[GRO] Trusci Modsat - Teen

[Hivestuck]

It was a well lit night and the moons gleamed overhead, unhindered by clouds. The view of the stars from Four Fronds was always more dazzling and radiant than elsewhere on Alternia, as any right-minded troll of substance would be apt to tell you. A sight fit for a highblood, fit for those lucky enough to afford a life hidden away by its protective treeline. Like a shimmering gem among rubble, it remained a haven for the affluent, and yet still does, even with the rebuilt grandeur of Civisect.

Ask any self-confident lowblood, however, and they might tell you those pompous, poetic types need to pull their heads out of their collective asses.

Along the outskirts of the Fronds, there were hunters preparing for the challenge, strapping on their gear at the edge of the forest. From a distance, someone watched, a blueblood by the symbol on his chest. Cansyr Rueunt, not particularly impressive for a highblood, nor was he all that intimidating. He'd never once participated in a hunt, though he nightdreamed about it, and often found himself here, watching others preparing for their turn in the spotlight.

They disappeared into the forest and he dropped his gaze to the ground. One night, that would be him.


Only Melancholies is allowed to post in this thread.

Melancholies

To interact with NPCs, change locations, or end this growth, please quote the mule!

 

[Melancholies]

The pink trees, pretty in their own right, now left a sour taste in her mouth. The time on the train had been solemn and quiet. It was unusual for the boisterous yellowblood to be so silent, and yet here she was, almost like a shadow as she looked around the town from the station, spatted shoes stepping softly from the platforms steps onto the grass. Her words, for the moment, had left her. The wind mussed through her hair; Trusci threw her scarf over her shoulder as an afterthought.

Her last visit to the Fronds had been short, unfortunately so, and also not terribly long ago. Though the marks on her arms were hardly skin deep and now even healed, the yellowblood swore she could still feel them carved down to bone, like they'd be there forever. Something about that encounter with that tealblood burned her in a way she couldn't necessarily describe. Even though she had the final say in that encounter—walked away the victorious one in fact—it still felt so, so sour. While she didn't plan to seek him out specifically (she wasn't that vindictive), there was still something seething under her skin that she had to let out. Some poor fool would be on the unfortunate end of her emotions, though who that was remained to be seen.

Trusci hated the stares and small glances as she traversed the city. It wasn't anything like New Hemisect; true that NHC had it's fair population of highbloods and the affluent, but Four Fronds was a different beast all entirely. This was the hornet's nest. She knew she didn't belong her because of the hue of her blood, and in her current mood it made her outright irate. Her anger stewed and boiled inside of her.

Taking a deep breath, she decided vehemence didn't look particularly good on her, at least not the brooding and dark kind.

After all, it was kind of funny how her mere presence could cause such disgust among the oinkbeasts in trollian clothing. A smile cracked on her face—Aha, that was better. Her chest felt lighter now, far less tight, a lot more freedom was present now. Shaking the most of her mood off, Trusci tossed caution to the wind, taking delight in the ruffled, confused stares. Let them watch.

She eventually found herself on the city outskirts, much closer to those trees she watched from the train compartment. Her mind wandered back to the tealblood. She had seen him exiting those woods, hadn't she? Trusci knew about the realities of the forest and how it was a hunting ground for morbid highblood games; did that tealblood participate in them too? Granted, he looked hardly capable—just a kid—but then again he had more than enough feral ferocity to make up for it. The thought made her stomach churn. It was disheartening to think how easily that could be her—prey for the hunts—had she been normal or average; namely not endowed with telekinesis. No, instead her powers marked her usefulness for the very highbloods she so disdained, rather than as sport. She could be a helmsman, in fact it was probably expected.

In fact, it was sad that so many trolls like her probably saw that as a gift. They had a chance to climb the ladder, get a one-up on all the other unfortunate lowbloods, how was that for ironic? Castes within castes, a ******** cycle. Though where they saw it as freedom, Trusci saw it only as prison, for the idea of giving up her free will, her self, her identity to become little more than an object was unbearably cruel and, well, absolutely terrifying. She would never lose control over herself. She would do as she wanted, when she wanted—she would flaunt her powers, express herself, and she would not be condemned to that awful, awful fate.

