chest. For a second, you think she wants a last minute pail, and you’re standing there thinking shit like, well, you’re hot and all, but ‘Tan and your kismesis would fucking murder me.

Then you feel her bloodpusher beating double time. Right underneath your hand.

“You know what you could do, Mituna. I’ve already tried it for myself. I’m not strong enough. But I think you are. And if you’re not, then we combine power.”

No.

She can’t be suggesting…

No.

“I thought you said that you weren’t afraid of dying,” you say, and you’re struggling to keep your voice even, because you’re crying. “Or was that just posturing?”

“I’m not afraid of dying. But I’d rather die with my limbs and my mind intact.”

“Whoever said your mind was intact lied.”

“Probably, but I’m no crazier than anyone else here,” she says calmly. “I got my orders yesterday. Once I get through the preliminary part of the installation process, I’m going straight to the Battleship Condescension. Which is what Arctan and I were afraid of.”

She said its name. Is she serious?

Sure it’s just superstition, but most of the trolls you know find a way to avoid saying it, as if mentioning it by name were courting calamity.

“Really?”

She takes out her palmhusk and shows you what she’s talking about. Holy fucking shit. She pulls up the specs on what full installation entails, and eventually, she will be fully installed. You are rapidly threatening to lose your lunch of cake, grubloaf, and spirits.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you’d want to live like that,” she says. “You can’t, can you? Fuck, Tuna, you look like you’re going to be sick!”

You hang your head.

“Wouldn’t want to live like that, no.”

“Will you help me, then?”

“Why don’t you just run for it?”

“We covered this last sweep! I can’t run for it! They’d look for me too hard. I’m the top psion here.”

The two of you sit in this poorly lit place for another half hour, before an idea occurs to you.

“Listen, ‘Cos. I know somewhere to hide you,” you say. “It’s even more hidden away than where we are now.”

She shakes her head.

“No, Mituna. They’ll keep looking, and the only way they’ll stop looking for me is if I’m dead,” she replies, but as she says this, you see her eyes light up with something. Something like hope. “Wait. Hold on.”

“I just told you that I’m not culling you.”

She gives you a little smile. “Oh, I know you won’t. But you don’t have to. You just have to say you did. If everyone thinks I’m dead, they won’t search for me for long. I’ll hide wherever you say for a while, and then I’m fucking leaving here.”

“Where will you go?” you ask.

“I don’t know. Away.”

As far as last minute plans to avoid helmsman conscription go, this one could actually work. You say so.

“Okay,” you say, taking a few breaths to steady yourself. “Let’s do this, then.”

By the time you get back to Sigma Block, everyone is mostly sober. You school your features into something utterly despondent. You do not have to act too hard to do this. You just think of Alhena, because if Arccos was slated to be sent to the BC, that means he’s probably either dying or dead.

Everyone stares at you, and once Khifos gets a good look at you, she preemptively stuns the surveillance equipment in Arctan’s room to deactivate it for the moment.

“Where’s Arccos?” she asks.

“She won’t be coming back,” you say, with an air of finality.

“You didn’t--” Arctan starts out.

“She made a last request, I owed her a favor, and I paid that favor back.”

“I don’t believe it,” Arcsin says. “I won’t believe it.”

“Believe what you want,” you say. “But she won’t be returning to Sigma Block. Ever.”

Arctan looks to Pinyix for confirmation. “Did he really…?”

Pinyix nods, solemn, before catching your eye. Something in their expression betrays that they know what has happened, but won’t call you on your lie. You have no idea as to why.

“He did,” they say. “She’s… she’s dead.”

Etrare lets out a long wail of utter despair, the sound making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

“No! No, she can’t be!” she exclaims. “Not my matesprit!”

“I’m sorry,” you tell her. “She asked me, and I was the only one strong enough to make sure it happened.”

“Mituna, you fucking bulge!”

She punches you square in the face. That’s the first time you’ve ever heard Etrare resort to violence, or even swear, and she’s not the only one swearing at you.

You sigh.

Everyone’s going to hate you for a while, as they very well should. Velyor puts a hand on her shoulder.

“Etrare, calm down,” he says.

“I don’t want to fucking calm--”

“This is what Arccos would have wanted,” Arctan says, tears running down his face. “This is what she wanted, and you know it. When we were wigglers, she wanted to be a helmsman. But not recently. Not...”

He does not add that she would have been sent to the Battleship Condescension, and that is what shattered the last of her resolve, mostly because that would mean admitting to Velyor that Alhena is probably dead. Not the best admission to make under the circumstances.

“She told me she’d rather be dead than be strung up by biowires now,” Arcsin says. “Surely she’s told you the same thing.”

Etrare wipes her eyes with her sleeve. “Well, yes, but…”

“Exactly,” Khifos says, extending her hand to pap Etrare. “So leave it alone, then.”

All Etrare does is start crying again. Xhogar’s musings on the current state of affairs interrupt her.

“Elder Irvaan is not gonna like this one,” he says. “Soon as he finds out, Tuna, you’re dead fucking meat. Sentenced to culling at the speed of sound. Actually, forget that one. When he finds out what you’ve done, he’ll know you’re powerful enough to be a helmsman, for sure. You’ll just end up taking Arccos’s place in half a sweep. And probably after he flogs you for a while.”

Hiongo raises one slender finger, to be heard.

“Not if we all say we’re responsible,” they say. “He’s not going to cull all of us.”

“And then, nobody finds out about Mituna,” Pinyix adds.

Zesria, who has been silent for a long time, finally elects to speak.

“Sigma Block,” she says. “Psi Block. We protect our own. No matter what.”

“No matter what,” Velyor agrees.

After everyone present rehearses the story you’ll spin to Elder Irvaan, even Etrare, as she glares daggers at you, Khifos turns the surveillance equipment back on. All of you file into the communal nutritionblock to meet Irvaan, who instantly wants to know where Arccos is.

As the oldest one present, Etrare is the one who breaks the news to Irvaan, her voice thick from all the time she’s spent crying.

And as Xhogar predicted, Irvaan’s pissed. Not just pissed. He’s scared. His hands shake before he speaks.

“If I’m to understand this, all of you claim culpability in aiding Arccos in what she has chosen to do?” he asks.

You hope Arccos is staying where you’re hiding her. It’s a spot you would occupy if the excrement ever hit the whirling ceiling device where you’re concerned. And you hope she keeps her promise to stop trying to self-cull.

You’ll keep your promise to cull her yourself if you ever think anyone will find her.

“Yes,” everyone answers, some of you nodding.

Irvaan paces the length of the nutritionblock for a while, momentarily lost for words.

“Well. This is a special circumstance, one that calls for severe punishment. And since nearly all of you have drawn warnings at least once, I’m going to punish the one troll here who has never been warned,” Irvaan says. “Perhaps she will learn more than any of you have. Or maybe the troll who actually did this will feel compelled to step forward.”

You try to figure out who’d be either smart or boring enough to manage never being warned, and very slowly, all of you turn to look at Pinyix.

None of you object to this, because as fucked up as it is, Pinyix is also the youngest troll in your group. Therefore they’ll get the fewest lashes. They’re seven, and this is their first warning. So that’s seven lashes. Not great, but not awful.

You should have figured that Irvaan wasn’t done yet.

“Since this young lady was involved in helping a ten-sweeps old to evade conscription, she will receive the maximum punishment that a ten-sweeps-old can in her stead. Thirty lashes.”

Ten by three. Shit fucking Ancestors.

Pinyix is even smaller than Arccos, which is actually an achievement. You don’t know if they could even survive thirty lashes. The most you’ve ever seen a troll get is twenty-two, and they were eleven sweeps old, a little above average sized for their age, and passed out after twenty. They didn’t live for too long after.

“I’m not a young lady!” Pinyix protests

“Three extra lashes for back-talk,” Irvaan says. “That puts you at thirty-three, doesn’t it?”

Pinyix sparks purple at their fingertips, in anger. Velyor steps on their foot before they get themself into deeper trouble.

“If you want to cull Pinyix, then just cull them,” Arctan says. “You know that thirty-three lashes for someone of their size is pretty much a death sentence, anyway.”

You’re about to open your mouth to confess. You had never meant for it to go this far.

Pinyix gives you a look telling you to back the fuck down.

“That is true,” Elder Irvaan says. “But perhaps watching this display will inform all of you what happens to trolls who try to interfere with the operation of the Empire. As for Pinyix, well, she is what I would call an object lesson.”

It’s official. Irvaan was never a goldblood like the rest of you. He’s an Imperial drone wearing a goldblood troll’s skin. He might be the Condesce wearing a goldblood troll’s skin, for all you know.

When he leaves, all of you go back to Velyor’s room, which explodes into conversation.

Khifos seems like she’d like to stun the surveillance equipment again, but decides not to.

“Thanks for grounding me Velyor,” Pinyix says, making the diamond sign with their fingertips. “If he called me a “she” or a “young lady” one more time, I was gonna punch him.”

“We can’t let him do this,” Arctan says.

“No, we cannot,” Velyor says, typing something away on his communicator.

“What are we gonna do, then?” Mianni asks.

“Something,” Velyor replies. “We’re going to do something. I’ve got this.”

Within an hour, it’s official. Everyone in Sigma Block, aged six and up, regardless of their involvement in Arccos’s escape, must report to the area around the flogging jut, to witness the punishment of Pinyix Idcaye, in eight hours time.

Thirty-three lashes.

Trolls from the neighboring blocks are also encouraged, but not ordered, to attend.

This is the dim season on Alternia, so the powers that be can just have you stay up until whenever without worrying about you burning to a crisp in the sun.

Several trolls come by Velyor’s room, the same way they did with Arccos, to bring offerings of food and give words of condolence.

Pinyix, whose temper is longer than Arccos’s ever was, accepts these with grace. Shit, some of the psions who’d actually had schoolfeeding lessons with them, and witnessed the alacrity with which they allowed less intelligent trolls to cheat of them, some of them actually weep.

And even those who had never cheated off Pinyix, well, they’re crying too.

“It’s going to be fine,” Pinyix says, as Hiongo sobs into their uniform. “Everything is going to be fine. I have seen it.”

“No it’s not!”

“It’s not, not really, but…” Pinyix kisses them on the forehead. “We’ll all get through it, somehow. Of that, I am certain.”

You never really understood Pinyix until tonight, even though they are your kismesis.

In situations where you would be growing progressively more emotional, they grow more detached. You think it’s why they’re so good at shields and other defensive telekinesis. They can distance themself, physically and mentally. Maybe they’re counting on their shields holding for the full length of the flogging.

Since Pinyix and Velyor share quarters, Vel’s door is pretty much open for the remainder of the time until Pinyix’s doom.

Even Overreactive Gigantic Fuck, whose name is actually Vogreu, shows up to offer Pinyix some sort of words.

“I’d take the lashes for you, if I could.”

Pinyix manages to hide their surprise.

You and Arcsin manage not to laugh at his declaration, but only just. Shit, you’ll take your amusement where you can get it, particularly now, with the straits so dire.

