Chapter Text
Your name is Karkat Ampora, and you’re tired of these lowbloods treating you with no shred of respect. You think the pomp of bowing and prostrating is bulgesuckingly stupid, but the hemospectrum exists for a reason ! Rich violet blood flows in your veins, much colder than this shack of a hideout and the three debating trolls in front of you. You were the top student in the Imperial Navy Preparatory Academy for two and a half sweeps. You at least deserve to not have these lowlifes whispering about you without involving you!
So you assert yourself, walking up to these rebels, never minding the burning on your knee joints. You also kindly ignore the fact that they’ve confiscated your sword upon entry.
“Captor, Vantas, Leijon,” you call out, your voice, trained in oration and military barking, carrying to the entire room. “Stop your pointless bickering and inform me of your plans already.”
Kanaya Captor, a Goldblood you’ve found to be an errand girl for a clown church because her powers are too feeble to work as a battery, peers at you from behind her tinted glasses. Many trolls are taller than you, but the way the slender, towering girl gives you a withering gaze makes you actually feel small. You lift your chin and glare at her harder – she’s only a few steps up from dirty rust, and even then, she’s not even a proper psionic. She can’t hurt you.
“If it were entirely up to me,” Captor says to you, calm as ever, “I would not entrust you with a load gaper until you halt your ridiculous posturing.”
“He can pass as a landdweller just fine,” Eridan Vantas groans, head thrown back. The exasperated Oliveblood clutches the rim of his beanie, pulling the edges down over his ears. “You’ve already knitted a hat, and it’s not like we walk different from seadwellers!”
“I do not mean literal posturing, Eridan.”
“I still think we should send the royal pain out,” Terezi Leijon pipes up, pointing the dragon-shaped handle of eir cane at you. Eir eyes, blind-red, pierce you with something like bloodlust. You bare your teeth at em and hope ey smells your intention. “Give him a taste of how he treats us.”
“I have been treating you as mercifully as our stations would allow,” you snap, an accusatory finger pointing at Leijon. Ey simply smirks, showing off eir too-sharp teeth – you try to push it down, but envy burns in you, boiling over the blood in your veins. “I would never cull trolls who are giving me asylum.”
Vantas throws you a big smile, clasping his hands together. Although it may be more of a grimace, come to think of it. “See, that’s progress!”
“How admirable,” Captor deadpans, one hand resting delicately on her cheek while her elbow rests on a folded hand under her chest. “Eridan’s faith in our most receptive acolyte continues to be unwavering. I should record this for posterity.”
“Which is why we should let Karkat on a mission!” Leijon counters, jumping off of eir perch on a wall-shelf, tapping eir cane on the ground to get the other lowbloods to look at em. “If he fails, we can just kick him out and give him what he deserves.”
“You would not leave me to die,” you growl, stalking forward – Captor starts sparking, red-blue lightning at the ready. You ignore her attempt at intimidation. “I have given you my knowledge of Academy locations and activities. My intel is invaluable.”
Leijon cackles, madly banging the end of eir cane on the shelf behind her. “Strong words for a cullbait!"
“Don’t call him a cullbait,” Vantas pleads. “Ampora’s gonna pay us back for our protection, TZ!” Then, looking at Captor with big eyes, “C’mon, Kan, quit the sparks, he’s not threatenin us!”
The taller troll’s eyes glow brighter. “I would consider it if he was not so predictable with his hemospectrum spiel.”
“He is cullbait, ED,” Leijon chuckles, tapping Vantas with the end of eir cane. “If he wasn’t here, his academy would’ve culled him. Or someone would’ve asked me to do it! But since I can't, let's have Stormsurge do it. I'd like to see them try.”
Before you could respond to Leijon's extremely specific, uncalled-for grudge on you, ey walks up to Kanaya, clutching the ends of her jester’s collar. “Please? Please, Kanaya, please?”
