Chapter Text

(Pre-retcon timeline, in the middle of the Gamrezi disaster)

Everything had first disappeared in a flash of light. A depressing answer to your shakily spoken “yes” at Aranea’s second time she asked if you wanted your eyes healed. But that was when the true horror had begun. A mere second after you had been plunged into total, all senses barring darkness, a swirl of purple had hit you. Gamzee had seen the yellow eyes, and laughed. Just laughed, and that was worse than the punches he dealt to you and the violent, biting kisses he forced on you. Now, you are huddled against the wall of a bend in one of the pipes. You're not even wearing pants. There’s a grate next to you, ugly iron bars, rough to all of your senses. It leads to god-knows-where. You don’t have the strength or the will to look at what room lies behind it. You know he’ll return soon. Somewhere in this mess of pipes and shafts, he has found an alchemiter in a room that’s not invaded with other people. It’s most likely in the abandoned labs, no one ever comes there. Except you two. And you know all too well how glass of the cloning tubes, shattering under your weight, feels. You know how hard the walls are to your head, but his fists are always harder. You know how his mind intruding yours feels, unlike Vriska, he actually gets a grip on it with his chucklevoodoos. And you know now how disgustingly purple his fake god-tier outfit looks. He’s returning, his footsteps too loud and too close in the shaft. Your reflexes have become sluggish from all the lying around in a half-unconscious, fago-induced state. He flips you over on his lap, that atrocious codpiece pricking in your back. You lash out, but miss his face and only hit his fake wings. Of the entire outfit, they are easily the fakest. They’re rough and made out of fabric, unlike real god-tier wings. You know that from the one time you touched Vriska’s. That small thought is enough to make you almost tear up. But you swallow your tears , he’d only laugh harder if he saw them. He retrieves something from his sylladex. You don’t need your eyes to know what it is. Punching his shoulder, you try to muster up all the hate you have to somehow make him drop the bottle. But no sooner does your fist land, or he grabs it, pulls it down so you sort of embrace his waist and you hear the hissing sound of bubbles, escaping with a tinge of scent. It’s cherry. The first bottle is almost always cherry. You’re trapped, one arm around his waist, the other stuck between your body and his legs. Opening your mouth to yell and curse at him, the only words you can say are: ‘Filthy clown! I’ll-’

Then he chugs a good amount of faygo down your throat. You choke and spit half of it out, the bottle to your lips making sure that it sprays everywhere. But the biggest amount you can get down. It feels too good. The sweetness is overwhelming, and you barely taste the dreadful artificial cherry flavor. In the beginning, you used to like a lot of the flavors. They reminded you of your friends, the connections you’d made between flavors and people over the years. Sometimes, they even tasted like the drawings you had made in your hive. Now there was only sugar and liquid. Gamzee is drinking too. You worm your arm out from underneath you and scrape your nails along his throat. Purple faygo and a little purple blood color well together. Your nails are sharper than in the past. But you never tend to them anymore, and he hates it if you tear up his purple robes. In return, you hate the way he always gets the better of you. Or how he’s taller and can pin you down so easily. You despise the intoxicating smell of his facepaint, or the dreary smeared-out look it has now. You hate how he makes you whine and give in to his caliginous kisses and how he’s always way too close to you. You try to remind yourself that this isn’t how a healthy black romance is supposed to go, and you forget it when he makes you drink another bottle of sweet, treacherous soda. Lost in your thoughts for a second, the Bard sees you’re weak and slings you off his lap. You land hard on your stomach and make a feeble attempt at getting up. A foot, clad in an ugly pointed shoe, lands in your ribs. That’ll be another bruise, you know. He lifts you off and throws you with all of his crazy, rage-induced strength. The grey of the pipe zips by. Your bare legs are scratched open by the rough walls. You know what’s coming and just manage to pull up your legs. Curling into a little ball, you await his fury. A rush of blood in your ears almost makes you release your knees, and a terrifying image is pulled from the corners of your mind. The subjuggulator’s powers are making you see Vriska, impaled by your own blade. You tear it out, making a sloshing sound as it leaves her body. The pain snaps you out of it, you feel a bit of blood trickling down your chin. His filthy lips on yours only stay there for a second, before he travels down to your shoulder and bites hard. A cry sounding from your mouth is muffled by another glug of faygo being poured down your throat. Grape, the one you hate the most. You frantically shake your head, only to almost choke on the soda. After forcing yourself to swallow, you hear him throw the bottle away. It’s empty, you had to drink all of it. He homes in on you, and hits, kicks and scratches. After a full minute of his fury, you somehow hit your head way too hard against the wall and suddenly black out.