Anyone with eyes could see that Vogreu’s been flushed for them since last sweep, save Pinyix themself. And shit, he’d probably survive thirty-something lashes on account of being fucking huge.

“I would never ask such a thing of you, Vogreu,” Pinyix says. “This punishment is mine to take.”

He looks stricken, and then he interrupts you and Arcsin’s attempts to maintain your composure by asking you to take a walk with him. You remember that he had a pitch dalliance with Arccos a sweep back. He probably wants to end you for what you’ve done, or at least what he thinks you’ve done.

“When Vog culls me, I’m coming back as a fucking ghost to haunt you fuckers, if any of you touch my music playing device!” you yell at your friends.

“Yeah, yeah, keep going,” Arcsin says.

Sin may be your moirail, but he’s still upset with you. After all, you “culled” his kismesis. You’re slightly surprised he’s not joining Vogreu on the “let’s fuck Mituna Captor up” crusade.

But Vogreu doesn’t seem to be in a particularly homicidal mood at the moment. He leads you to the far end of the corridor, where the nice ablution trap is, where there are no surveillance devices nearby, at least not as far as anyone can detect.

“I know what you guys say about me when I’m not around,” he says. “Someone fucked up in the caverns, and I’m part purpleblood, part subjuggulator.”

Fuck. Really? You all were that loud with your speculations?

“Um, Vogreu, we weren’t serious when we--”

“You were. It’s cool. I understand. I’m larger than most goldbloods, less intelligent, and less psionically inclined. I’ve wondered the same thing, myself.”

You don’t know where he’s going with this.

“So…”

“So,” he says. “You and I, I think we could keep Pinyix from facing their punishment. I have an idea.”

Vogreu Terbim has an idea?

This must truly be the end of days.

“Don’t look so shocked, Mituna. Hear me out.”

It’s not like you’re about to do anything else at the moment.

“Okay.”

“Elder Irvaan’s going to make some sort of speech before he starts flogging Pinyix because he’s a grandstanding bastard. And I’ve figured out why you’re so inept on the exams. You’re holding back, so you don’t end up conscripted.”

Well, shit, if Vogreu figured that out, the entire Empire might as well know.

Old enmity dies hard.

“And if I were?”

“When Irvaan’s done with his speech, and after he gives at least the first eleven lashes, maybe a few more, I’m asking you to stun him with your psionics. Don’t fry him. Just stun him, ‘cause you’re the only one who could probably do that from afar without fainting,” Vogreu says. “I’ll do the rest. The real elders, in Alpha Block, are already mad at him. They’ll be even more mad to see him abusing his power like this.”

“It’s not an abuse of power, Vogreu,” you say easily. “Arccos is dead. Someone has to pay for it.”

“It so is, because it’s clear that Pinyix didn’t do it, and even if they were partially responsible, they should only be getting seven lashes. Maybe ten. Not thirty-three, because that could kill them, and deprive the Imperial Fleet of a powerful prospective psion. Besides, a lot of the blame for what happened with Arccos goes to Elder Irvaan for not being able to keep a good eye on her in the first place,” Vogreu goes on. “So I wanna give the Elders the opportunity to see what else he’s doing. Velyor recorded everything Irvaan said, and sent it to them. Now they’re waiting to see whether he actually goes through with this. Once he gives Pinyix more than ten lashes, he’s dealing cruel and unusual punishment. Like, crueler and more unusual punishment than usual. Worse, he’s fucking up Empire property.”

“Got it,” you say, overcome with grudging admiration for this jackass, even if he did try to cull you a few perigees ago just for calling him a dumbass. “You really thought of this all on your own, Vog?”

“No. Velyor did a lot of the thinking on Trollian over the last hour. But so did I. I’m slow. I’m too slow to score high on exams. But that doesn’t mean I can’t think. Just takes longer. And I have been thinking.”

“You and Velyor have command over the full arsenal of my telekinesis,” you say, all formal-like, like you’re being conscripted.

“We don’t need command over anything,” Vogreu says. “We need innovation.”

“And I will show you innovation, in spades,” you reply. Then you recall your old platonic hatred for Vogreu, and how easily that statement could be misconstrued. “Not in actual spades, but in--”

“I got it, Mituna. You’ll cooperate.”

“I will.”

“Good,” he replies. You turn back to go to Velyor’s room. “And Mituna?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

A lot more trolls turn out to watch what will happen to Pinyix than you expect. Every 6+ from Sigma Block is in attendance, along with some randos from Epsilon, Kappa, Eta, Zeta, Lambda, and Mu Blocks. Nobody from Alpha or Beta, though. You wouldn’t have expected it. They think they’re better than the rest of you.

Since the demise of almost everyone from Psi, Chi, and Phi Block, they technically are.

The drones cuff Pinyix at the wrists at the flogging jut, the one whose cuffs Arccos said looked like a 6 and a 9 by the time she was half-delirious with punishment for her second warning, and then further chain them to the post once those cuffs are in place.

They strip Pinyix of their garments above the waist so they can properly feel their punishment. Also, so errant fabric in wounds doesn’t cause infection.

Pinyix looks down at themself, and you can see tears threatening to spill over.

“We believe in you, Pinyix!” someone yells.

Elder Irvaan figures that this is the time to give his speech before the flogging, for he rises to his feet and everything. You overestimated how long it would be, given Irvaan’s inclination toward refusing to shut the fuck up.

“It is time,” he says, a hoofbeast-whip in his hand. “Young lady, I expect you to count the blows. And if you falter, I’ll just start from one.”

He definitely plans to cull them.

Meanwhile, Pinyix inhales sharply just so they can spit in his face.

It catches him unawares.

“Thirty-six, then,” he says.

“Do your worst,” they reply.

Arcsin, Arctan, and several others shout at them to stop baiting him.

Meanwhile, perhaps realizing now that this may not be the best idea, Irvaan dithers on dealing the first blow.

“Lower your shields to nothing,” he says. “They cannot help you now.”

“If you insist, you taintchafing blight upon the Empire, too much of a coward to cull kill me outright. Do you think punishing me will make you a real troll?” they reply, furious. “Worthy of conscription? Twenty-plus sweeps old goldblood and nobody wants you? I think the results speak for themselves. Your ineptitude echoes int the halls, to the point where underage trolls are like, well, ‘at least I’m not Irvaan or some shit’. But you probably knew that already.”

Elder Irvaan will give them even more for that outburst.

Unless Vogreu’s right and he and Velyor really do have a plan.

“Forty lashes even, then,” Irvaan says. And then to the drones, “Don’t stop me, even if her bloodpusher stops.”

Pinyix inhales sharply, in anticipation of the first blow. He throws the whip with all his strength.

“Count them, or I lose count, and start from one,” he says.

“One!” they exclaim, once the whip makes contact.

Of all the fucking… nonsensical, idiotic bullshit.

Someone should intervene now. Right now.

You look over to Vogreu. He shakes his head. Then, you catch Velyor’s eye. He shakes his head as well.

You and your friends continue staring amongst each other as if you can prevent this just by staring hard enough.

“Two!”

“Three!”

“Four!”

Time passes slowly in these awful moments. Irvaan continues to throw the whip.

“Eight!” they exclaim.

By the time you decide that you must intervene, Pinyix is hanging from their shackles, rendered incoherent and partially unconscious by their punishment. Velyor is howling expletives into the wind. You and Vogreu exchange places and glances.

Pinyix is only still seven and a few perigees old.

They don’t deserve this.

Why aren’t the Elders from Alpha Block doing something yet?

Because you’re not trolls. Not really.

You’re chattel.

But Pinyix deserves this fate least out of all of you.

Since they’ve temporarily lost the ability to speak, Irvaan makes good on his threat to start from one if they ever stopped counting. He raises the whip, and brings it down.

“One!” They exclaim, more from conditioning than anything.

“Why doesn’t anyone do something?” Arcsin says. “Velyor, I thought you sent that footage to the Elders!”

“I think they know,” he says. “But they don’t care. We’re low priority. And we really fucked up with Arccos. I think...” He swallows. “I think they just might let him cull Pinyix. We need to act.”

“Yeah, okay, well, what’s the plan?” Arcsin asks.

“Three!” Pinyix exclaims.

“Fucking shit,” Velyor says.

All of you keep watching, unable to tear your eyes away.

“Four!”

Zesria jumps up onto the flogging block.

“Five!” Pinyix screams.

Zesria throws a tunic over Pinyix’s shaking, bloodied form, and gets warned for the action.

The cuffs and chains remain the only thing holding Pinyix upright.

“When I’m finished with her, you’re next,” Elder Irvaan says to Zesria. “Nine lashes.”

She flips him off with both hands and asks him - if, when he became an Elder - how many caegars they gave him in exchange for his soul.

He draws his hand back and slaps Zesria so hard that she falls off the block and a full meter to the dirt. She whimpers, and forces herself back up.

“Zesria!” Khifos and Ortuye shout.

“Save them!” Vogreu yells at you.

You throw up your desultory shields, and stun Irvaan, while Velyor shatters Pinyix’s chains, in that order.

By the time you manage to get Pinyix to the infirmary, you think Elder Irvaan will have probably called up a warning on pretty much everyone in Sigma Block, for interfering. But he’s still, thankfully, too stunned to make the order.

You throw up another halfassed but powerful shield, sprint to the flogging jut, and unlock the cuffs around their wrists. They fall into your arms. Meanwhile, Khifos moves to tend to Zesria.

“Pin?” you ask them.

“Pinyix, speak to me!” Velyor nearly shouts.

“Tuna? Vel?” they ask, as you stand over them. “Guys, tell me I’m, dead. Or cull me. Either one.”

“They’re delirious,” Velyor pronounces, but Pinyix isn’t done speaking.

“You know when you have to do something because it’s part of the greater design?” they ask. “Well, sometimes, you have no idea how awful it’s going to be until you do it. I can’t feel my legs. Is that good?”

Their eyes start to glow purple. Their eyelids flicker.

“Probably not,” you say to them, honestly. You hand them over to Velyor.

“We’re gonna make the drones in the infirmary be competent for you,” he says, making to carry them that way. “Shit, the auxiliatrix will make them be competent.”

“That’s nice,” Pinyix says, closing their eyes, their voice sounding far away.

The two of them leave. You should have done something sooner. What if Pinyix dies?

However, the fiasco at the flogging jut isn’t yet finished. Vogreu snatches the whip from Irvaan, hauls the older troll to his feet, clamps the flogging cuffs shut around his wrists, and tears the upper half of the jumpsuit from his body.

“Let’s see,” Vogreu begins. “You’re twenty-seven sweeps old, Elder. Hey, Adrani, what the fuck’s twenty-seven times three?”

“A lot,” Vogreu’s moirail, an instructor from Epsilon block, originally from the now nonexistent Chi block, answers. “Eighty-one, actually.”

“Good looks, Adrani. Thanks.” Vogreu gives Irvaan a grin utterly devoid of mercy. “So. Eighty-one lashes. I can dig it. Whenever you lose count, I’m starting again from one. Ready?”