The only exception, though it was slim and almost nonexistent, would be if she could agree to the predicament on her own terms. But them, why would she want to fight for the queen anyway? Keep the same social injustice in check that she so hated? Scoff; as if. If there were someone else, someone who didn't share the ideals of the society she grew up then; well, maybe.

Her observant eyes caught him quickly.

He looked scrawny, kind of a wimp, almost as ghostly as she had been when she initially departed from the train. What set them apart were the marks on their chest; his was a vexing blue, her's a bold gold. Trusci was pretty smart in her own way—very deductive—the way he was staring out into the woodland, so forlorn, the way he looked to the floor when—her gaze narrowly missed the movement into the trees, but for that split second she saw the group as they ventured on. She didn't need to know their garb, their equipment

Aha.

Sick ******** up behind the troll, she noticed a rock, tiny and small and round—more or less a pebble—placidly nestled in the grass. Using her position behind him as a vantage point, stealthy and covert (ha, he'd never see it coming!), Trusci spun her hand and sent the tiny rock flying up square in the blueblood's face.

"Got'cha!"

Hivestuck

 

[Hivestuck]

It was time to head back to the hive, continuing to stand out here would only further Cansyr's bitter feelings. There was much to prepare for, after all, if he really were to take to the hunts sometime soon. He'd started a training regimen, bought lots of equipment... Though he hadn't seen any marked improvements yet, that didn't stop him from believing that he'd make it. He would, he had to, his pride pushed him onward.

The blueblood was halfway to turning back towards the town when the assault came. The power-propelled pebble smacked him square in the face, right under his eye, a tender area to be sure. It stung enough that he thought he could already feel a bruise forming over his cheekbone. In fact, Trusci would likely be rather pleased by Cansyr's reaction: a very dramatic cry and a hand clutched delicately to his face, an expression that read like he'd been punched or stabbed or something more significant than the flick of a tiny rock.

"What do you think you're doing?" he sputtered. Cansyr hadn't seen her throw it, but who else could it have been? They were alone and got'cha was her war cry, she didn't even try to hide. That was more than enough for him.

"You'd better apologize, mustardblood!" He tried to recall what his friends had always told him, half of the hunt was intimidation. Who did this obvious yellowblood think she was? She had no idea who she was dealing with, a hunter, a troll who knew the hemospectrum spoke volumes for who exactly was allowed to be cheeky and who wasn't.

Melancholies

 

[Melancholies]

Oh, that was good. Trusci found herself biting her lip to hold back a laugh, though a smile still bled through her lips. Ironic how the last time she was here, antagonizing a highblood, she had thought the same thing. It ended poorly. Despite the calm she felt—the glee—she didn't know, couldn't really, that her grand luck would run out shortly. The hourglass was dwindling.

The second she decided to blow off the chance at apology marked the final grand of sand, settling into a pile at the bottom.

The highblood seemed like such a wimp. Hell, he didn't even seem, he was, and his reaction solidified that thought. Perhaps if he had owned up or acted a little more worthwhile (or just hadn't reacted like a total priss) then Trusci would have been the bigger troll, called her truce. She still probably wouldn't have apologized, but whatever her words were it would probably have ended better compared to the snark that coiled in her throat like a snake.

"Just wonderin' what you were lookin' at. Ain't nice to burn holes into the ground like that," she giggled, a hand brought to her face to attempt (and fail) to conceal her very obvious grin. Spinning her finger around in quick circles with her other hand, the teal light sparked to life around her hand, and the very same pebble she had launched at the blueblood quickly snapped up to repeat the circular motion. Opening her palm, it landed onto the center with a satisfying smack as it rolled back into a fist. Damn she was cool, damn.

"And anyway, why should I?" her lip stuck out in a little mocking pout, "Can't take a joke or something dude? Or are you just mad some—" she made a little gesture with her hands, fingers bending in tiny air quotes, "—that some "mustardblood" totally got you good?"