Ey looks like ey's going to bite off the red and blue fabric when ey says that, tugging so hard that Captor has to bend down lest ey tear off her clothes. How she got such fabric is beyond you - are lowbloods given a stipend of clothing materials? Did she steal it? If so, from where?
No, focus. You think of the mission. Disguising yourself as an air-breather to recruit another rebel for Vantas’ organization is degrading and possibly fatal, but… he did say you could ‘pay back for his protection’. If it is what it takes for you to stay here…
Your lips purse. You can do this. You throw a determined look up at Captor, then at Vantas, then at Leijon, then at the first troll again.
She turns to look at you, the glow in her eyes dimming with whatever she’s thinking.
“Sure,” she replies, one hand on her hips and the other lying loosely by her side. “But I am coming with you.”
Vantas and Leijon cheer, high-fiving behind Captor despite having completely opposite reasons to let you go. How the hell did this ragtag trio of lowbloods not implode with all these differences in opinion?
You look at yourself in the mirror – you really do pass for a landdweller just fine. It’s definitely degrading. You grit your teeth. Those nubby, wiggler, cullbait overbites. For seven sweeps you’ve seen your caste grow pan-numbingly tall, long, and complex horns. Razor sharp teeth that can rip – and have ripped – others’ throats. They call you a lost rust for your stunted features, hotblooded for your temper… You couldn’t care less about attractiveness, but it still makes rage simmer in your fingertips that your classmates never threw you a second glance. That no one ever pursued you for a quadrant.
You had a satisfying sense of revenge when they looked on in envy as you trailblazed your ugly nookstain to the top echelons of the Academy.
But no, you don’t even have that anymore!
Shitting hell. You really look like you belong with the commonbloods. With your earfins covered by the flaps of a fluffy knit cap, your gills hidden by this turtleneck, signless (ha!) sweater, the tip of your horns barely showing… you have nothing in common with your violet-blooded broodmates. Is this what Vantas is trying to tell you? That all trolls, in the end, are equally low? Made from the same stuff?
It's a foolish position to have. You're just here for protection, not to follow the Sufferer's doomed teachings. Besides, seadwellers are higher on the hemospectrum for a good reason. Your caste lives longer. You can live at sea and on land. You have sharper senses than even a clown. No good dwelling on these political conundrums - you'll get your protection, then get out of here as soon as the threat passes.
"Are you done changing?"
Captor's voice comes from behind the makeshift door of this changing block, which is really just a tall shelf.
"Yes," you reply.
"Alright," the Goldblood says, "You did turn off the tracker in your palmhusk, right? I would not find it funny if your royal friends pursue us and find our hideout."
The answer is quite simple. You check if your pants (drab gray) and belt (solid black) are correctly fastened. Your shoes, too, were black, with no accessories whatsoever - all nondescript clothes a landdweller would wear. "I don't have one."
A long pause.
"That is difficult to believe," she continues, "And I hope you know this. Otherwise I would have to lower my opinion on you even more."
"I do." Does Captor seriously think you are given everything simply because you're a royal-V? Aside from training uniforms, you're not even given your own clothes. You have to buy them with Academy wages, which depends entirely on your grades. You do not admit that you are, frankly, despite not wasting them on jewelry like most of your caste, running out of money.
"How come do you not have a palmhusk?"
"Academy trainees are not allowed to have one."
"Why?"
"We are not supposed to leave the training grounds," you answer, "Much less go this far inland. Communication devices would simply be a distraction."
You push apart the shelves, letting yourself out with your original clothes hung on your folded arm.
Captor scrutinizes you, and a small, wry smile starts stretching her lips. "I will have to verify your claim."
With a flash of red and blue, she levitates your clothes - slowly flapping open and overturning pockets, getting sleeves and pants inside out… She won't find a palmhusk, but you say nothing, simply watching the lowblood move. She finds your money pouch - when it flies towards you, you pocket it in your trousers.
Despite her enmity, you notice that she is hesitant to ruin anything.
"It's rare to see someone of your caste care so much about fashion," you finally comment, leaning on the shelf. It’s strange that you’re not wearing a coat anymore, no weight going down and touching your thighs and the sides of your knees - you decide to shove your hands into the pocket of your new trousers.