“The Elders will cull you for your insolence,” Irvaan says, looking terrified nevertheless. “They’ll cull you all!”

Vogreu laughs, his eyes dancing with hatred and mirth.

“Maybe so, but not before we settle the score.”

You are more than ready to settle the score.

You wish Arccos were here right now. She’d probably be positively cackling with glee to see this. How the tables have turned. What all of you are capable of, in the face of an injury toward one of your own.

Vogreu throws the whip with far more vehemence and raw strength than Elder Irvaan ever could ever command.

“One!”

“Fuck yeah!” Arctan shouts. “Do it, Vog!”

“All the way to eighty-fucking one!” Mianni chimes in.

“Go to a hundred!” you yell.

“A hundred and ten!” Arcsin returns.

“Why stop at a hundred and ten?” Xhogar wants to know.

Ortuye, in her black and rust jumpsuit, nods.

“Why stop, indeed? Cull the waste of oxygen,” she mutters.

Various trolls yell numbers.

“One-fifteen!”

“One-forty!”

“One-fifty!”

“Make it an even two hundred!”

All of you continue shouting such things as Vogreu thrashes Irvaan, who manages to stay conscious and aware enough to count accurately. What a shame. You were looking forward to when Vogreu would have to start from one.

However, by the time he gets to twenty-six, you notice Elder Asyeva, leading several goldbloods, and a couple of drones, toward the crowd. You’re not the only one.

“This is not gonna go well,” Arcsin says, bumping shoulders with you.

Hiongo shakes their head.

“I think the party’s over. Well, you can’t say the fucks from Alpha Block never showed up.”

“Took them long enough,” Ortuye says.

As for Arcsin stating that this isn’t going to go well?

Well, that’s… the understatement of the sweep.

One of the drones quickly shoots Vogreu right between the eyes with a blaster.

Your mouth drops open.

Adrani cries out, falling to his knees.

“Irvaan was right about something. We’re all fucked,” Hiongo says, watching blood and thinkpan matter leak from Vogreu’s head. “Everyone? Everyone run! Now!”

All of you try to dash to points unknown before you become the next trolls to be culled, but Asyeva and two Alpha Block elders send out a shockwave that stuns the lot of you.

She walks over to the flogging jut, and unshackles Irvaan.

“Thank you, Asyeva,” he says, making the diamond sign with his thumbs and forefingers. “I knew you’d come for me. I knew you’d save me.”

“Save you, nothing,” she says contemptuously. “You’ve more than likely crippled a high-scoring psion, and for what? A pissing contest. Right after we’ve lost another psion. As per unanimous vote from the Elders of Alpha Block, you’ve been sentenced to execution without trial.”

She then turns to address the rest of you.

“All of you, return to the nutritionblocks of your buildings, your respective punishments to be determined,” she says heavily. “None of you should see this.”

Then, she gives Irvaan a deft kick to the side, before calling him all kinds of interesting expletives. You’ve never seen Elder Asyeva lose her temper like this.

“Actually, I think the party’s just starting, Hiongo,” Zesria murmurs, still lying on her back. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

You don’t need telling twice. You stumble to your feet, and help Arcsin to his. Khifos and Zesria hobble, their arms thrown around each other’s waists. Arctan forces Adrani to get up, even as he insists that he wants to do no such thing.

“There’s nothing you can do for Vogreu. There’s nothing any of us can do,” Arctan says. “Go back to your block before you get yourself culled.”

Another troll from Epsilon block takes hold of Adrani’s hand.

“I’ve got you,” she says. “Please, Adrani?”

At last, he acquiesces.

As for all of you from Sigma, you report to your nutritionblock, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Some of your group starts to play a halfhearted game of Fiduspawn.

“Think they’re going to cull all of us?” Khifos asks.

“I wish,” Xhogar replies. “It’s probably going to be way worse.”

“What’s worse than culling?”

“I’m sure they’ll think of something,” Hiongo says.

You hear another blaster shot echo from the flogging area. So goes Elder Irvaan.

Hours pass, as all of you wonder if this is how everything ends.

Then, Elder Asyeva strolls into the nutritionblock, looking thoroughly tired, the faint lines in her face seeming far more pronounced.

“All of you, every single one of you, have been sentenced to reduced rations for the next sweep,” she says.

“Is this before or after we get culled?” Hiongo wants to know. “Are you telling me there’s grubloaf in the afterlife?”

Asyeva shakes her head.

“No culling. The Elders of Alpha Block wanted to second warn all of you at the very least,” she says. “However, I discouraged them from doing this, because enough Empire property has been irreparably damaged tonight, without more floggings taking place.”

“Reduced rations?” Zesria asks. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Asyeva says. “However, all of you should essentially consider yourselves first-warned, minus the corporal punishment. Any sort of warning-level infraction you incur for the next sweep will get you second-warned, with the corporal punishment.”

“Understood,” you say. “And Elder?”

She blinks at you.

“Yes, Mituna?”

“Thank you.”

She says nothing in response.

Then, she sighs.

“I wish I had been around to protect Arccos. And Pinyix. Even Vogreu,” she says. “Before I am an Elder, I am an instructor. And being that I am an instructor, all of you are my charges.”

“All of us did what we had to do,” Etrare says gently. “It is not your fault, Elder Asyeva.”

“That may be true. Nevertheless, we must agree to disagree there, Instructor Etrare Toftas.”

Etrare looks shocked at this pronouncement.

“Me?” she asks.

“Sigma Block is short an instructor, given Irvaan’s fate,” Elder Asyeva explains. “Therefore, I have been tasked with appointing another. You have scored the highest out of your cohort in instructor training, so...”

Etrare gives Elder Asyeva a low bow of respect.

“Thank you, Elder Asyeva,” she says. “I accept this appointment.”

“Good. And I am sorry about your matesprit, Instructor Etrare.”

Elder Asyeva seems as if she might cry. Etrare embraces her, wordlessly.

“I am, too.”

Then, Elder Asyeva orders all of you to go to your rooms, and takes her leave. As you sit on the edge of your recuperacoon, Arcsin does nothing but stare at you for a while. He walks over to you, until your noses are mere centimeters apart.

“She’s not really dead, is she?” he asks, in a whisper.

You refuse to answer. However, Arcsin is no fool. He grins.

“I fucking knew it,” he says. “I knew it. You can bullshit everyone else, but you can’t bullshit your moirail.”

You continue to say nothing.

“Hey, Tuna?” he asks, still in a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“If you didn’t cull her, that means she’s hiding, and you probably know where she is. Could you tell her that Arctan and I are going to miss her?”

You think carefully before speaking. But, like Arcsin said, you cannot bullshit your own fucking moirail.

“I will,” you swear. “I’ll tell her.”

“Great.”

Pinyix will survive, as you find out later. However, Elder Asyeva got one thing right. They’ve been crippled. Unable to feel from the waist down. And nearly catatonic, as well. They’ll be stuck in the infirmary for several perigees, at the very least.

“I shouldn’t have done what I did,” you say to Velyor, the two of you eating your grubloaf side by side in the nutritionblock.

“You’re not the one who flogged them nearly to death, are you, Tuna?” he asks. “You did what you had to do, as far as Arccos goes. I’m sure Pinyix would agree. Once they’re out of the infirmary, they’ll probably say so.”

“Yeah, but Pinyix is fucking weird,” you say.

Velyor pushes his plate away, and grimaces.

“I can’t argue there.”

A few weeks later, you skip your lessons for the day to go visit Pinyix. They’re responsive now, even though they can’t walk. You apologize profusely to them, and they neither accept nor reject your apology.

“I Saw many things while I was Out,” they tell you. “Necessary things.”

You gesture around, at them, at everything in the infirmary.

“Necessary enough to justify this? Pinyix, you’re never going to walk again.”

“Of course, Mituna,” they say. “Why else would I have said so many terrible things to Elder Irvaan? It was necessary.”

Just when you think you understand your kismesis, you realize that you have never, and probably will never, truly understand them.

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anewalternia · 6 years

Text

hold fast to dreams

Latula’s so small that she has to incline her head straight up in order to look you in the eye. And when you cackle at her about it, she kicks you in the shin. Your guards raise their weapons, ready to defend you to the death, and you diplomatically tell all three of them to fuck off. Not that Latula couldn’t hold her own in a fight - you’ve seen what she can do with canes and swords now - but she wouldn’t hurt you.

Alshat keeps telling you that that this unspoken, unofficial moirallegiance is one of the most moronic things you’ve done quadrant-wise. You’re going to outlive Latula, most certainly. And she is awfully young compared to you. Does she even know all the things you’ve done? Would she approve if she did?

“Now I ain’t know about the last thing, but even though she’s in her first sweep at the Academy, she probably knows some shit about the subjugglators, and a lot of the things they've done, including breaking a law or ten. She ain’t no dumb motherfucker. She’s fucking brilliant. You don’t meet trolls like that every century, even if homegirl needs to learn to get her sleep on. She ain’t never get shut-eye no more.. ”.

Alshat nods and admits that Latula is quite intelligent, probably one of the most gifted trolls she’s ever met, and Alshat’s nearly 300 sweeps old. Gifted and the sort of troll who could become quite wise, Alshat calls her. Still, she does not approve of your unspoken pale encounters with Latula.

“She’s one of maybe one of four trolls who can get you to stop acting like a fucking fool when you fly into your rages, and certainly the one who does it with the most alacrity and ease,” Alshat says. “Which means she’s either very pale for you, or very suicidal.”

You don’t understand why Alshat is using this fact against you.

“And this makes for a bad moirallegiance because?”

“You two care about each other too much. If and when something happens to one of you, you won’t be able to function. And she’s really young, Kurloz. Remember that. Be her moirail if you really want to, but don’t burden her with too much just yet.”

Yeah, you guess that’s the best way to go.

So yeah, you let later Latula kick you in the shin. The way her short hair has been brushed to an almost burnished shine, and the fact that it’s been meticulously trimmed, informs you that Horuss is around somewhere in the Castle of Mirth, probably training some archeradictators at the moment. Only he could be so anal-retentive about making sure hair looks perfect. He’s anal-retentive about everything. It’s why you despise him so much

Then, you notice something in Latula’s hair.

There’s a little teal dragon hair pin - its stare ruby red - that’s been carefully applied to keep her bangs out of her eyes.

You’d meant to give it to Latula for her wriggling day, but you suppose Horuss and possibly Alshat decided to fuck with you. The Mirthful Messiahs know that you fuck with them often enough. Your kismesis and your auspistice. They deserve it.

So fuck ‘em both. Horuss is not getting any caliginous action from you for the next perigee (if you can last that long without getting any), and Alshat - your poor, unfortunate auspistice - is gonna get an epic fucking lecture, probably at your favorite volume: deafening.

Giving Latula her present early. Of all the audacious behavior.

“You were going to give this to me for my wriggling day?” Latula asks, scrutinizing it with her limited sight. You nod.

“It motherfucking reminded me of you,” you tell her.

“It’s lovely,” she replies.

And when she smiles, when she smiles at you, you just want to do whatever you can to keep her smiling that way. You are so pale for her that it hurts.