She was pretty cheeky, yes, though usually not to this extent. Trusci had an earnest respect on boundaries, though encounter after encounter of no retribution gave way for her to press further, push harder, test how far she could go before the barrier broke.

Tonight was also different.

Tonight she felt something awful burning and bubbling deep in her heart, something that felt like anger but... not quite. Disappointed was too lax. Bitter too strong. She thought of her encounter with the tealblood, and looking at this a*****e in front of her—ah, yeah, it was something about this guy's attitude—thinking he was so great, god look at him. Everyone in this cesspool thought they were gods among trolls. It was the way he watched those hunters slink into the forest with such awe and ambition; lowbloods weren't prey, part of her wanted to show the dumbass that. She wasn't sport. Her eyes dared him.

"Why don't 'cha make me, if you're so high and mighty?"

Hivestuck

 

[Hivestuck]

There had been a hope deep down, a wish, but no real confidence to speak of. Intimidation should have worked. She was nothing more than a yellowblood, and despite whatever had possessed her to throw that stone at him, he was sure she'd quickly realize the error of her ways and repent. As was the way with the lower tiers, they pretended to be strong, but really all they were was cowardly.

So, why then? He couldn't understand why she didn't back down at his insistence. Cansyr's sure stance wavered, but he tried to remain cool on the outside. The success of it was minimal, but it was there nonetheless, even when that glow lit her hands and the pebble answered her summons.

This was a test. Proving himself here would surely mean he was more than ready for the hunts. She was a telekinetic, he was positive, or at least something similar, but he wasn't going to let himself be the one who was intimidated.

"Why should you?" he sounded incredulous. "You hit me, that's why. Whatever I was doing is none of your business. You wouldn't understand, you're just a lowblood." Now he was sneering. It was as if simply putting her down made him feel like he was winning. Truthfully, he was trying to ignore the insult she laid on him in return. That, and the distant worry in the back of his mind that she'd set her power on him and ruin any chance he actually had.

"Don't you know where you are? Don't you know what happens to your kind around here?" His eyes didn't leave her, but his head canted slightly towards the trees.

That would be it, he thought. Arms crossed, he waited for her to slink away, bested by his sharper wit. That satisfaction never came. No, she was challenging him instead, egging him on. The thought of backing down never even crossed his think pan as he began to stalk forward. He might've been scrawny, but pride wouldn't let him do anything but fight back. Oh, he planned on teaching her a lesson, at least. This was the first step towards becoming a hunter.

Without anymore fanfare, he gave her a rough, wholly unfriendly shove.

Melancholies

 

[Melancholies]

Just a lowblood. Your kind. The way the blueblood said these things, the way he looked at her when she did; it was as if her brain was a camera, her eyes and ears the lens—Snap—these things were suddenly imprinted on her, like an iron pressed into her mind, branded. It was infuriating, to say the least, and even then that was a huge understatement. It was more or less that this had weight; it wasn't just this blueblood, no it was most highbloods, it was most of the trolls who lived here, who lived everywhere. It was the fact that they somehow had power over her, and that she was destined for doom from the second she hatched, because her blood was yellow and not blue.

Trusci was never one to back down from a challenge, nor was she one to bend so easily to fate. She was determined to break it, be her own person, do whatever she needed so she could do whatever she could. She wouldn't let something as fickle as fate to commandeer her entire existence. Trusci might not live as long as most of the highblood assholes here, but she wasn't planning on spending it all bent crooked under the queen's thumb. She'd do something about it, she'd take action, she'd rise up to it.

Even if "something" was standing up to this scrawny blueblood. Her expression, once playful (albeit jeering), was now something a little darker, devious, pissed as she listened to this a*****e prattle on. She wasn't even a yellowblood, she'd somehow been demoted lower. She was mustard. She was a condiment on this dumb as ******** food chain. The dare never left her eyes, not as he stalked towards her, not as he stared back with equal vehemence. The way he had canted his head towards the tree kept her from backing down, not that she would ever chose to.

