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Waiting
There is no one to welcome Artollo back to the respite block when he slinks inside around Midnight, and both shadows and emptiness welcome him back like a patient morail. For this, he is grateful.
Nearly the entire communal hive is not as filled as it should be, could be, because all the other trolls who inhabit it are either out with one another or working in one of factories of this seaside city, or near the docks, or the shops, on their knees and scrubbing away every bit of dirt the highbloods leave behind, because things must be perfect for their betters. Nothing short of perfect. So it is only him in this broken down little room, and for once he is grateful that his respite block is on ground level not below or above it. He never has far to go.
But this means neither do any enemies.
All bones and taut skin, he keeps to the walls and doesn't lower his shoulders down from his ears, body tense as an Archeradicator's bowstring. He may be in his hive, but he is not safe. It is only when he silently shuts the door of the hygieneblock shut and turns to the mirror does his body lose some of its tension, and even then, only some.
It is a dirty cracked thing, covered in dirt and dried lowblood splatters. Only the very center of it is really any kind of clean, and even then, that is hardly saying anything at all. He is not the first troll who has resided in this pathetic little respiteblock, and he very much doubt he will ever be the last. He doubts very much indeed as he stares into his reflection, where it is hard to tell what grime and blood belongs on just the mirror and what belongs just on him. His cheeks are hollow, all desperation and hunger, and his eyes are sunk into his skull, surrounded by heavy bags of sewer yellow. His lips are cracked, and bleeding just slightly, showing more of his filthy color over his face. The only things which brings him satisfaction are his eyes. Even as his skull pounds in that ever present dull pain which has never left him for sweeps and sweeps, they are nothing more than a dull mutation. No glowing. No sparks. They are as useless as his horns, nothing but show. So long as people keep believing that, so long is he safe. To a degree.
Adrenaline has carried him to his hive, but it is leaving him now, and he sinks wearily against the ablution tray, forehead pressing against the mirror. Without looking, he is able to get his hands to fumble over the handles, and water gushes out. This is another small piece of luck to cherish: it looks mostly clean after the first few dirty spurts. His hands only shake slightly as he directs them under the spray.
Maroon and dirty green pour off of his fingers and down into the drain.
That was not his good luck, tonight. The maroons, they were mindreaders, they would have known because his luck could not have held out for so long. They had to go. And he had so hoped to make it quick, make it painless for him. Why couldn't they have stayed separated? Why did their auspitice have to get involved? Three in one night, and he's tired, so tired. When the water squelches to a stop, he continues to stare at his reflection with empty eyes. Dull eyes. Dead ones.
He is a dead troll walking and he is so tired.
His weaponkind flickers into his hand and he holds it up, finally tearing his gaze from the mirror to look at it. It is still stained the colors that had been on his hands not moments before.
Three in one night. Tomorrow highbloods are coming to inspect the factory. He was lucky last time with that subjugglator, all that infighting and they forgot about him. Will he be able to escape notice this time without any fuss?
He is tired.
The daggerkind is sharp and jagged but warm against his throat and his eyes go back to staring at himself. This is a strife specibus which has been worn down by everything in the world, and doesn't even look like glittering silver in the mirror from the lights of the twin moons. It looks nothing like the weapons he's seen highbloods use. It just blends against his pale gray skin, nonexistent. He could barely notice it. If he pressed, would he notice the dirty yellow pouring down his throat?
He is tired. He is tired of everything. Tired of pretending, tired of faking, of fighting, of working. No one will notice his absence. He is just one sewerblood among many, and two more can take his place. Not even his quadrants would care, he thinks. Move on, they would, and perhaps for the better. His lusus, beautiful thing, he's clever and quick, he could fly away from all this.
He is tired, and he doesn't know what stays his hand.
"What are you waiting for?" he asks the dead eyed, shallow faced troll who looks at him in the mirror, voice a hoarse whisper.
There is no answer.
He wasn't expecting one.
Nearly the entire communal hive is not as filled as it should be, could be, because all the other trolls who inhabit it are either out with one another or working in one of factories of this seaside city, or near the docks, or the shops, on their knees and scrubbing away every bit of dirt the highbloods leave behind, because things must be perfect for their betters. Nothing short of perfect. So it is only him in this broken down little room, and for once he is grateful that his respite block is on ground level not below or above it. He never has far to go.
But this means neither do any enemies.