She kisses you on the cheek, and then fixes your greasepaint where her dark lipstick has left a spot.

She follows you into your quarters - since she promised she’d stay over today ‘cause you haven’t seen her in forever. Fucking legislacerator training.

She eyes the walls somewhat disastefully, given the hemospectral rainbow of dried blood upon them. What can you say? The Mirthful Messiahs need their sacrifices and you need paint.

Latula sighs loudly, makes a faintly derisive comment, and sits on the edge of your recuperacoon.

Your recuperacoon is huge enough that three trolls your size could fit into it comfortably.

So you get undressed fast and get ready to climb into the sopor.

However, Latula undresses slowly. When she removes the top part of her uniform, she flinches and involuntarily cries out.

You look down at her partially naked form. She’s covered in scrapes and bruises.

“Latula, what the fuck?” you want to know. “How the motherfuck did you even...?”

You trail off, lost for words. Fucking Messiahs, this is all your fault. You’re the one who taught her how to fight better in the first place, and all but told her to gp kick some ass.

Latula shrugs. “Can’t win every time you engage in grief. Thought I could take the four of them with my cane and get ‘em to stop talking shit about how I didn’t belong at the Academy and I shoulda been culled Knocked one out, almost got one, the third one limped away, and the fourth one straight up took off running.”

Well, motherfuck. You’re almost proud of her. All of that with a cane? Go, sister, go. You tell her this and she grins.

You start examining her injuries

“Why didn’t you tell me you got hurt?”

“I didn’t want to scare you. Or take you away from your work. Or have you think I was weak. Besides, they were mad that I got a placement on a fairly prestigious case. You worry about me way too much, you know.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I got good motherfucking reason. For the love of the Messiahs, Latula! You gotta know when to fight, and also when to run. That ain’t weakness. That’s self-preservation. I know you can make some epic fucking time on that skateboard, so up an fuckin’ do that if you gotta. Specially with some fucking four-on-one shit. And don’t be afraid to ping me if trolls try to fuck with you. I’ll send some righteous brothers and sisters over to the Academy to help your ass out.”

She has that expression, the one that suggests that she’d like to disagree.

“Grand Highblood, I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Yeah, not necessary my left shame globe,” you reply. “Now stay still so I can fix your dumb ass up.”

Most of the injuries appear to be fairly superficial. As an apprentice subjugglator, way back when, you received extensive training in the intricacies of troll anatomy. It made you more efficient at incapacitating and culling heretics and enemies of the Empire.

So while they look fuck ugly, none of them look like they’ll kill her. They’ll just hurt a lot as they heal. You tell her exactly this.

“Oh, well, that’s nice to know,” she says, rolling her eyes.

Nevertheless, she thanks you for your assistance.

You stil want to send a few of your academy subjugglators down to the fucking Academy and have them beat the absolute shit out of the trolls who hurt Latula, just ‘cause she’s the youngest, just because she’s small for a tealblood.

In fact, maybe you should. You make a mental note to get the names of these trolls from her somehow. These cerulean and indigobloods are gonna get a firsthand lesson in what a fair battle looks like. Not a four-on-one fight with some pint sized ten sweeps old.

Latula must pick up on your anger, because she shooshes you into the closest thing to a state of calm that you’re capable of feeling right now.

“Kurloz, I can hold my own, you know. Maybe I ended up in a stupid grief but I’m not an idiot. Okay?”

You don’t respond. You don’t respond for a good five minutes.

“Kurloz? Do you trust me?” she finally asks. “Like really, and truly, trust my intellect? Do you trust that I can protect myself?”

You nod emphatically, without even having to think.

“Course I do, although your motherfuckin judgment could up an use a little work, and you need to fuckin’ learn to ask for help,” you reply, as you bandage her shoulder. “I’m a little pale for you, ain’t I?”

Before you said that, she’d been biting down on her lower lip to keep from crying out in pain.

Then, once you say it, she breaks into the widest smile you’ve seen on her since she was an actual wiggler.

“Pale for you too, sorta,” she says, with quite a bit of emotion in her voice.

You make the diamond gesture with your thumbs and forefingers. You wish you were less pale for her. In fact, maybe you’ll just... take back what you said and tell her to fuck the fuck off for her own safety. Enemies of the Empire could probably use this kid to get to you, if your relationship keeps going the way it’s going. And then you’d be useless. Alshat’s right. If something happened to Latula, you don’t know what you’d do.

You’d still have Horuss, but Latula...? She’s the first troll you’ve gotten close enough to consider as a possible ‘rail for more a hundred sweeps.

“Kurloz?” She taps her foot nervously. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, everything’s fuckin’ bitchtits, don’t worry.”

She gazes at you skeptically. “Whatever you say.”

Latula raises her hand like she’s about to ask a schoolfeeding question, but you know what she plans to do. You should tell her not to, but you want her to do it just as much as she wants to.

You bend down so she can reach the top of your head, and she gently musses her hair until you begin to purr.

“Better?” she asks.

No. She’s just making this harder for you. Motherfuck, is this a test from the Messiahs themselves? Testing your faith? Your resolve? Kurloz Makara, you are failing miserable.

But still. The sensation, the way her fingers massaging your scalp leach the agitation from you. You lean into Latula’s gesture, and continue purring. She smiles and starts to purr as well.

Once she’s done, you’ll go find an ice pack for her black eye, one you initially didn’t notice before, because it’d been mostly concealed by her glasses.

However, for now, you’ll just chill with her until the both of you have relaxed. You and she lie in your recuperacoon, the top of her head tucked under your chin, bubbles issuing from her nose as she breathes in and out, snoring softly.

She awakens in the evening while you and Alshat talk shop. Mostly over your last argument with Horuss, and also about how to best break things to Latula. Latula’s clearly washed the sopor off herself and is wearing one of your shirts as a nightgown.

You don’t want to tell her what you must.

But you do anyway. You give her your reasons. She seems to understand them.

“I get it. I’m a liability,” she says. “Should probably get properly dressed, then, and get out of here. I have class to go to.”

Alshat leaves the two of you be.

“I really am motherfucking sorry, Latula. I just...” Your voice gathers vehemence. “I don’t want any mothefuckers to try to use you to get to me. If something happened to you because--”

“I get it.” She’s not crying, but she won’t look you in the eye. “It’s okay if you say no, but could I just make one request before I leave?”

She nearly reaches out to touch you before remembering that she shouldn’t. You take her small hand, and that’s when she starts to cry, and you’re not far behind.

“Could we...” she starts out. “We probably shouldn’t be moirails, but could we at least stay friends? You’re one of my favorite assholes.”

You bark out a laugh at that, then think for a while. You don’t think you can let her go entirely. You still want to be able to check up on her every so often.

“Yes, my miracle of a tealblooded sist--....” You stop yourself. “Of course, Latula. Friends. We can be motherfucking friends, for sure.”

“Okay.”

Latula nods.

Later, when she’s gone back to her hive, you eat sopor slime pie, and generally make a fool of yourself until Alshat and Horuss come to comfort you. At least this time you don’t venture out of your quarters and act moronic in front of your subordinates.

“It would not have ended well, Highblood,” Horuss says, of your almost moiraillegiance.

“You made the right decision,” Alshat says. “She’ll be safer this way. And if she needs help, she can still ping you.”

You think of Latula snoring in your recuperacoon next to you, her head on your chest, her hair floating around her face. And then the way she papped you when you woke up from a daymare and startled you awake.

The right decision, Kurloz, you tell yourself.

You made the right decision.

Thing about making the right decision, though? Most of the time, it absolutely fucking sucks.h

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anewalternia · 6 years

Text

get motherfucking better

(fair warning, this drabble will not make sense unless you are already up to date with “if i had a heart i could love you” and “mente et artificio”

One day, everyone will call you Neophyte Redglare. But not yet.

At the moment, you are just Latula Pyrope.

You’re nine and a half sweeps old and a newly accepted prospective neophyte at the Imperial Academy of Law, when you decide to cut your hair short. Most trolls who get this far don’t get accepted until the age of twelve, and even then, they’re cerulean and indigobloods. You’re sprawled out across Kurloz’s empty throne - the few subjugglators who come to see Kurloz think it’s the greatest joke ever - while he and Horuss do whatever disgusting caliginous nonsense you never, ever want to know about.

Kurloz comes back seeming less angry, although still tense. You don’t really need to move much to give him room to sit on his throne, but you crawl into his lap once he does. You pap him, even though he’s the Grand Highblood and you’re just some half-blind kid, and you two aren’t really quadrants.

Still, he lets you. He even starts to purr. He’ll probably freak when he realizes you’ve messed up the greasepaint he’s just re-applied.

“And what has my righteous tealblood sister been up an’ doin for the last few hours, ‘sides keeping my throne warm?” he asks. You almost want to laugh when he calls you that. It’s so fucking ridiculous.

You decide to level with him.

“Thinking of getting a haircut,” you reply. You gesture to your chin. “Maybe this length? A little longer?”

Long hair has been the style of highbloods forever. It’s a status symbol. Either you’re rich, or strong enough that you can wear your hair long without worrying about another troll grabbing you by it to gain the upper hand in combat. Also, the Empress has long hair, which makes it even more fashionable.

Your hair is long, straight, and waist-length, probably because of Horuss, and the way his hair care regimen has rubbed off on you.

But you have to be practical here. You are a lowblood. You’re a hellion on a skateboard but you don’t have many advantages in hand-to-hand combat. You’ve got your proficiency with your cane, but your hair, cascading all the way down to your hips, is something of a liability.

You wait for Kurloz to object. You’ve combed out his hair before. He says he’ll cut it on his deathbed and not a second before. Still, you know that’s a lie. Kurloz will go into the afterlife with stupidly long curly hair.

His response surprises you, though.

“Reckon that’s a fuckin’ decent idea,” he says. “Like I ain’t seen some a’ the beatdowns you up and been taking from these legislacerator motherfuckers. Look what they do to they own, and then they get pissy at my forces for giving cruel and unusual punishment? Least I look out for mine.”

“You know my acceptance into the Academy this young was an almost unprecedented anomaly. Trolls have a right to be angry at preferential treatment,” you say. “Especially since I should have probably been culled for blindness when I was a wiggler.”

“You got the highest score of any troll taking the damn exam that sweep. Ain’t jack shit preferential about a motherfuckin’ standardized test score. Not your fault that they need to get motherfuckin’ better. But you gotta get better. Keep it together in fights.”

“I know.”

“And if the older trolls try to gang up on you, just ping me. I’ll send the whole damn family if I gotta.”

“The whole damn family” being Kurloz-speak for “at least fifty subjugglators”.

That would be kind of embarassing, however. You like to think you can handle your shit.

“Hey?” you ask, tilting your face far up so you can actually look Kurloz in the eye.

“Yeah?”

“Will you teach me how to fight better?”

For his part, he agrees and gives you a grin just this side of deranged. You are not sure whether to be elated or terrified. Elated, probably. Even with all his strength, Kurloz has rarely hurt you, and always apologized afterwards.