Of course, when the b*****d actually went and shoved her, she snapped. So he had the audacity to shove her too huh? Stumbling backwards, Trusci decided she was just as audacious if not more so, and as she caught her footing she quickly shoved him back with twice the effort and force, "C'mon? Is that the best you got?"

"Besides, can your kind—" she sneered at him, spitting out the last part, "—Do stuff like this?"

Without missing a beat or giving the blueblood a chance to recover, she shoved him again, though this time it was not her hands that propelled him, but rather a sparkling teal energy. Trusci howled with laughter, momentarily oblivious to the consequences of her actions as her hands glowed with the power, her psionics crackling in the air.

Hivestuck

 

[Hivestuck]

What it came down to would probably look like a spat between children at first. A shove, a second shove, though her retaliation definitely had more heart in it. It would be a lie to say he hadn't worried she'd keep fighting back, and as he fought to keep his balance, he also waged war against losing his cool.

"Of course not!" A canned response, generic, awkward. There was still a drive in him to continue, though, to make sure he lived up to the blood now pumping madly through his veins. "You dirty-" He paused in his insults when one of his own was jabbed right back into his gut, your kind, and despite knowing full well she meant highbloods, he couldn't help but feel personally insulted. His kind, pushovers like him. She shoved him back again and his own insecurities were only magnified.

It was frightening, the feeling of falling, feeling knocked from your feet by what seemed like nothing but air and a sharp, bright illumination. That was enough to knock the wind out of him, but then he hit the ground, his arms jolting painfully as he foolishly tried to catch himself, and it felt a little worse all around. Now she was looming over him, tall, her hand lit in that teal glow of power. No, he wouldn't let her be superior.

Cansyr had a point to prove. Even if he was afraid, even if he didn't want to learn what the extent of her abilities actually was, there was no way he could back down and not catch flack from both his friends and his own scarred self-conscious. Grunting, the blueblood stumbled to his feet, eyes set thin in a glare. He was a highblood, a hunter, the true superior in this situation. Reaching out, he grabbed at her wrists, trying to halt her power and push her back.

Melancholies

 

[Melancholies]

Trusci had never... physically fought before, no, not in any real sense. There had been spats with her brother, spats with other trolls—her mind wearily went over that encounter with the tealblood, whoever they were, and her arm burned for it despite the wound being long healed—that had, she supposed, been close to a fight but really were nothing more than weak scuffles. Rarely did she get hurt out of it, rarer still did anyone else get hurt out of it, which was somewhat surprising given how rambunctious and very... not gentle Trusci was. She could be kind, forgiving, nice, though being soft simply wasn't her nature. She simply didn't hold that intent to be harming. Everything up to this point was play. Her fun was turbulent and mischievous but by no means inherently harmful.

Some, if not most of those encounters had been with strangers, much like this blueblood. Those encounters had felt decidedly different, though she wasn't sure what exactly set the experiences apart. Given how weak and wimpy this highblood looked—all bones and scrawn—it really shouldn't had felt any different. This would be like every one of those other times, and if the situation did for whatever reason go sour, she'd make an exit and lay low for a little while. That's what it always boiled down to. She always made it out of these things okay, both in mind and body.

But then again, no one else really managed to get under her skin like this guy. Sure, she was completely one-hundred-and-ten percent aware just what most, if not all highbloods thought about her, or rather her blood. Hearing those thoughts put into words was nothing short of a personal torment. It was one thing to hear this sort of s**t in passing as she perused the streets of NHC—and she heard a lot—but for it to be thrown in her face? It pissed her off. It had been established that it pissed her off but <********> if it didn't make her absolutely vehement. Her veins seared heat under her skin like an unscratchable itch.

She found smug satisfaction as she loomed over the other. This is how it should be: superiority in self, not in blood. Had she been born blue or red or purple or green she would still be here, and he—whether he had been born the same yellow or red or purple or green that she could have—would still be beneath her.