"It is baffling to see someone of your caste care so little," Captor replies, scrutinizing the clasps on your coat. The clasps are made out of twisted gold threads, ending in a curved cross - and she starts to touch them with her hands. You tense, squinting to see if she has her claws up, but thankfully, they’re retracted.
"These fabrics are sturdy. These clasps are truly impressive…" She strokes it with a reverent finger. "How old are these? How can they retain the pigments in water for so long?"
"Slow down, Captor," you snap, "I am not a fashion expert. I bought these last sweep."
"Last sweep? And you spent all of it underwater?" Captor's eyes widen, sparkling with curiosity. "Are they dyed with blood? Because blood darkens with time. I needed pigments from crushed gemstones to make my collar stay this bright."
Your eyebrows reflexively furrow. "Crushed gemstones? I didn't know Goldbloods do any mining. Especially one without proper psionics."
She barked a short exhale that might have been a chuckle if she’d directed it to Vantas or Leijon. "Try to let go of your preconceptions of the hemospectrum, Ampora. Casteism fits you worse than the clothes you are wearing.”
At your glaring daggers at her, she actually chuckles for a full five seconds. “I made you those clothes - a little gratitude should be in order, if you are really as merciful as you say.”
“Thanks,” you spit, “They truly exemplify the commonblood aesthetic.”
“You’re welcome, Your Overbearing Oceanness.” Captor bows sarcastically, prostrating herself so low her horns touch the floor. She gets up quickly to clasp her hands together below her waist. “If they are ill-fitting, blame Eridan for giving me the wrong measurements.”
“Eridan? Eridan Vantas?” you repeat, glancing at the Oliveblood, who is fiddling with his palmhusk as Leijon animatedly talks to him. He doesn’t notice your staring. “Does the bulgereek know my measurements? How in the thirteen seas did he find that out? Did the numb-pan somehow gain the ability to hack into the Academy’s database?” Then he’s not such a numb-pan after all.
“You will have to ask him yourself,” she replies, turning her back on you. Her skirt, half-red and half-blue in a petal-like pattern that goes down to the floor, trails after her.
Grumbling un-Violetblood-like swears under your breath, you follow her one step behind.
Vantas and Leijon let you two go without much fanfare, though the former does stare at you in shocked silence for a few minutes. He was even blushing, the creep. When you asked him how he knew your measurements, he blushed even worse - sputtering nonsense until Leijon socked him in the gut with the handle of eir cane. He yowled in pain - Leijon gleefully dragged him away to “patch him up”.
So. Vantas probably got them from stalking you. You curse yourself. You need to be more observant of your surroundings, of any enemy that might be out for your blood. What would your mentor say?
You are now outside the hideout, surrounded by deadly marshland plants, ready for your trip to Stormsurge. You thankfully have your weapon back, but unfortunately, you’re submerged to your knees in mud and brine! Curse Captor for being taller, she’s only dirtying her boots. And how typical… she’s levitating the end of her skirt with psionics. Gnashing your teeth, you exhale, a snarl at the tip of your tongue - but you say nothing. You just need to get this mission over with, and pay back these three for their protection. It is the only way.
Captor barely talked to you along the way, but she did explain to you what today’s mission is: Find the alleged “mind-reader” and their tent, and then try to understand how and why they are doing this instead of training for law enforcements, like other Tealbloods are ordered to do. You two will pretend to be matesprits trying to get a look into your future together. She will handle the “recruitment” part. You don’t know what to expect, but you think of a plan.
The dampness enveloping your legs is more comfortable than the dry boots you wore beforehand, but the chunky sneakers Captor lent you are squelching with every step you take. To add a concert of bullshit to the nookgrating noise, your shoes are growing more cramped as your feet-fins are unraveling. You really can’t afford outing yourself like that. Worse, your back is killing you! Somehow the lower part of your spine feels like it’s got a load attached to it, connected to the rest of your upper body and making you feel like you’re turning into a statue.