You’ll be learning from the best.

Okay, well, technically, Horuss is the best, but if you have to listen to him wax lyrical about musclebeasts while he drinks daintily from his indigo and white patterned tea-set, you’ll say something disrespectful and end up thrown out of his hive.

At least someone will be able to run you through intermediate and advanced fighting techniques.

Even if he is a bit of a Faygo-swilling weirdo. You think all subjugglators are.

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anewalternia · 6 years

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@anewalternia

chlorinetrifluoride’s trigonometric triplets, sketched because I needed a quick break. Please read their fics! They’re really good!

[commission info||tarot readings||donatable stories]

[more art||my writing||life updates]

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anewalternia · 6 years

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Chapters: 7/14 Fandom: Homestuck Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Relationships: Grand Highblood & Neophyte Redglare, Neophyte Redglare/Original Character(s), Neophyte Redglare & The Signless | The Sufferer, The Psiioniic | The Helmsman & Neophyte Redglare, Darkleer/Grand Highblood Characters: Neophyte Redglare, Grand Highblood, The Dolorosa (Homestuck), The Psiioniic | The Helmsman, The Signless | The Sufferer, The Disciple (Homestuck), Original Troll Character(s) (Homestuck), Darkleer (Homestuck), The Condesce (Homestuck) Additional Tags: Ancestor-Era (Homestuck), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Sorta Divergent Anyway, Canon-Typical Violence, Tragedy/Comedy, okay mostly tragedy after a while, Existential Crisis, substance use, It’s Not Paranoia If They’re Really Out To Get You, Alternia is Terrible, A Blacker Shade Of Moiraillegiance Series: Part 1 of ipsa scientia potestas est Summary:

Your name is Latula Pyrope, although nearly every troll outside of your quadrants refers to you as Neophyte Redglare out of respect.

Presently, you are a legislacerator in training. You perform your duty and enforce the letter of the law to the best of your ability, all while trying to balance your studies with your relationships. However, you have always been analytical to a fault. You have always seen what most others either fail or choose not to, watching quietly, making silent observations and comparing them to your vague ideas of what justice is, so much so that sometimes even you close your eyes to what you believe to be just and legitimate. Keep your eyes open constantly, and they start to sting.

More often than you care to admit, you wonder if these traits of yours are assets or flaws.

And the time when you will have to choose between adhering to the law or to your sense of integrity is coming sooner than you think.

Chapter 7 is up! Chapter 8 to be out next week! We’re halfway there, although i think this fic may be 15-16 rather than 14 chapters!

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anewalternia · 6 years

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Title: when the evening is spread out against the sky

Rating: PG-13 Warnings: Telekinetic Sparring Relationships: Psiioniic/Fantroll, Psiioniic & Fantroll Characters: The Psiioniic (Mituna Captor), various fantrolls. Additional Tags: Ancestor-Era, Pre-Signless Word Count: 2599 Summary: The trolls you pick for your quads aren’t necessarily the ones who will make you grow the most as a troll. And sometimes, the opportunity for a kismesissitude presents with a strange serendipity of its own. Your name is Mituna Captor, a young upstart of a psion, from Sigma Block, like you, challenges you to a duel, you intend to wipe the floor with them, but that’s not quite what happens.

“Since you are six now, your classes will be split between four areas,” Instructor Asyeva says to Pinyix. “Intermediate telekinetic training, elementary instructor training, elementary helmsblock training, and intermediate schoolfeeding.”

She hands Pinyix their new schedule, and then leaves the nutritionblock. You have to admit that Pinyix looks handsome in their new black jumpsuit, the sort that all trolls wear when they are between the ages of six and ten sweeps of age.

“Nine hours on, fifteen hours off?” they ask, after scrutinizing ther schedule, looking around at all of you for guidance.

“You get off lucky now, Pinyix,” Velyor says from his spot, with his head resting against their shoulder. “Next sweep it’ll be twelve hours on and twelve hours off, for you. By the time you’re eight and a half, it’ll be fifteen hours on, and nine hours off.”

Pinyix nods.

“What’s Calculus?” they ask, looking over their schoolfeeding courses. “I mean, I know what it is, but what do you do there?”

“Calculus is basically an incentive to become a helmsman,” Arcsin says, devouring the unfertilized cluckbeast offspring and fried oinkbeast strips that Xhogar made. “Cause if you don’t end up in the helm, you’re probably gonna end up as an instructor, teaching that shit to wigglers. And it’s bad enough learning it the first time.”

“That is hardly the purpose of Calculus,” Arctan says. “You’ll need a grasp of it to understand the math you’re going to learn later on. Matrix Algebra and Differential Equations, and such.”

“I’m telling you, Calculus is a conspiracy to have as many of us practically beg for conscription as possible. It’s pure masochism.”

“If your thing for Arccos is any indication, you’re quite the expert on masochism,” you say to Arcsin, wiggling your eyebrows.

Arccos does not deign to respond to that, except to snort. Most everyone grins.

Meanwhile, Arcsin flushes bright yellow. You’d apologize for embarrassing him, but can’t not give your ‘rail shit about his burgeoning kismesissitude. It’s practically your job as a moirail.

When Jishui enters the nutritionblock, she looks surprised, and has a new schedule in her hand.

“Instructor training,” she says. “More instructor training.”

“Really? You?” Arccos asks, shocked.

“Advanced telekinetic training, advanced helmsblock training, and intermediate instructor training,” she says, digging an energy grub out of a drawer, and swallowing the entire thing whole, shell and all. “This until I hit twelve, which is when I get tested for conscription again. They wanted to test me again at eleven, but Irvaan and Asyeva overruled them.”

“So Irvaan does have a soul,” Xhogar muses. “Who knew?”

“He’s gotta take his head outta his wastechute every so often so he can come up for air,” Hiongo figures.

All of you laugh.

“So, Tuna,” Arcsin says, sitting down next to you. “What’s your schedule look like?”

“Intermediate instructor fuckshit, intermediate helmsblock fuckshit, advanced schoolfeeding, and advanced telekinetic fuckshit.”

You pass the sheet of paper over to him.

“The Mother has smiled upon us. Same fuckin’ classes,” he says. “Same for Tan, right?”

“Nah, I have helmsblock training with ‘Cos. Advanced,” he says, sounding slightly discomfited.

Only time they put you in advanced helm training at your age is when you’ll probably be up for conscription once you hit the age of ten. You really hope that is not the case for Arctan, because unlike Arccos, Arctan has shown no desire to become a helmsman.

Arcsin shrugs. “Whatever, though, we’re all in the same class for telekinesis. Least we get to fight each other, that’s always fun. Pinyix, you can watch and learn.”

“Yeah, watch you cry every time you get paired off to spar with Arccos, Mother of all grubs,” Jishui says.

Technically speaking, you’re not supposed to be able to spar with your kismesis or matesprit, lest the whole thing degenerate into makeouts. Hasn’t really stopped anyone yet.

As for Pinyix, well, they take all of you up on your offer, and watch you guys fight while instructors look on, assuming Pinyix doesn’t have other work to do.

Sparing is only a portion of what telekinetic training entails - most of it is really fucking boring - so you look forward to these nights. A lot of times, the fighting continues long after the instructors have ended things for the night, telekinetic training usually being your last class.

“Is it okay if I try to spar with any of you?” they ask.

You roll your two-toned eyes.

“This is advanced fuckshit, Pinyix, you probably haven’t learned some of these moves,” you say. “You sure you wanna get your ass handed to you?”

They’re maybe 125 cm, and can’t be any more than 34 kg, although size is no indicator of ability. Just look at Hiongo, Khifos, and Arccos. Pinyix you a smile as small as they are.

“We will see, Mituna.”

Velyor stands between the two of you, concerned.

“I think this is a bad idea.”

Pinyix waves their moirail off.

“You think everything’s a bad idea, Velyor. Come on. Please?”

After much back and forth between the two of them, Velyor allows this duel to continue, with the knowledge that he may or may not put your ass in the infirmary if you seriously injure Pinyix.

You get that he’s overprotective of his current, probably because of what happened to his last one, but this is mildly ridiculous. For the love of the Mother, Pinyix once shorted out nearly the entire fence, and that was like… four sweeps ago.

Once again, you roll your eyes. “I promise I won’t hurt the wiggler, swear on my jumpsuit. Can we get on with this so I can eat dinner?”

Etrare agrees to referee this. With her lower-level, but never erratic telekinesis, she fits this role perfectly. Velyor would too, if he weren’t experiencing a bad case of conflict of interest.

“Okay, nothing deadly, you two,” Etrare says. “And if I say stop, I mean stop. I’ll even get Arccos to stun you if I have to. First troll to hit the ground and not jump back up loses. If anyone loses consciousness, this match is automatically over.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” you say. “Were you a lusus in your last life?”

“Sometimes I wonder with all of you,” she replies.

You and Pinyix take your positions, hovering 300 cm off the ground, on opposite sides of the sparring enclosure, Etrare floating off to the side, shields already deployed..

“Three… two… one…” she says.

You start to charge up one of your attacks. That’s not against the rules.

“Begin.”

You aim a jet of energy straight for Pinyix’s abdomen. It reverberates off their shields and hits the wall about five inches away from you.

So they were charging your shields while you were charging an attack.

Go figure.

This could be potentially interesting.

Pinyix hits you with a low-energy attack, but one that trips you nevertheless. Oh. This will not do. You deploy shields, and your next attack is so intense that it sends their head rocking back when they absorb it. Somehow, they are still on their feet after that.

“Pinyix!” Velyor shouts.

“They’re fine,” Arctan says. “Look.”

Pinyix, one eyebrow raised, doesn’t drop out of their grief stance, or even seem to have broken a sweat.

You send a barrage of attacks after them, barely pausing to breathe. They dodge some, and absorb others. You don’t know why they’re absorbing some of them. You’ve seen their shields. They can maintain shields with more ease than you can.

At some point, this degenerates into an all out brawl, both of you looking somewhat worse for the wear. Shit, you’re getting tired. You weren’t expecting this to last this long. Judging from the looks on your friends’ faces, neither were they.

Pinyix’s size has actually been an advantage for most of this, enabling them to dodge nearly everything you throw at them. Nearly.

But still. They’re getting more sloppy with their ordinarily graceful footwork, you can see it. You think one more direct hit will knock them out of the running, but not knock them out outright if you can use the precise amount of energy you intend.

That’s even part of the reason instructors and elders encourage you to spar every now and then, although not typically without their supervision. It’s a good way to learn to maintain your psionic levels at precise intensities, and also as a means of bleeding off excess energy.

You let yourself drift closer to the ground, maybe 140ish cm up. At least if Pinyix falls, now, they won’t get too banged up. And Velyor would probably catch them.

Then, you charge and launch the hit.

Pinyix takes it, and doubles over, their shields flickering, everything about them flickering. They let out one long groan, and drop a full foot.

Oh, shit. Velyor is gonna kill your ass. So is everyone else. You deserved it. You wanted to them up, and you went too far.