When your eyes flick open, the first thing you sense is light. Bright light. You want to curl up again and shield your sensitive eyes, but your hands are sore and bloodied. Panicking, you thrash around and frantically try to somehow stop all of your senses from making your brain hurt. Then an arm reaches over you. From the grip, strong but gentle, you know it’s not Gamzee. A hand is pressed against your face, over your eyes. The one-second thought of the person being Vriska immediately fades. It’s a glove that covers your eyes. A leather glove. Now you can smell properly again. You smell… red. Cherries! you think. It’s cherries, you dumb idiot!

An arm slides under your painful back, you whimper. Whoever is doing that lifts you effortlessly off the ground. You smell yourself. No, that’s teal. No! That’s… some kind of berry? The word you’d connected to the smell of your own color has faded from your memory. But this does smell different than you. More mature, with a sense of authority. There’s still a glove over your face, and an arm is under your knees. The other arm cradles your sore back, while keeping the hand over your eyes at the same time. You hear water. You smell salt. The sea, you realize. You’re in a dreambubble with sea. You’re put down, but not on sand, as you thought. It’s grass that’s soft against your body.

‘I’ll remove my hand now, don’t be scared.’

The hand is indeed moved. It now hangs in the air between you and the other person. You see her dreadfully sharply. Her horns, long and pointy. Her black hair, or no, you should say it’s licorice. And her uniform, red and teal like the one you made long ago. Her eyes are stark white and without pupils, and with only one glance, she seems to look right into your mind. She’s not all that tall, but graceful in her own way, even though her muscles show beneath the tight sleeves and trousers she wears. A trained Legislacerator, in body and mind. She removes her gloves. ‘It’s been too long, Terezi. Way too long until I found you.’

‘H-how have you found me?’ Your voice is raspy and when you talk, the taste of faygo in your mouth makes you gag.

‘Your friend guided me, the Witch of Life.’ Redglare hands you a flask. ‘Drink. And get that taste out of your mouth.’

You carefully take a sip, it’s just water. But the slightest bit of cold liquid in your stomach is enough to make you heave over. The Neophyte swiftly slings her arm around your waist and supports you while you throw up everything. You start to make excuses, when another disgusting wave of faygo cuts off your sentence and splatters on the grass.

‘No no, don’t say sorry. I know. I know how sensitive a troll’s body can be,’ Redglare says. She pours some water onto a cloth and wipes your mouth. Now you actually want to drink. The water refreshes and gets rid of the sour taste in your mouth. Feeling weak, you slump forward. Luckily your ancestor is still holding you and now lays you down carefully.

‘S-sorry,’ you whisper. ‘Sorry I’m so weak. Sorry I’m not a descendant like you dese-’

‘Terezi, if I hear one more “sorry that I’m pathetic” from you, I’ll actually start to regret traveling through these bubbles to meet you,’ Redglare sharply says, but her voice still sounds gentle. ‘Listen, you’re in kismesis with the descendant of the Grand Highblood himself. That doesn’t have a good effect on anyone. He, and I do mean the older one, tried to make black advances on me, when I still worked for the law. But I always refused. And I wasn’t trapped on a desolate rock in space, like you.’ She now pulls you into a sitting position against her body. You lean back and sigh in relief. Supporting herself with one arm behind her, the other one cups your face. ‘And why I’ve come her now isn’t because I want to hear you stutter excuses to me.’

‘Why then?’ You don’t want to sound rude, but your voice trembles a bit. Redglare taps on your bare leg.

‘Well, there’s a time when someone needs to be cared for. You’re the one that needs caring for now. You’re currently lying unconscious on the roof of your meteor, that’s where that clown dragged you. He has pulled your dragon cape over you’re head and walked off to god knows where. And you’re not wearing pants.’ She lets go of your face and grabs a bag from behind her. It’s a sturdy backpack with a lot of pockets in it. A sleeping bag is rolled up on top of it. Of course, it’s merely a mirror of an item from long ago. Redglare points out that you’re bruised and injured. When she touches the scraped skin on your knees you cringe and instinctively try to turn away from her. She softly turns you on your back again and dabs at the teal blood. You relax.

‘But isn’t it a bit useless to bandage me? I mean, they’ll all be gone once I wake up,’ you say when she wraps the soft fabric around your bitten shoulder.

‘Perhaps, but they are relieving your pain now, so I don’t see why not. Here, drink some more water.’

You drink more water. ‘Redglare… did you ever need to be cared for?’

‘Of course. And I was in a much worse state than you. I barely lived, the time that I was beaten up. And only after I had to deal with fever and other nastiness, I survived.’ When she’s done cleaning your wounds, you ask Redglare if you can see her staff.