All bones and taut skin, he keeps to the walls and doesn't lower his shoulders down from his ears, body tense as an Archeradicator's bowstring. He may be in his hive, but he is not safe. It is only when he silently shuts the door of the hygieneblock shut and turns to the mirror does his body lose some of its tension, and even then, only some.
It is a dirty cracked thing, covered in dirt and dried lowblood splatters. Only the very center of it is really any kind of clean, and even then, that is hardly saying anything at all. He is not the first troll who has resided in this pathetic little respiteblock, and he very much doubt he will ever be the last. He doubts very much indeed as he stares into his reflection, where it is hard to tell what grime and blood belongs on just the mirror and what belongs just on him. His cheeks are hollow, all desperation and hunger, and his eyes are sunk into his skull, surrounded by heavy bags of sewer yellow. His lips are cracked, and bleeding just slightly, showing more of his filthy color over his face. The only things which brings him satisfaction are his eyes. Even as his skull pounds in that ever present dull pain which has never left him for sweeps and sweeps, they are nothing more than a dull mutation. No glowing. No sparks. They are as useless as his horns, nothing but show. So long as people keep believing that, so long is he safe. To a degree.
Adrenaline has carried him to his hive, but it is leaving him now, and he sinks wearily against the ablution tray, forehead pressing against the mirror. Without looking, he is able to get his hands to fumble over the handles, and water gushes out. This is another small piece of luck to cherish: it looks mostly clean after the first few dirty spurts. His hands only shake slightly as he directs them under the spray.
Maroon and dirty green pour off of his fingers and down into the drain.
That was not his good luck, tonight. The maroons, they were mindreaders, they would have known because his luck could not have held out for so long. They had to go. And he had so hoped to make it quick, make it painless for him. Why couldn't they have stayed separated? Why did their auspitice have to get involved? Three in one night, and he's tired, so tired. When the water squelches to a stop, he continues to stare at his reflection with empty eyes. Dull eyes. Dead ones.
He is a dead troll walking and he is so tired.
His weaponkind flickers into his hand and he holds it up, finally tearing his gaze from the mirror to look at it. It is still stained the colors that had been on his hands not moments before.
Three in one night. Tomorrow highbloods are coming to inspect the factory. He was lucky last time with that subjugglator, all that infighting and they forgot about him. Will he be able to escape notice this time without any fuss?
He is tired.
The daggerkind is sharp and jagged but warm against his throat and his eyes go back to staring at himself. This is a strife specibus which has been worn down by everything in the world, and doesn't even look like glittering silver in the mirror from the lights of the twin moons. It looks nothing like the weapons he's seen highbloods use. It just blends against his pale gray skin, nonexistent. He could barely notice it. If he pressed, would he notice the dirty yellow pouring down his throat?
He is tired. He is tired of everything. Tired of pretending, tired of faking, of fighting, of working. No one will notice his absence. He is just one sewerblood among many, and two more can take his place. Not even his quadrants would care, he thinks. Move on, they would, and perhaps for the better. His lusus, beautiful thing, he's clever and quick, he could fly away from all this.
He is tired, and he doesn't know what stays his hand.
"What are you waiting for?" he asks the dead eyed, shallow faced troll who looks at him in the mirror, voice a hoarse whisper.
There is no answer.
He wasn't expecting one.
I know this is a fic, not an rp, but I just had to jam out a response
Next to him, his guardian stirs, her own sleep disturbed by his thrashing. He glances down at her, and her presence soothes him, makes some of the pain reside. He lies back down, eyes that haven't yet begun to turn the traitorous, mutant red that will someday be his inevitable downfall staring at the roof of the cave where they've taken shelter for the day. When the sun sets and the moons rise, he'll tell her about his dream, about the troll he saw, about the troll he knows, with the complete certainty of the very young, that he needs to find. He doesn't know where he is, except for the vague scent of salt in the air of the dream. Salt... like the sea. So it will be east that they'll travel, towards the sea, towards where the other is waiting for them, even if he doesn't know it yet himself.
And once there, they'll find him. It's as simple as that, even though he doesn't know the other's name, or location, or even his face. As the young mutant drifts back into sleep, he knows how he'll know the other, knows what will separate him from all the other yellowblooded slaves working in the factory towns. After all, how many trolls can there be out there with mismatched, opaque red and blue eyes that flash and dance with the light of all the stars in the sky?