“Pinyix?” you call. “Pinyix, c’mon. It’s over. You kicked my ass so let’s call it a draw. Don’t… don’t hurt yourself, now.”

They gaze up, their eyes glowing so brightly that it almost pains you to gaze at them for too long. With one hand, using only their fingertips, they form a violet ball of energy, and then you realize why they’d been absorbing so many of your hits.

They weren’t absorbing them unintentionally.

They were charging up.

They hurl the energy ball at you, ripping through your paltry shields, and sending your ass flying straight toward the ground at a terrifying velocity.

Just when you’re about to hit, and probably fracture something, you stop moving.

Pinyix inhales, and exhales sharply through their nose, as if they’re still exerting their power. You realize what’s going on.

You’re lying on one of their shields. They deployed a shield, just so it would take most of the force of your fall.

They lower you gently, and once you’re on the dirt floor, you sit flat on your ass, able to move, but not particularly inclined to do so. Then, your energy wavers, and you lie flat, staring up at the sky.

When they land, their footfalls barely making a sound, they walk over to to you.

They kneel, one knee on either side of you, some of their long hair tumbling into your face, the hair tie around their wrist now. You grimace at them. They give you a placid smile, although the darkness in their eyes says something else entirely.

“What was it you were saying about handing my ass to me?” they ask, before they help you up.

The worst part is, you actually do need their help to get up.

Mother of all grubs, you hate this tiny troll, and you’re not sure if it’s entirely platonic, which is probably not a good thing, considering that you already have a kismesis. And judging from how vehement Pinyix's expression has become, you’re kind of wondering if it’s entirely platonic on their end.

The two of you gaze around at your friends.

All of them look rather awestruck, well, except Etrare, Velyor, and Arctan. It’s immeasurably difficult to surprise any of them.

“Rock paper scissors on who has to play auspistice,” Arcsin mutters, then.

Etrare elbows him in the side. Velyor just shakes his head.

“Well, um…” he starts out. “That happened.”

None of you really says much of anything on it until you get to the communal nutritionblock, intent on eating whatever magical shit Xhogar and Hiongo have whipped up from their last foray over the fence.

“Long as they don’t start making out in the nutritionblock, I don’t give a shit,” Xhogar says, in a low tone. "Velyor, you're their moirail. I think it's probably time you give them the talk about the drones and the pails, later."

"I don't understand," Pinyix says. "What are all of you going on about?"

"Uh..." Hiongo starts out. "So that wasn't pitchflirting, then?"

Pinyix does not answer. Hiongo snorts.

"Bad form to get your pitch flirt on with a troll already spoken for in that quadrant," Zesria says fairly.

"It wasn't really pitchflirting at first, but Mituna's such an asshole when he wants to be.”

Mianni, your actual kismesis, bursts out laughing at that.

"Be still, my bloodpusher. He’s always an asshole for the record. Still, though, if you have a black crush on him, I don't particularly mind. Tuna? What do you think?"

You have been shoveling diced tubers and spiced grubloaf into your mouth for the longest time.

"What do I think about what?"

"About Pinyix, obviously."

You consider it. You are absolutely not about to say what you actually think out loud.

"I think I'm never letting them challenge me to a duel again."

"Tuna, you know that's not what she meant."

"Pin's six, and I'm seven and a half. And I have a kismesis. End of story."

For the first time tonight, Pinyix looks a little upset. Hiongo rolls his eyes. Arccos smacks you in the shoulder, and holy hell does it sting.

"So you felt nothing at the end of that fight. Just trying to clarify here, because it definitely looked like you felt something."

"Even if I felt something, I have a kismesis. It's just... not gonna happen. It shouldn't happen."

"There's a difference between 'not gonna happen' and 'shouldn't happen', Tuna," Hiongo says. "Sides, Mianni here doesn't give a shit, right?"

"Not particularly."

Pinyix gets up, declares that they don't want to listen to any more of this - they've been embarassed enough for one evening - and makes to leave the nutritionblock until Khifos stops them at the door.

"Trust me, it'll just get way more embarassing if you don't sort things out now."

"If you say so. Hey, you guys aren't making fun of me, are you?"

"Nah," Arcsin says. "It's way more fun to make fun of Mituna."

Pinyix sits back down at the nutrition platform, across from you, but they're nervous.

And the thing about Pinyix? They're not an unattractive troll, even if they're tiny. They have thin but long horns that scribe their small frame in a great arc, a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, at least when it's not getting on your nerves.

"Pretty good at pitchflirting, you know that?" you say to them. "You scared me shitless, and then you helped me up. That has got to be... one of the blackest things I've seen here."

That gets the hint of a smile out of them. Jishui nudges Pinyix with her elbow until they start to speak.

"Yeah, um, you too. That you wanted a fight, but whenever you were scared I was actually hurt, you'd either lower yourself so I'd lower myself, or you'd start sending off attacks you knew wouldn't affect me much, or you'd just flat out offer to call it a draw when you thought I went too far. It's um... it's nice to see that you care? Wish you'd care that much about yourself, though."

"Don't we all?" Jishui says.

All of a sudden, there are too many trolls here, with your and Pinyix's declarations hanging in the air.

"Wanna go for a walk? After you're finished eating?" you ask Pinyix.

"Sure, Mituna," they reply, smiling again. "I'm game. Etrare, do you want to come with us?"

"Whatever for?"

"Just in case."

Etrare snorts. "Are you asking me to play auspistice here?"

They look faintly sheepish. "Maybe."

She sighs, mutters something about how someone has to do it, so it might as well be her, and follows the two of you out of the nutritionblock.

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anewalternia · 6 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Homestuck Rating: Mature Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: The Dolorosa & Orphaner Dualscar, The Disciple/The Signless | The Sufferer, The Dolorosa/Orphaner Dualscar, The Dolorosa/Spinneret Mindfang Characters: Orphaner Dualscar, The Dolorosa (Homestuck), The Signless | The Sufferer, The Psiioniic | The Helmsman, The Disciple (Homestuck), Original Troll Character(s) (Homestuck) Additional Tags: Ancestor-Era (Homestuck), One-Sided Attraction, Partially One-Sided Anyway, one-sided doloscar, the noncon is in reference to dolofang Series: Part 3 of and will she remember me fifty years later? i wished i could save her in some sort of time machine Summary:

Before the First Ship becomes operational, The Dolorosa, The Signless, The Psiioniic, and the Disciple find their own ways to hide overseas. With the aid of one Orphaner Dualscar, they manage to keep themselves concealed for a while. Dualscar is old enough to remember the empress before the current one, and is not particularly fond of the Condesce's autocracy. So he takes in these few fugitive trolls, who offer to pay him in stolen gold and hard work, a promise they make good on.

Idly, he wonders what his kismesis, Mindfang, might think of his actions. A soft heart is a weak heart. And unfortunately there is something about one of these runaways that weakens him. The more he speaks with the auxiliatrix, the more time he spends with her, the more he wonders about her quadrants. Although she never ends up as one of his quadrantmates, he still considers her a friend.

Even after she, the Signless, and their companions abscond on the First Ship. Even after they meet their inevitable demises. He does not forget her. And ultimately, he assists the jadeblood when she needs help the most.

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anewalternia · 6 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Homestuck Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Grand Highblood & Neophyte Redglare, Mituna Captor/Latula Pyrope, Porrim Maryam & Latula Pyrope Characters: Neophyte Redglare, Latula Pyrope, Grand Highblood, Mituna Captor, Porrim Maryam, Pyralspite (Homestuck) Additional Tags: Beforus, Alternian Empire, SGRUB Series: Part 2 of ipsa scientia potestas est Summary:

The thing about a troll caegar is that no matter how you flip it, it lands on the same face. Two identical faces. Two different sides. Sort of like the divergences between Alternia and Beforus, and diverging choices of the otherwise identical tealblood women inhabiting each universe.

(a small character study)

#if i had a heart i would love you

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anewalternia · 6 years

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more sigma block stuff, although this was written in mid/late-november and i just got around to reblogging this here now

mind the warnings

more young psii and his friends @psychopyro813 why do you encourage my bad ideas maybe i’ll write something happy for sigma block after this

@tatterdemalionamberite you’ll probably like this too kinda borrowed the idea of skewing down one’s psionic rating to avoid conscription from you anyway

word count: 7152 rating: hard T fandom: homestuck characters: The Psiioniic, and more fantrolls than can be easily counted era: ancestor-era, pre-signless. warnings: suicidal ideation, referenced suicide attempts, lack/loss of bodily autonomy, substance use, forced medication, misgendering, and body horror. this is not a cheerful story. summary: Your are Mituna Captor, and you are seven sweeps of age. The troll you look up to the most has finally been conscripted to become a helmsman. You doing your best not to get as angry as you want to be, because if you got as angry as you wanted to be, you’d blow all the lights in the building. Your friends are about as happy as you are, all varying degrees of sullen, angry, and depressed. None of them say that they’re all sitting here in the hallway not just so they can spend some time with Alhena before the drones come for him, but also so they can keep an eye on each other. Nobody has to say it. It goes without saying. So here all of you are.

Keep reading

#sigma block

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anewalternia · 6 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Homestuck Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: The Dolorosa/The Psiioniic | The Helmsman Characters: The Psiioniic | The Helmsman, The Dolorosa (Homestuck), The Signless | The Sufferer, The Disciple (Homestuck) Additional Tags: Ancestor-Era (Homestuck), Young Ancestors (Homestuck), Mental Instability, Suicidal Thoughts/Ideation Series: Part 1 of and will she remember me fifty years later? i wished i could save her in some sort of time machine Summary:

Your name is Mituna Captor, runaway helmsman, currently in self-imposed exile, and watching some stupid wiggler preaching hemoequality to anyone who will listen. You’ve also been trying to ignore your flushcrush on his jadeblooded companion for the last sweep in a half.

However, sometimes, shit just… happens. You’re not too upset about the results all things considered. You’re contemptible, and she’s stunningly beautiful, but she seems fond of you even so.

Cross-posting this from my AO3 since is also part of my ancestor AU

Mind the warnings, particularly the bolded ones, please?

#and will she remember me fifty years later

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anewalternia · 6 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Homestuck Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: The Dolorosa/Original Character, The Dolorosa/The Psiioniic | The Helmsman, The Dolorosa/Spinneret Mindfang, The Dolorosa & Orphaner Dualscar, The Dolorosa & The Signless | The Sufferer Characters: The Dolorosa (Homestuck), Original Troll Character(s) (Homestuck), The Psiioniic | The Helmsman, The Signless | The Sufferer, The Disciple (Homestuck), Spinneret Mindfang, Orphaner Dualscar Additional Tags: Mind Control, Dissociation, Suicidal Thoughts, Self-Harm, Mental Instability, Mental Breakdown, Blood, Derealization, Depersonalization, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Depression, Euthanasia, Ancestor-Era (Homestuck), I swear to fuck half of these warnings have to do with dolofang Series: Part 2 of and will she remember me fifty years later? i wished i could save her in some sort of time machine Summary:

The thing about dying is that your life is supposed to flash before your eyes before you expire. But you have been dying slowly for so many sweeps - Kankri is dead, Mituna is worse than dead, Meulin is gone, and you are a slave to a highblood. You spend every day catering to her every whim, and following her instructions to the letter, even the instructions you’d prefer not to contemplate. Sometimes, when you need a break, you retreat into a world of memory, a world where you were less weary and hopeless, and pretend that that this existence is dynamic, as opposed to a static set of recollections. Your name is Porrim Maryam, and you have been waiting to die for a long time.