Unfortunately, it would take so much more than a petty brawl with a blueblood for anything to change, and in fact any change to come probably wouldn't happen in her considerably short lifetime. As if on a cue to her thoughts, the blueblood shot up. Something was different. His glare looked like a cornered animal; afraid, very much so, but now with nothing to lose. Do or die said his eyes. Trusci refused to falter.

In a split second his hands were handcuffs around her wrists—"H-Hey! ******** off!"—teal energy cracking around her vision as her balance momentarily wavered. She was probably stronger, physically and mentally, but the affront still caught her off guard. Catching her footing for an instant, she struggled to free her hands from the iron-like grip, hissing profanities all the while. Arrogance bred naivety. Don't falter, don't falter.

For the briefest, untimeliest, and ultimately most unfortunate of moments, she did so.

Hivestuck

 

[Hivestuck]

The struggle lasted much longer than it should have, at least in Cansyr's head, where all he could hear was a buzz in his sponge clots that whispered push, told him he'd be nothing but a sorry disgrace if he failed this encounter. Knock her down, literally and figuratively, rise above where you were meant to be. It would take some doing to overcome the weak display from earlier, but he meant to completely overshadow that with the strength he had found in his resolve.

Truth be told, the struggle lasted only moments in a physical sense. The blueblood's saving grace was in the yellowblood's falter, that was enough for him to gain the upper hand. He wouldn't recognize that fact, at least not in the heat of the moment, but to him it wouldn't matter either way; this was his chance to shine, when he felt her start to teeter, a wobbly smirk split his face. He was stronger, he would establish his place in the hierarchy. No one would look down on him for being a weak blueblood.

"Is that it?" he spat as she went down, bolstering his own confidence with his words. "This is what happens when you mess with someone better than you!"

This was it. Now was when he proved his worth to Alternia, to the cool hue rushing through his veins. The two of them may have been the only true witnesses to this event, but Cansyr would carry the memory of this night with him for sweeps to come. He could do it, he could be a fighter, a hunter, just like he knew he could. That drive had been his sole motivation for so long and now that dream was solidifying at his feet. Wild eyes darted across her form, the teal glow still faintly lit her hand. Ah, her power. She thought herself superior for it, did she? Whether such a thing truly mattered to her or not, that's what he thought, and in that instant he decided to punish her for flaunting it.

It felt... strange, unlike anything he'd experienced before as he crushed one of her hands under his boot. Cansyr spared no expense in his sudden attack, every ounce of his weight went into it, and he could feel the snap of her bones vibrate through him as they gave way. In a sense it felt unnatural, the soft thickness of her flesh, the gravely feel of what lay beneath... He was mesmerized, stunned momentarily.

Melancholies

 

[Melancholies]

She'd seen plenty of movies and read plenty of books. They always spoke or showed these intense moments, heavy with adrenaline, talking about how everything else seemed to melt away, how time seemed to slow. It didn't matter if they were happy or sad or exciting instances, but they all shared in that common wealth of self importance. Reality almost seemed to meld. Trusci always balked at how over-dramatic and prosey those parts got, and yet here she was falling total victim to the same things she criticized. For all it was worth, the entire realm might as well have compromised solely of Trusci and this arrogant highblood.

Nothing else existed, nor mattered.

Except this wasn't a happy ending, nor was it a painful to watch tear jerker. This was ******** reality. The weight of everything came crashing down heavy and hard into the palm of her hand. It was frustrating to feel so powerless; when exactly had she ended up wrassled to the floor anyway? Why had she faltered? Where did this hesitation even come from? For a mind boggling second she felt completely alienated from her sense of self, from her entire sense of being. This was so completely unlike her. Trusci Modsat wouldn't do this, would she? Sit here, wide-eyed like a hoofbeast; that wasn't a thing Trusci Modsat would do, definitely not. Trusci Modsat was a lowblood who stood up to the injustices of highbloods, who bravely claimed every victory she possibly could.