“We have arrived,” Captor announces an hour later. You look at her gently resting her skirt down once more, this time to an asphalt street. “Now we need to find the tent.”
She takes out her palmhusk from her skirt pocket, clicking various pictures on the screen to produce a map. You move to her side, craning your neck to take a closer look. There’s a red dot - which Captor clicks. It says “You are here” in large letters. At a distance, there is a teal dot, blinking like a beacon. It must be like the tactical maps in your class - your target.
“Let’s go.”
The small town of Stormsurge is quite crowded, bustling with activity - they’re mostly mid- and colder-hued castes, with teal at the lowest and crawling up to purple. There aren’t many clowns, though - mostly Blue- and Indigobloods fighting on the street, or tormenting the odd Jades and Olives who somehow made their way here.
The few lowbloods you see - various Rusts and Bronzes - are mostly doing the cleaning, some trying to corral a wild, giant hopbeast that you assume is an errant lusus.
“Have you ever been here before?” you ask Captor. The rustbloods have failed to get the lusus on a leash, and it crashes into various stands, enormous feet crushing the unlucky trolls in the way of its hopping. You’re no stranger to bloodshed, and you know you're supposed to smile, but a frown still twists your face as the deep reds and browns and soon, blues and teals, splatter across the pavements.
“No,” she replies, not looking at you - just glancing at the map, then back at the road ahead. “But I would presume Eridan’s friends have scouted it.”
Friends . Of course. The Signless Revolution must have spies everywhere. You wonder if any of them is part of the city’s bustle, if any of them were trampled by the lusus, or maybe even the ones robbing that poor rust on the alley you passed a few blocks ago.
You take a deep breath. Your lungs feel so tight with the scent of blood ripping through the air. You’re not used to this. Your gills itch. Your earfins and head feel stuffy under your hat, too. For the first time in your life, you’re acutely realizing - and immediately despising - the fact that seadwellers don’t sweat. Any heat expelled must be through other avenues, like the bladder, or the tear ducts. Neither of which you’re eager to relieve. Fuck. You’re not focused. You’re supposed to be attuned to your environments, not stewing over in your own body.
With another grit of your teeth, you stride forward, trying to hear if there’s anything approaching you (and less importantly, Captor). Making up for your physical shortcomings is second nature to you. Your hand is ready to grab your sword if anything goes wrong. Eyes flitting through the crowd. Wondering if- someone’s approaching!
You draw your sword. At your side, Captor pockets her palmhusk and produces a tube of lipstick, which, with a click, transforms itself into a chainsaw. You turn to protect her back, she does to have yours.
The chainsaw’s whirs fill your ears.
And the pursuers are closing in.
“Hoo boy! A mustardblood and her little friend!” Surprisingly, it’s a Tealblood taunting the two of you. “What brought you into these parts, hm?”
“A pretty one, too,” their friend must be addressing Captor, who has most of her limbs exposed. “What are you doing out here? Don’t you have a husktop to turn on?”
“Close, but not quite,” you hear her say, “I do, however, have a few highbloods to turn off.”
“Wha-”
A harsh whirring swing, a shriek - you can’t help but look - the one that flirted with Captor is cut in half at the torso, squirting cerulean blood everywhere as their scream dies. You watch, open-mouthed, as the Blue troll’s top half falls to the ground, their bottom half crumpling with it.
The rest of the trolls in their posse bolt away immediately, screaming profanities towards the Goldblood.
Something grips you in place, too - maybe it's not pity for her weak psionics that made Vantas and Leijon take her in. Maybe it’s the sheer amount of guts she has. The absolute lack of hesitation.
Respect. Fear. Admiration. Envy. You don’t know which, or to what degree - but those feelings, and maybe more, maybe less, whirl inside your ribcage, widening your eyes. You imagine a world where Kanaya Captor is a Violetblood, your fellow student in the Academy. You think if her mercilessness is coupled with the killer instincts encoded in every seadweller, she’d love it there.