I’ve put this on tumblr, but I never cross-posted it to my ancestor AU tumblr.

Do mind the warnings, please?

#and will she remember me fifty years later

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anewalternia · 6 years

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Chapters: 6/14 Fandom: Homestuck Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Relationships: Grand Highblood & Neophyte Redglare, Neophyte Redglare/Original Character(s), Neophyte Redglare & The Signless | The Sufferer, The Psiioniic | The Helmsman & Neophyte Redglare, Darkleer/Grand Highblood Characters: Neophyte Redglare, Grand Highblood, The Dolorosa (Homestuck), The Psiioniic | The Helmsman, The Signless | The Sufferer, The Disciple (Homestuck), Original Troll Character(s) (Homestuck), Darkleer (Homestuck), The Condesce (Homestuck) Additional Tags: Ancestor-Era (Homestuck), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Sorta Divergent Anyway, Canon-Typical Violence, Tragedy/Comedy, okay mostly tragedy after a while, Existential Crisis, substance use, It’s Not Paranoia If They’re Really Out To Get You, Alternia is Terrible, A Blacker Shade Of Moiraillegiance Series: Part 1 of ipsa scientia potestas est Summary:

Your name is Latula Pyrope, although nearly every troll outside of your quadrants refers to you as Neophyte Redglare out of respect.

More often than you care to admit, you wonder if these traits of yours are assets or flaws.

And the time when you will have to choose between adhering to the law or to your sense of integrity is coming sooner than you think.

Chapter 6 is up, if somewhat later than I’d intended!

if you haven’t read the whole story, you can start here

also, there’s another fic in my ancestor-era alternia AU that might clarify a few things, but there are no real spoilers for the story itself

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anewalternia · 6 years

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“Avenge is not the same as revenge.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?”

“Eh, I think there is a difference, right?”

“I don’t know, they seem pretty much the same to me.”

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anewalternia · 6 years

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so strange it was to see him look so wistfully at the day (part 1)

Word Count: 3230 Rating: PG-13 Warnings: disease, slavery, captivity. Characters: young psiioniic and one million fantrolls Pairings: n/a Summary: Your name is Mituna Captor, and you are not fond of licorice. You’re three and a half sweeps old when a plague descends upon the psion compound, and changes everything you know.

It all starts out when a five sweeps old troll starts coughing her head off.

She says the cough is nothing, apparently a bitchy rustblood kicked dirt into her face on her way back from Octagon Plaza, and she’s been coughing ever since.

Naturally she’s been second-warned for leaving the compound, which means confinement to quarters for two weeks and reduced rations. Trolls from her clade sneak her extra rations and sweets, and the instructors pretty much turn a blind eye to this. She must be powerful if she can just leave like that, and come back without being noticed, all at the age of five. She’s too promising to punish much.

And it’s not like any of you would have dropped a dime on her even if she hadn’t been caught. She’s brought a sack of peppermints back for the younger wigglers. There must be like a million in the sack.

She leaves the sack in the hallway. Even some of the 6+ sweeps sneak down from the second floor to grab a peppermint or two, and exchange greetings with her.

“As long as I don’t step over the edge of this doorway, I can talk to you guys,” Alzirr says. “How’s training?”

“Hard,” a six sweeps old troll answers. He notices you noticing him, comes over, and ruffles your hair. “How you doin’ tonight, Tuna? Kill anyone good lately?”

“No, Alhena,” you say solemnly.

The older trolls like you, because you accidentally zapped Instructor Irvaan with enough energy to knock him unconscious. And since it was a total accident, and you’re still too young to do things with much malice, he couldn’t even get mad and warn you over it.

Besides, warnings are a little bit of a joke in Psi Block, also known as the End of The Line.

All of you have scored Stupidly High - that’s an official designation, right? - at or above 97 percent on the exams of psionic prowess. Therefore all of you are potential Helmsmen to the Battleship Condescension or other powerful ships in the Imperial Fleet, except for the trolls over twelve who live here, who are on their way to become Instructors and Elders. You’re on the fast track to something prestigious, in other words.

Sometimes, your kinder instructors even give you sweets on your off day. So you arguably receive the most leniency of any other block, even if it’ll disappear once you hit the age of six.

Then, four sweeps of rigorous training. Once that’s through, the best of you leave the compound right after that. Two male trolls. Two female trolls. Conscripts, all of them. One day you will be so lucky. You hope.

Your name is Mituna Captor, you are three and a half sweeps old, and you are not very fond of licorice. You share your room with several other trolls, all of whom are between 3.0 and 3.9 sweeps of age. Your room is the second youngest in the compound, with the 2.0 to 2.9s next door being the absolute youngest. You are so glad you’re out of that room.

You’re in a room with trolls who know how to not piss in their recuperacoons. Mostly.

Alhena, the upperclassman troll who engaged you in conversation, sits down in front of you and asks if you want to play cards You like Alhena, possibly almost as much as you like Alzirr. He checks up on you. Him and Velyor, although Velyor’s younger than him.

Velyor’s five sweeps old, and he’s her moirail, so he’s probably trying to bring the entire fucking cafeteria downstairs to her. He’s strong enough that he probably could.

You learned that word a sweep ago. Fuck. It’s a good word to have in one’s vocabulary, or so Jishui Avehoa says.

Alzirr calls Velyor and Alhena glorified surrogate lusii as she stands in the doorway to the 5 room.

“Like you’re not a contender. You stole a sack of peppermints from some poor confectionary vendor probably running the shop out of his basement. And I know you didn’t steal ‘em for the trolls upstairs,” Alhena points out.

“You got me there,” she replies.

When you go outside, wigglers from other the blocks call the wigglers from your block jerkasses, spoiled fucks, and a few other interesting things.

Everyone from Psi is kind of used to it, though. You don’t rise to the bait.

So trolls outside Psi continue talking their usual shit, until a few of you start hurling peppermints over the short fence that separates your blocks. At first, they think this is an attack.

Standing beside you, Jishui and Zesria laugh their asses off.

Then the intelligent ones realize you’re trying to share, while the dumb ones run back inside and don’t get any peppermints.

You levitate several peppermints over to your friends in Chi Block. That’s the block for trolls scoring between 90 and 96.9 percent on the exams.

Arcsin and Arctan grab them out of the air, eat the candy, and then pelt each other with the cellophane.

Arccos grabs a handful and dares anyone who wants to try to take them from her. Nobody takes her up on this challenge. Most of the Chi wigglers get so quiet that you could hear a cricket fart in the ensuing silence.

Meanwhile, Jishui and Zesria are laughing so hard that they’ve stopped producing sound.

More than a few threes from Chi Block think Arccos should be on your side of the fence.

“We don’t want her, you can have her,” Arcsin tells you frankly, after he attempts to steal one of her peppermints and gets his ass handed to him, his hair crackling from static discharge.

She then zaps him, for good measure.

You stand there and try your level best not to laugh, while Arcsin calls her… every swear word in existence, and Arctan tries to intervene.

Poor Arctan. He deserves better.

Later, in the morning, you try to sleep easy, with a few peppermints on your side of the recuperacoon.

You’ll share these with one other troll. He’s pretty chill. Dienre is calmer than you are, generally. He’s papped you before, and zapped you a few times too. You do the same to him when he freaks out, which doesn’t happen all that often.

“Want any peppermints?” you ask him, once you get into your recuperacoon. He’s already asleep.

He would be. Screw him.

You only sleep for three or four hours. You can’t seem to get comfortable for some reason.

You get out of your recuperacoon, unlock your door - it’s way too easy - and walk out into the hallway.

You see a pair of eyes glowing violet near the floor about a foot away from the room for 2 sweeps olds. Pinyix, you think.

They didn’t sleep well either. They never have. They have to be the second youngest troll in Psi block, but still. You’d mastered sleep by then. You don’t know why they haven’t.

In fact, you were a veritable master of sleeping. An older wiggler had to forcibly drag you out of your recuperacoon every night for breakfast.

You hear a voice that doesn’t belong to Pinyix, though. Only one troll sounds like that.

“… and that’s why you have to calm down. It was just a dream,” Velyor says.

“But it wasn’t only a dream,” Pinyix insists. “I saw.”

“You had too much candy.”

“I saw, Velyor.”

Pinyix could not get any fucking creepier if they tried. Yeah, they saw. Any troll with eyeballs who hasn’t stared at the sun can probably see.

“Well, what did you see?” Velyor asks.

“Auxiliatrices.” Pinyix doesn’t speak for a while. “Other things.”

“Auxiliatrices? Big word for a two. Where did you learn it?”

“I saw,” Pinyix repeats.

“What did you see?” he asks a second time, his tone growing exasperated.

“You’ll see too, Velyor. We live.”

Pinyix’s eyes cease to glow.

Velyor notices you noticing him and walks over to you.

“Can’t sleep either?”

“Nope.”

“We didn’t wake you, did we?”

“Nope.” You think for a bit. “I haven’t slept this shitty since the week ‘fore the fucking fire.”

“You sure got a filthy mouth on you for a three,” Velyor says. He thinks. “But hm. You might be right. I didn’t sleep right that week either.”

A wildfire decimated parts of Omega and Epsilon Block a sweep ago.

Alhena raged about it for ages afterwards. He’s a prescient, so he saw it coming in dreams, but no one listened. Why the fuck are all so many buildings made mostly of wood products? he wanted to know. This isn’t the fucking Dark Ages.

Decimated. That’s another word you learned fairly recently. To kill by one tenth. It was probably closer to two in every ten, though.

You think.

“Hall inspections!” A troll yells into the mostly darkened hallway. “Any wigglers with insomnia, go back to your rooms!”

“Fuck you, Alhena!” Velyor calls back.

“Velyor? That you?”

“No, it’s Asyeva. Here to cite you ‘cause your tunic doesn’t cover your ass anymore.”

“Real funny, Velyor. I should give you detention.”

“You wish you could give me detention.”

“I pity the troll who has to give you detention.”

“Wanna pail ‘em?” Velyor asks.

“Not that kind of pity, you pan-rotted dipshit. It’s the kind of pity where you’re like ‘I feel bad for what you’re going through, but I wouldn’t switch places with you for ten billion caegars.’”

“I think that’s what Alzirr feels when she looks at anyone in your quads.”

You wish Zesria and Dienre were up. They would be entertained. You certainly are.

“Velyor, I’ll pay that wiggler in the 3 room,” he starts out. “I’ll pay Mituna twenty peppermints to electrocute you in your sleep.”

“Thirty,” you say. “Take it or leave it.”

Velyor looks down at you.

“Traitor,” he says.