‘Of course.’ She reaches behind her and gets it for you. You feel the polished weapon. It’s much lighter than you think. The metal is cold and stark white. The red gem that makes up the eye of the dragon’s head is reminiscent of how your own eyes were. You say to her that your attempt at making a dragon cane isn’t as good. She dismisses it and clicks open the staff. Just like your weapon, there are two hidden blades inside. A sudden thought rises in your mind.

‘Can… can I lick it?’ you ask.

Redglare laughs, and you’re afraid that you’ve said something wrong, when she holds it out for you. ‘Go ahead, maybe you’ll get some of your confidence back.’

You take a careful lick along the dragon head. It’s cold and tastes like metal. Bluh. You shake you head. ‘It doesn’t work anymore… I-I’ve lost that ability, I think.’ You start to cry. They really did succeed in breaking you. Not even your signature things remain. But your ancestor reaches out to you and covers your eyes with a hand. Her long and elegant fingers wrap around your face and the darkness is soothing. You take a few deep breaths. A familiar smell lingers at the edge of your memory. You lick the weapon again. ‘I… I taste… white. But that’s all.’ It still doesn’t work. You know the weapon is white, that’s probably why you’re able to “taste” it.

‘I’m sure there must be a special taste that only you can remember, Terezi.’ Redglare softly says.

‘It’s… it’s something that has both a good and a bad side. It’s fresh and silky at the same time. It’s...’ Suddenly a smile parts your lips. ‘I got it! It’s vanilla milkshake!’ You turn quickly and hug Redglare. She’s clearly surprised and falls over on her back. But you don’t care, you wrap your arms tightly around her and for a second, don’t even care about the fact that you’re only wearing underpants and a shirt or that you smell like faygo and clown sweat. Redglare pats you on the back when you let her go.

‘See? I knew you could find it again, that you could find yourself.’

‘Yeah… there’s this other thing…’ You sit on your knees and look at Redglare’s white eyes. ‘I killed… you know… the descendant of Mindfang. You might not think that’s too much of an issue, but-’

‘Terezi, I do get it. She was your friend. But it was for the wellbeing of everyone. You shouldn’t feel guilty, it’s not a crime, to have to kill someone for the safety of everyone on the meteor.’ Redglare says what you already thought time and time over again. But that’s the way she sees it. And it’s the hard truth, you know. Who are you to discuss guilt and innocence with her, if she has studied the law for years and enforced it for her entire life. You are going to have to accept it one day.

‘I just feel so… bad. About everything. About killing Vriska, about this kismesis with Gamzee, and what will the others think of me?’ You ruffle your hair with your hands.

‘Then cut it short. Tell that horrible clown that you’re not his toy anymore and start adapting to your new abilities.’ Redglare points at your eyes. ‘We can train together if you want, I’m sure your Heiress friend will help you visit me again. And about the Marquise…’ She chooses her words carefully. You’re surprised when she uses the more honorary form of the title. ‘You and her have surprisingly much in common. Both of you are stubborn, hardy, and at one point, broken. And I know you can reach the full height of your abilities again, just like she.’

‘Redglare… you talk about Mindfang like she… like she didn’t totally hang you from your own noose!’

‘Well, all trolls have their comeuppance.’ Redglare lies down and you two just look at the gleaming inside of the dreambubble for a while. You glace sideways. The Neophyte’s teal shirt is slightly crumpled under her back. A few teal-tinted scars show on her back. Of course, someone like Redglare would have cool scars from awesome battles. She smiles a sharp-toothed smile. ‘Terezi, it was a true pleasure to meet you. But I’m afraid we have to say goodbye. Your friends are on the roof now, I think the Sufferer’s descendant will spot you first.’

‘Oh shit, not Karkat!’ you blurt out. ‘But how can you see that?’

‘Only when you are like me, you can. And I hope very much that you won’t.’ She points at her white eyes. Dead, she means. When you’re dead, you’re able to see the world from the dreambubbles. You start to panic a bit. Karkat will surely think you’re an addicted, useless idiot who can’t do any good in his eyes. Redglare notices your discomfort. As she takes your hands in hers, she says:

‘One last word of advice: I’ve noticed you’re not quite as enthusiastic about justice anymore as you used to be. Please, Terezi, find your own justice again. It doesn’t matter how. Blind yourself if necessary, but do make sure that you’re prepared if you ever have to face your former kismesis or whoever else in battle. Now wake up. I think the Sufferer’s descendant has inherited his affection for encouraging talks as well as his ability never to give up.’

You want to say something. You want to thank her for all she did for you. But her body fades in front of your eyes. The bandages around your arms, shoulder and legs disappear. Your pain returns hundredfold. You fall back, hitting hard concrete. You hear Karkat’s angry shouting and Dave’s flat, calm voice. Then, your bloodshot eyes flip open.

(Then this happens: http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=007915)