When she meets your gaze, it’s distant, her grip on her chainsaw tightening so much that her knuckles turn white.
“Do… do not look at me that way,” Captor says, her voice the barest gasp. “I only did what I must. To ensure the mission’s success.”
“And you did it well!” Is this what Vantas meant by hemoequality? Even with the gulf of castes between you, all of you are capable of fighting? “You’d make a wonderful seadweller.”
“No,” Captor’s eyes widen even more… you realize she’s stepping back from you. “I am nothing like you, Ampora. That is not why I killed that Blueblood. Say such a thing one more time, and-”
“And what?” you challenge, stepping forward, “I finally understand what Vantas meant! You’re more than a battery. You are ruthless! Why would that be a bad thing? Does he disapprove of your skill?”
“Do not bring Eridan into this,” she hisses. Clicks a button, and the chainsaw is a tube of lipstick once more. “People are staring at us as we waste time having moral quandaries. We need to move forward immediately.”
She stalks further into the town, skirt billowing behind her. You run after her - she can’t just let that go! Why wouldn’t she bring him into this? He’s the reason everything happened!
“Captor,” you say in a low voice, keeping up with her pace with ease, “I'm starting to understand what unites you three. Vantas saw your strength in combat despite your lack of psychic gifts. Is that what I need to earn my place here? Must I demonstrate my-”
“Be quiet,” she cuts in, walking faster, right, left, through a maze of towers you conclude must be business areas. “It is not about strength! Not everything is about strength!”
“No, but nothing is as important,” you reply. You know this. She must know this! You look around - no one's out on this street. Good. Your seadweller's sense of smell and hearing didn't catch anyone close, either. “Strength and power, that’s what gets you forward in this cullhive of a planet! You have it in spades, and only with that can Vantas’ friends repeat history!”
She stops, then- sparks, red and blue, cages you in place. But you easily fight against the psionics, forcing a step forward so you’re standing face-to-face with her. Scowling, Captor leans close to your face.
“This is not one of your cutthroat saltlicker games, Ampora,” she says, her voice a cold whisper. “I killed that Blueblood for the mission. I am ensuring the best outcome for you and for Eridan’s friends. Not to flaunt my strength and oppress people I wrongly deem lower for a reason as insignificant as the hue of their blood.”
You can’t believe the gall of this girl.
“First off, this isn’t a game for me, bulgereek,” you growl, “I am running from certain death. Second, you're just two steps away from the lowest. And if blood is so insignificant, why is Alternia this way?”
“It is insignificant to me!”
Hypocrite! Fucking hypocrite! “If that’s true, you wouldn’t be so reluctant to let me go on this trip with you!”
“It is not the color of your blood that makes you untrustworthy,” Captor argues, her scowl deepening as she glares at you with glowing eyes, “It is your casteist behavior.”
“How in the thirteen seas am I casteist?!” you retort, whispering as loudly as you can. “I am leagues more merciful than anyone in my caste would ever be! I have never laid a hand on you or reported you for your activities!”
Captor straightens herself. Behind her, the sky is darkening in the horizon as dusk turns into night - her eyes, too, dim their light.
“You are correct,” she replies, her tone defeated, “I suppose you would not fail this test of loyalty.”
That makes no sense. A test of your negotiation skills, you can understand - or a test of your undercover skills, which makes sense, and you have probably failed this one spectacularly. But loyalty? “This is a test of loyalty ?”
This mission is getting you out of a protective shelter to get Academy drones off your back, but why would you betray them for that? Why do they think a Tealblood going against their duty will tempt you to betray Vantas? Wouldn’t it be the opposite? Did they live in danger of Imperial enforcers you might report to? You haven’t seen any seadwellers here - if anything, those enforcers would have to report to you.
“We still have a mission to complete,” she deflects. “Let us proceed to the mind-reader’s hive.”
Once more, Captor stalks away. But this time, too confused at how this rebellion even gained any traction with this lack of logic, you don’t argue with her.