“Thirty,” Alhena agrees.

Pinyix giggles.

“Okay,” Alhena says, switching on the flashlight he’s been given. Apparently he really is in charge of hall patrol today. “How many fucking wigglers are in here?”

“Me,” you say. “And Pinyix. Velyor’s five, though. He’s an adult.”

“Oh yeah, he’s such an adult,” Alhena says. “If anything, I’m the adult. I have the flashlight. I hate being a hall monitor.”

“So why are you doing it?” Velyor asks.

“Because my name came up on the roster. What is this even preparation for? I know I’ll never be an instructor. When will I ever need this experience in the helmsblock?”

“What if someone invades your ship?” Velyor asks. “You gotta know how to detect intruders.”

“The point of me being the helmsman of a ship is that all potential invaders are already gonna be too dead to board me.”

You and Pinyix snort.

“You sound even more pissy than usual,” Alzirr says from her doorway. “And yes, before any of you ask, yes you did wake me up.”

“Call it a slumber party,” Alhena says. “I just had to patrol the wiggler floors of Chi and Phi block. Do you know how many of them are sitting in the hallways?”

“More than there are supposed to be?” Velyor says.

“I almost tripped over the trigonometric triplets. They were in the hallway, right outside the four sweeps room in Chi Block, lying on the floor playing Fiduspawn. They said they couldn’t sleep. Everyone’s got insomnia.”

He looks fleetingly unsettled, then goes back to grumbling.

“Good for them,” Velyor says. “When you do patrol there again, confiscate Arctan’s Fiduspawn cards.”

“Which one is Arctan and why am I confiscating his cards?”

“He’s the one with the stupid hair, and he stole ten of my cards last time I snuck him over here.”

“So duel him and reclaim what’s yours. I’m not getting lectured for abusing my power.”

“Your power consists of a flashlight, and I’m not dueling a four from a lesser block. What if I cull him by accident?”

“Your problem, not mine,” Alhena replies.

At that moment, Alzirr slides to a sitting position on the floor, holding her head in one hand. She groans.

Alhena steps over to her, concerned.

“Alzirr? You don’t look so hot.”

“Yeah, don’t I know it? I’m freezing my ass off,” she replies.

Pinyix’s eyes begin to glow again. You shove them. You hate when they do that.

“Hey!” Alhena says. “Don’t shove the underclassmen!”

“But Pinyix is creepy,” you protest.

“Pin’s a prescient. They’re not creepy. I’m a prescient, too.” Alhena kneels down in front of them. “What’s going on in that thinkpan of yours? What are you seeing?”

“Alzirr,” Pinyix says.

“What about Alzirr?”

Pinyix shakes their head repeatedly. and refuses to answer.

“Come on. I won’t tell any of the instructors, I promise,” Alhena says. “But if it’s bad, we gotta know. What happens? Does she get in trouble for the peppermints or something?

They put their index fingers on Alhena’s temples and stare at him for a while.

Everything’s quiet.

Then his flashlight sputters, but doesn’t go out.

It’s pretty fucking dark in this hallway with the sun shades pulled, but you can still tell he’s gone like five shades lighter.

“Can’t stop this,” Pinyix says, their eyes returning to normal. “I saw.”

Alhena backs away from Pinyix, looking shocked, and afraid.

He picks them up, and balances them on his hip.

“Let’s go back to your room, Pin. You’ve definitely had too much candy.”

All respect to Alhena, but while Pinyix must have eaten like sixty peppermints - how even? that’s like half their mass - you don’t think it’s the candy anymore.

They protest this, but Alhena’s big for a six and Pinyix is small for a two. You’re pretty sure he’s just gonna throw them back into their recuperacoon anyway.

“I don’t think Alhena liked what he saw,” you say.

Velyor curses loudly.

“What?” you ask.

“Tuna, don’t tell me you’re getting all prescient on me too. I don’t wanna know when I’m gonna die, for fuck’s sake,” he says. “Once, Alhena said I was gonna be in a revolt, so maybe those see forward trolls don’t actually know what they’re talking about.”

“A revolt?”

“Yeah. Like an uprising?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why would you do that?”

“Fuck if I know. Maybe for more sauce on my grubloaf.”

That, admittedly, is a pretty good reason.

Then, Alhena comes out of the two room, his expression inscrutable.

“Back to your rooms,” he says to you and Velyor in monotone. “Now.”

“Oh, come the fuck on, Alhena, it’s almost evening anyway.”

“Go back to your rooms,” he repeats.

Velyor flips him off.

“Are you capable of not busting my globes?”

“Go back to your room and I won’t have to.” Alhena puts a concerned hand over his mouth, but you two can hear what he’s about say then. “Oh fuck. I gotta find someone.”

If Alhena’s cursing like that, it’s gotta be serious

“Like who?” Velyor asks, from his spot in the 5 room doorway now.

“An adult! Instructor Asyeva, maybe!”

“I thought you were an adult,” Velyor says. “Six with a flashlight. Monitor of the halls. Can’t be anything but an adult, right?”

“A real one, I mean!” When Velyor tries to help Alzirr to her feet, Alhena zaps him. “Don’t touch her, okay? I’ll explain later. Alzirr?”

“Yeah?” she murmurs.

“I’m going to get you some help.”

Before he leaves this level altogether, he calls on Velyor again.

“And Velyor?”

“What now.”

“Keep an eye on the two sweeps. Especially Pinyix.”

“Yes, Glorious Leader. Are you gonna ever explain anything to me?”

“Just do what I say. You’ll find out later.”

Velyor gives him a mock salute. “Yes, officer.”

Once he leaves, Velyor calls into the hallway, “And that, friends, is why I fucking hate prescient trolls.”

Then, he helps Alzirr to her feet.

She tries to thank him, but ends up vomiting on his tunic.

“Alzirr, what even!” he wants to know. “The fuck?”

“I didn’t–” She pauses so she can retch again, but this time, away from him. “I didn’t mean to do that, Velyor, honest.”

He makes a diamond gesture at her with his index and middle fingers.

And you know you’re not strictly allowed in the five room, but you want to help Velyor. And you still have a bunch of wadded up napkins from the cafeteria in the pocket of your tunic. You hand them to him.

“Thanks, Tuna.” He turns to face Alzirr again. “And, it’s alright, Alzirr. Forgiven. Let me get you back into your recuperacoon.”

“I feel sick.”

“Yeah, no shit. Did you steal soporifics or something while you were out?”

Alzirr rolls her eyes. “No. You think that low of me? That I’d steal soporifics and not share?”

“I would never suggest anything like that.”

Seventy-two hours later, Psi Block is on lockdown, and Alzirr has been gone for the last sixty-ish of those hours.

One hundred and something trolls have taken ill between Phi, Chi, and Psi Blocks, at least according to your math.

Arcsin gave you the numbers from Chi Block, Khifos gave you the numbers from Phi block, you have the numbers from Psi block, and you added them all together.

You three have been hanging signs out the window to communicate with each other.

Drones remove the recuperacoons in your rooms and replace them with small single-troll cots in the rooms, the hallways, the communal nutritionblocks, and anywhere they can jam one.

One troll to a cot. Name of the troll written on cardboard square and hung on the foot of the cot. No exceptions. Anyone found lying in a cot with another troll, regardless of quadrant affiliation, is subject to second-warning status and summary culling for a subsequent transgression.

Culling? They can’t possibly execute anyone in Psi Block. You’re all too important.

Additionally, at the start of morning, the drones will inject into your arm a small volume of sopor with single-use syringes. This will put you to sleep for eight hours.

Irvaan reads these regulations in the wiggler hallway. Most of you understand what he’s saying, but don’t quite understand why he’s saying it.

“Where’s Alzirr?” Velyor yells after Irvaan, once he’s done.

“The infirmary,” Irvaan answers.

“Pinyix!” Velyor calls. Pinyix pokes their head out of their cot. “Where’s Alzirr?”

They shake their head.

“Will you answer yes or no questions?” Velyor asks.

They nod.

“Is Alzirr in the infirmary?”

They nod.

Velyor looks like he wants to ask another question.

“Never mind. I don’t want to know,” he finally says.

The sack of peppermints is put into a large bag, dragged into the flogging square, and burned, the acrid, cloying smell of scorched sugar lingering in the air.

The next night, while you’re playing cards with Kolnai, you hear the metal door to Psi Block open. Irvaan leaves.

Just as well ‘cause you figure, based on the static in the air, that a few trolls are thinking of taking him on the way you did. Except you did it by accident.

“Good evening, ladies,” he says to whoever’s downstairs, leading them into the building. Hold on. Ladies?

“Ladies?” Velyor asks. He shouts, “Anyone got a cot near the window and can tell me what the fuck?”

“Auxiliatrices,” Pinyix says.

“Aren’t you helpful?” Velyor asks them. “Can you tell me when Mituna’s going to die or something? He’s got fifty peppermints under his cot.”

“Why’s it gotta be me, you bulgemunch?” you ask.

“Cause you’re the only troll who thought to stockpile peppermints.”

“He’s not,” Pinyix says, looking rattled nonetheless, as they gaze at you.

“Fucking awesome,” you say. “Pin says I’m not gonna die.”

“That’s practically a clean bill of health,” Zesria says to you from the cot across from yours.

The auxiliatrices stand at the start of the young wiggler corridor, in almost identical formal dress, with identical-looking haircuts.

Their faces have slightly different features, though, at least you think they do under the face masks. And their horns are all different.

But they all seem identically afraid of you, except for the first one into the hallway proper, who rips her mask off, and starts to examine the oldest of the five sweeps.

“I don’t know if that’s advisable, Elder–” Irvaan starts.

“Onzozo,” she says. And then, with a heavy accent, she declares, “I’ve seen this before. It can’t spread to jadebloods.”

“I wish I had your certainty,” he says. “Security measures being what they are–”

She gives him a glare so stern that he actually shuts up.

That has got to be the greatest thing you’ve seen all sweep.

“I like her already,” Velyor says. “Wonder if she’s got a matesprit.”

“Probably not interested in you either way,” Zesria says.

“Why are auxiliatrices here, though?” you want to know. “They don’t even use our language most of the time.”

“Cause exiled ones assist medicullers,” Kolnai says. “They learn shit about troll anatomy in the caverns. Way more useful than knowing how to call you a dumbass. Even if someone should.”

You spark.

“Nobody asked you,” you reply.

Velyor rolls his eyes and yells for an auxiliatrix, until he gets the attention of two.

“Ma’am? Can any of you understand Common Alternian well?”

“Yes,” the younger, more terrified one says, trembling all the while. “I can.”

Velyor points to you and Kolnai.

“Well, these two idiots need to be examined.”

“Fuck you!” you and he yell at Velyor in unison.

The auxiliatrix stumbles over and deposits a thermometer underneath your tongue with shaky hands. Since you can’t swear until she’s done taking your temperature, you flip Velyor the double bird. That’ll have to work for now.

“Least she didn’t put the thermometer up your wastechute,” Zesria says.

You hate all these trolls sometimes.

#sigma block

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