Fuck this shit, seriously. Fuck this stupid planet where you can only go out at night and where the stars are all wrong (and you were a city boy, what the fuck did you even know about stars?). Fuck the Game that gave you this as a booby prize. Fuck the gray skin and stupid horns and the excitable weirdo junk you're carting around in your pants. Most especially, though, fuck the ugly psycho you're tracking through the waste tonight.
You sound like Karkat. Your inner monologue just needs a sprinkling of nookblister and chutelicker and you'll sound just like your favorite little failure. Maybe it's in the blood, ha ha. Maybe it's just that being a troll destroys any hope you have of ever being cool.
Your name is Dave Strider, and you have rarely felt less cool than you do right now.
Something moves in the dunes up ahead of you, and a tiny part of your lizard brain (can you call it that when you're a troll?) gets a case of the screaming panic and wants to run, fuck, run, he'll cull you. The rest of you is goddamn furious that he makes you afraid. You want to rip his stupid painted face off with your bare claws. You want to piss in his open wounds and water down that apparently precious indigo. You want to fuck him, what the fuck is wrong with you, being a troll is the worst thing ever.
The smart thing to do would be to stalk him, to stay quiet and try to get the drop on the stupid clown. He's big and strong, a highblood, a natural ruler over this awful race of crazy violent monsters. He knows what he's doing in a fight, you know that for sure, and you can fight somebody who has you outmatched but you respected your Bro, and you think that was mutual, so. It was different. Fight smart, you tell yourself. Get the drop on him.
"I know you're intimidated by the sheer force of Strider swag," you say loudly, "but this game of hide and seek is already getting old."
The seconds tick past, four, five, six, and then you see Gamzee's horns in silhouette against the sand. Fuck, he's big when he stands up straight.
Part of you is still trying to piss yourself in abject terror. The rest of you is shoving that part into a little box in the back of your head where it can stay the hell out of the way, because you are not going to let his stupid juggalo mind tricks win this fight for you. "There you go, princess," you say, baring the short sharp needles of your fangs in answer to his smile. "Let's dance."
FILL: TEAM Dirk<3Equius
You sound like Karkat. Your inner monologue just needs a sprinkling of nookblister and chutelicker and you'll sound just like your favorite little failure. Maybe it's in the blood, ha ha. Maybe it's just that being a troll destroys any hope you have of ever being cool.
Your name is Dave Strider, and you have rarely felt less cool than you do right now.
Something moves in the dunes up ahead of you, and a tiny part of your lizard brain (can you call it that when you're a troll?) gets a case of the screaming panic and wants to run, fuck, run, he'll cull you. The rest of you is goddamn furious that he makes you afraid. You want to rip his stupid painted face off with your bare claws. You want to piss in his open wounds and water down that apparently precious indigo. You want to fuck him, what the fuck is wrong with you, being a troll is the worst thing ever.
The smart thing to do would be to stalk him, to stay quiet and try to get the drop on the stupid clown. He's big and strong, a highblood, a natural ruler over this awful race of crazy violent monsters. He knows what he's doing in a fight, you know that for sure, and you can fight somebody who has you outmatched but you respected your Bro, and you think that was mutual, so. It was different. Fight smart, you tell yourself. Get the drop on him.
"I know you're intimidated by the sheer force of Strider swag," you say loudly, "but this game of hide and seek is already getting old."
The seconds tick past, four, five, six, and then you see Gamzee's horns in silhouette against the sand. Fuck, he's big when he stands up straight.
Part of you is still trying to piss yourself in abject terror. The rest of you is shoving that part into a little box in the back of your head where it can stay the hell out of the way, because you are not going to let his stupid juggalo mind tricks win this fight for you. "There you go, princess," you say, baring the short sharp needles of your fangs in answer to his smile. "Let's dance."
Fuck, being a troll makes you stupid.