Trusci Modsat, as it turned out, should have learned to be a bit more crafty and deceptive with her loathing. She realized now, far too late, the gravity of her actions. Consequences hadn't been a flicker in her mind; she'd never faced them, not like this. She felt invincible. Only now did she realize that she was just as vulnerable like every single other lowblood loitering out around there. Only now did this recognition flash in her eyes—it looked like something akin to fear or rage or something far deeper that she wouldn't find a word for now—but it drowned out the sounds and the sights and she swore in that moment she had tunnel vision. All she could see was the blueblood in front of her, face twisted and cruel and somewhat disgusted.

Pain traveled through her hand and up her arm and spider veined throughout her body. Bittersweet almost, as it jolted her back to her senses at the cost of protruding bone and grass-splattered-yellow. What happened next was more of an impulse than it was a choice. Trusci saw glazed look in the blueblood's eyes, saw how he was stunned, captivated. She took her chance before she even knew what she was doing. Teal energy dazzled out of thin air, booming like a shockwave. The interior of her mind felt like an explosion—thunder—it was like being underwater with how her ears were ringing, her vision blurring.

Her powers had an exhaustive extent too, did they?

She didn't have the time to dwell. Her feet were racing. She wasn't going to stick around to see what had become of Cansyr. She wanted to go home, crawl back to her lusus. Hell, even her twin's chastising words would be a comfort right now. She was wrong, she was wrong, she knows she went too far. She wasn't careful and she paid dearly for it.

Real regret would come later.

- - -

- - -

- - -

The confines of her hive brought her such a minuscule amount of comfort these days.

It was always quiet now. Before she would at least feel eased by the presence of her twin; even in between their spats and arguments when there was nothing but silence, she at least knew there was someone else there, someone else present. Even Tessie seemed absent more and more frequently. She always joked that perhaps the gentle Lusii had given up on her in favor for her more complacent twin, but as she was quickly learning, jokes like this that actually seem plausible are much more acerbic. This was her own domain.

What had become of them she didn't know, and in that moment she made the snap decision that she didn't care either. Dwelling on the past when there was the future to worry about and the present to experience was always something she got on her twin about. It was absolutely pointless to cater towards things you couldn't change, and she made the choice not to let it define her. Yet she wondered how the past her would react to the her now.

It had been a length of time since the incident in the fronds, though she was no less tormented over it. Her hand was stiff and uncooperative, wrapped up and oozey and scabbed in places. She never really realized the scarcity of doctors that was available to trollkind, especially to lowbloods with no real means of procuring it. This injury just made it feel all the more real. It was an absolute dog-eat-dog world out there, and yet she had been living her childhood carefree and stupid and naive and it burned. It ******** burned her. All her frustration had been swirling inside her like a maelstrom, coiling and brewing and culminating into this vicious pustule disease. She had started it, she had paid for it, but the fact remained that the scuffle was a result of blue, better than yellow rather than me, better than you. Society dictated that she had lost from the moment she looked in that blueblood's stupid direction. She had lost from the moment she crawled her way out of the brooding caverns, though she felt like a champion with her twin at her side.

She lost him too, to these damn rules of the world.

And now she was alone.

Was it so wrong? To want to be even eye level with everyone around her? Evidently so. She felt like a child still for feeling this way; how ******** unfair the world was, how some small despicable part of her hated herself for her blood—something which had never happened to her in her entire life.

That b*****d took away her dignity. He took away her hand. He, in one swift movement, had completely thrown her life for a ******** loop and she hated it. Was she not strong enough? Was that it? Had she been stronger, would she have been the one standing her him? Was it not merely limited to physical strength, but also her own mental fortitude? If she had shown more caution, she could have found a chance to strike. If she had treated it less like a game and more like a conflict maybe she wouldn't be sitting in her room now licking her wounds.

"God, <******** slammed her good hand down on the table, fighting the sting in her eyes. She was beyond frustrated. Her crippled hand—her dominant one—; she couldn't even escape this time. She couldn't devolve back into her stupid stories and her stupid scoops because she couldn't even ******** write. Would she even be able to again? Would she have to relearn with her other hand? She seethed internally. Her head throbbed.

