Your matesprit has returned, thankfully unharmed, and although you play it cool when he appears, you are delighted to see him safe and sound. He’s accompanied by two wigglers you could care less about, one of them human, and then a somewhat-familiar Vriska Serket; not the one you dated for a while in the timeless, ageless expanse of the dreambubbles, but the one who had berated herself viciously. The call to adventure worked out, ya figure. For you, anyway. A hardened, much hotter Shouty McNubs, older than you by the time you fell out of the sky. You won’t lie – he’s the type of troll that gets better with age. You wonder if he’s going to get one of those gray streaks like Lalonde has. That would really kick up the scarred badass supersoldier look another level.

Unfortunately, you figure that this Vriska didn’t get off as lucky as you did, not yet, anyway. A hot buoyfriend (although by human standards, you would prob be married at this point), an exciting excuse to fight, and someone to protect, this shouty little nerd that’s developed into a killer in his own right. Sure, people die, but you already been through that ringer once – there are ghosts of your old friends, the ones who didn’t doubledie, fighting on certain fronts, but they aren’t really them - and death aint so bad anyways. Though you heard through the ghost grapevine (gossipy bitches, the lot of them) that someone saw your Vris with her Terezi. All’s well that ends well, in that case.

Karkat looks stressed, by the time you get him alone, and while you know he needs a chance to talk to Kanaya (you don’t swing for that human quadrant-blending, as much as you pity him), you can still try and perk him up a bit. He’s not down for the war stories talk, or the base gossip, or even just good old-fashioned making out. Something’s on his mind, even more than it has been for the last while.

Alright, you’re getting somewhere now. Get him a little angry, maybe even flip black for a bit, and after he pins you to the wall maybe you can find out what the fuck’s bugging him. The circles under his eyes are worse than usual; he’s barely slept. Being out in some unprotected farmhouse with a bunch of kids probably did a number on his anxiety.

Who the fuck are you kidding, you are head-over-heels all the fucking quadrants for this idiot.

You will let Kanaya take the lead on the like, deep guilt complexes about lots of people dying, though, because you don’t really get? that? and besides, they’re good for each other.

He does, a quick smooch right on your kisser. He’s trying to be angry with you but he can’t, cause you’re the best.

It’s a bit of a sore point between the two of you. No point in feeling gillty for the dead, the living are the only ones that miss em anyways.

He rolls his eyes, not wanting to drop it, but not wanting to get in a fight with you over it either. Thankfully he takes the opening you left and changes the subject.

Karkat sighs, shaking his head, mildly amused, mildly irritated, but mostly too tired to care.

He does.

A few hours, after your joint midday nap is over, you help him get dressed up in his full regalia. Kanaya insists that looking good and put together is as important to good propaganda as the words he speaks. It’s a plain light grey jumpsuit, with the arms rolled up to the elbows, as opposed to his typical form-fitting urban camo. Rather than a rack of medals, or anything similarly ostentatious, he merely wears a long cape, black on the outside, and a dark crimson on the inside, with matching epaulets, and a beret in the same red color. Topping it off are a pair of black combat boots and a matching black eyepatch, with his symbol embroidered on it in the brightest red imaginable. He’s stunning, like this, his one red iris and dark, grey-black skin highlighted perfectly, along with his gunmetal-colored prosthetic arm. The cape accentuates his broad figure; for all the guff you give him over it, he is taller than most on this planet. And the jumpsuit is tight in all the right places. Not your instinctual idea of a terrifying royal, but instead, something leaderly. A troll that fights alongside his comrades, and yet still acts as someone who calls the shots, who has put everything on the line for a better future. Karkat crosses his arms when he notices you staring, pointedly shifting his gaze to somewhere else, to hide the blush you always manage to drag out of him.

You roll your eyes. He can be so uptight aboat the violence, and you reelly don’t get it.

The two of you walk, you in your own uniform. Your skin-tight black jumpsuit, with its plunging zipper line going down to your waist, and its fuchsia highlights, is tailored specifically to call back images of the Condesce. Gods, she was cool, for a space tyrant. Plenty of people have money, but few know how to make it pop like she did. You aren’t quite on her level (yet). Nah, you’re the muscle, the enforcer, the vengeful, to back up Karkat’s leaderly persona. Near-silent, terrifying, decked out in jewelry that people say in whispers is trophies from the dead. It’s not – their shit is fuckin tacky, and stealin wedding rings is a little far, even for you – but the rumors are helpful. You grin at the thought, flashing your shark-grin smile, all fuckin pointy teeth, thanks to your legendary seadweller heritage. You take a great deal of pride that its the last thing a lot of Crocker’s soldiers have seen.

Gamzee’s body is strung up on a funeral pyre in one of the larger natural caverns of your base. Makara reminds you of Kurloz, especially in death. The silence of an unmoving mime is familiar in its own way. You shudder a little but take your place across from the juggalorator’s corpse. Your hubby stands, foregrounded, between you, your trident out and gleaming (having it painted in only the human’s candy blood isn’t nearly as fun, and dulls the shine, for all the work image-wise it does ya) and the pyre. A few technicians run around, making sure everything is ready to hijack the 6 o’clock evening news. The gang’s had a backdoor into their broadcasting system for a while, but you’re told you only get one use before they figure out the hack.

A bronzeblood wearing a radio headset counts down from three with their fingers, and you are live, and Karkat is talking.

Karkat throws a hand back to point at the pyre behind him, at the dead clown strung up there, and snarls. You stop yourself from flashing your own fangs in a smile - you’re so goddamn proud of him.

You walk, idly twirling your trident in your other hand, as you move to set the pyre ablaze, silent and terrifying. It catches, and the camera turns, centering Karkat in front of the burning pyre, his cape moving slightly as the air shifts, sucked towards the flames as the highblood burns. You step out of frame and get to a spot where you can watch. He is powerful, victorious, silhouetted in front of a roaring bonfire, his teeth and one red eye catching the light as he ramps up into the second half of his speech, steel in his words and a snarl on his lips.

Glub, looking at him like this, the raw power and confidence exuding off the man, makes you want to jump his bones right then and there.

The troll you love is shouting, now, at the top of his powerful, well-trained lungs, fire in his words, and justified rage, properly righteous indignation - and not the self-righteous kind like you know - in his glare, his mechanical fist clenched, fangs out, throwing his good arm to the side to make his point -

The camera cuts off, and you rush into his arms, picking him up, your bloodpusher surging, laughing, because god damn, he even got you roarin for some redemption, and you’ve never done a damn thing wrong in your life.

Your matesprit, however, only looks troubled, once the pyre burns down and the bluster is gone.