There was that reality check too. That final blast of energy that led up to her escape led her to another grave realization; there as a limit to all things, her powers too. She always tried to convey that her powers felt like a mental muscle, grasping for straws (and no one really got it. No one but her and her brother) she could never fully explain it. She should have understood that, like a muscle, it could tear, it could break. Her entire head felt sore. Had she always been nothing but a huge limitation? She was even more limited now.

Her hand unclenched. She hated feeling weak, defeated.

She wanted to be strong, wanted to be the defeater.

...

Well, all things considered, sitting around here wouldn't do much good for that goal, would it? Though she sighed out the tension once visible in her body, it still lingered in a tense atmosphere. It would take a lot of healing—both the metaphorical and the physical kind—before she really got there. But Trusci Modsat wasn't one to mope, was she? She was a problem solver. She was respectable. She wasn't—wasn't this. This felt so foreign that she wasn't sure exactly what it was supposed to be.

Perhaps that wasn't a bad thing.

Who was Trusci Modsat? Well, she could be... whatever she wanted to be, couldn't she? It seemed exceedingly simplistic to think of it in terms like that, but there was a certain charm in how... adolescent it felt. She felt like a kid again. Honestly, she wasn't that young anymore now, wasn't she? It seemed so strange to believe she was older now, but that was exactly what had happened. Somewhere between her arguments and scuffs with Curtsi and her perusal of the fronds she had grown. It wasn't that she was lucky, it was that she was young. Dangerous but expected. Not so expected of her anymore; life demanded a new found subordinate that Trusci wasn't accustomed to. Her failure to comply resulted in in this.

She could change. She could follow the ways of the world, learn the rules. Curtsi always drabbled on and on about their rightful places in the military. They had powers! Lowbloods sure, but this was their duty, and there was something so entirely rewarding to him in servitude. Millions would envy them, he would say. This power granted them presence. It granted them freedom.

Trusci saw it as a ******** prison.

Helmsman? Hell no, ******** that. She would rather die before she became bound against her will as a goddamn battery. She might not be fodder on the front line, but that was hardly a trade off in her eyes. She had switched a quick, meaningless death for an all-end slavery to Her Highness. She would be just as faceless then, too. Hell, she'd rather die fighting for "Glorious Alternia" before she became pedals on a bike.

Trusci ******** Modsat was not a means to an end. She was strong, she was brave, and god dammit she still ******** is. Wasn't that something she always lived by? You had to go out and get your knee ******** scraped to learn that the world was harsh. You had to stick your hand into the ******** fire to realize it would burn. She had always learned from experience, and honestly, was this really no different? It wasn't. This was another chapter in the proverbial notebook. This was just another lesson learned. She didn't have to become a drone to her planet just because karma finally bit her in the a**.

She would die by her own beliefs. She would go down ******** fighting.

Forget all the bullshit Curtsi said! He wasn't here anymore. Forget her lusus for trying to rope her in! She left too. She didn't need them anyway. Trusci didn't need anyone who didn't want to stick around. If they wanted to walk away, then let them. This was her fight and her story and she would be the one to close the book when it was finished. Buck up and do it yourself, because it sure as hell isn't going to get done if she just sits around like a moron.

Healing ******** sucks. Somewhere in all the recognition and inner turmoil Trusci felt the wetness on her cheeks. Crying? She balked out a laugh. It was the first thing she let out since the night she came home, and something about it felt good. She wouldn't cry again, not like this, better get it out. She wasn't going to spill tears over anything as stupid as a highblood conflict, and definitely not for her own shortcomings. Yeah, maybe she wasn't a kid, but she was young still. That was just how life was. Learning and growing.

She wouldn't make the same mistake.

First would come rehabilitation. She would work herself back up to speed. She wasn't going to be weak anymore; she would be strong. She would be reliability. Sturdy. A foundation. Her hand was sore, but it would heal. Her mind was broken, but it would realign.

Next was the one thing she was best at. Investigation. There were whispers of a rebellion on the wind ever since she was a grub. Sign her the ******** up.

She'd go down for glorious Alternia, all right.

Hivestuck

aaaaaand done OA O