01-14-2016, 01:50 PM
It was a while before Gamzee busted out of that coffin. It was a while before his violet eyes finally fluttered open. The first somewhat sentient thought that managed to form in his broken mind was-
Ouch.
The first cohesive sign of cognition that the tragic clown showed was simply sitting up in his medical cot. The air around him held a sort of sterile heaviness, so much so that Gamzee had trouble breathing correctly. His breaths came in large, obnoxious gasps, until he got enough strained gulps of oxygen to breathe without looking like a fish out of water. It was really dark. Dim was probably a better word for it. Still, The troll could see just fine. Living underground your entire life will do that to a brother, he supposes.
The clown was in some kind of medical enclosure, that much was obvious. Tent? Maybe. But a downright boring one at that. The tents he was accustomed to were magnificent, miraculous, and sometimes a little morbid. At least this tent had the last part down; there was blood all over the damn place. Some of it was his. Some of it, not so much. The majority of his was painted about in glorious fashion. It was more or less centered around the cot that he was currently occupying. There was also quite a bit of his royal life force creating a trail of sorts that goes around a corner, out of sight. Must be the exit. Or entrance. Or whatever. Upon closer lookifying, the dazed High-Blood noticed that purple wasn’t the only color staining the ground. It was a little too dark, the blood to faded to make out what hue it was. It didn’t pop out like his. Whatever, he guesses. Aside from the blood, there wasn’t anything else interesting to look at. Just medical equipment.
There was a water basin next to his mattress. Gamzee swings his legs up and over the edge of his bed with a slight groan. Sore. So, so sore. Looking at the mirror above the sink, the troll studies his own features.
To put it bluntly, he looked like hammered shit. But clean hammered shit. His ragged Capricorn shirt and trademark clownish polka-dotted pants have both been replaced with a fresh, clean set. Lifting his new/old shirt up, he examines his wounds. Or rather, his lack thereof. The burns and scrapes and nasty cuts that he sustained in the fight with Strawso have all but healed. Even the nasty gash in his chest. Bonus points, he guesses. Never question the miracles. His face, however, was less fresh and less new. Dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. Hair even more disheveled than usual. It was only just now that he was noticing the sickly sweet taste in his mouth that he just couldn’t get out. Ew. He spits into the sink a couple of times, then runs some water to wash it down. Nasty.
Yeah. Hammered shit.
The exhausted jester stumbles away from the mirror, about to follow the trail of his own blood before he notices something a little troubling. Kar-Bro was passed out in a wooden chair, right next to the clown’s old hospital bed. Like, this dude was ZONKED out. Posted up, lying back, mouth wide open catchin’ all kinds of flies. Gamzee chuckles bitterly, quietly. Lil’ dude all tuckered out, worrying about his friend. The High-Blood could see him fretting now, stressing out and shit over some little cuts and burns. Maybe he’d let him sleep a little longer.
---Earlier---
Karkat distances himself from the Coliseum. He decided that Adam’s death was a great time to make a disappearance. He’s seen enough upsetting things today. Not that his death made the crabby alien SAD, it was just particularly gruesome. Yes. Grotesque, in fact. Regardless, the amount of triggers is just off the charts. If he has a need to contact Jade, he’ll just throw open pesterChum. Whatever works. Maybe it’s time to go check on the only idiot he can mildly tolerate.
---
Approaching the tent, the knight of blood-
“Anesthesia! Sedatives! Magick! J-Just do something!”
The voice in his head narrating day-to-day actions, which happened to be his own, was abruptly cut off. There was a big ass commotion coming from one of the larger tents. Sounds of a struggle, screams of agony, and the like. Curiosity got the better of this ‘Kat, as the troll drew ever closer to the wails and shouts. It didn’t dawn on him, until he was already opening the flap doors, that this was the same tent that housed an injured High-Blood.
“I’ll kill all you ignorant Motherfuckers!”
Rusty needles scraped and pin pricked every joint in the cherry-blooded alien’s entire body. That guttural threat is reminiscent of a harbinger of destruction or some poetic prophetic bullshit like that. Shit sounded downright primordial, like an ancient Gothic statue had suddenly come to life and been given a voice. Picking up the pace, Karkat swung around a tarp corner and into quite the grisly scene.
Several medics were attempting to restrain a very angry, very distraught Makara. The clown in question was being held down by cerulean strands of wispy magical energy. Judging by the unconscious attendant in the corner, the medical staff had quickly figured out not to attempt keeping down the clown at close-quarters. Quite frankly, it is generally a bad idea to attempt to keep down the clown at all. You simply cannot.
Every fiber in his entire being shaking, the Low-Blood forces himself to take a step forward. Close-quarters is the only way he knew how to do things. Another step, and another, and another.
“Gamzee!”
Both the medical staff and the injured troll shut up real fast. Karkat is pretty damned good at shouting. Heads turned. Gamzee craned his head against the magical forces pinning him to the cot. The interrupting alien ignored the orange eyes, the royal blood spilling from his friend’s mouth. There was this wild, primal look plastered across the clown’s normally jovial and chillaxed face. What Karkat noticed most, however, is that there was the undeniable, palpable scent of fear in the air that was so terribly childish it couldn’t possibly be coming from the doctors, and the intense aura of pain emanating from his friend’s features. It was a constant pain. The kind that didn't go away easily.
In the next couple of seconds, shit escalated right up to the whirling device without warning. Distracted by Karkat’s arrival, one of the attendants tried to warn the boy to step back before he was hurt, losing all of the concentration necessary to hold down the beast in the bed. His magicks shattered like glass, providing the tortured troll the opportunity necessary to break the rest of his bonds. One by one, the rest of the magical restraints broke like plates thrown angrily to the ground by a toddler pitching a fit.
Just before Gamzee gained the momentum necessary to sit up, Karkat rushed him. The shorter of the two aliens wrapped his arms around his friend in a fierce bear hug, restricting any sort of arm movement, attempting to body slam the juggalo into his bed. In hindsight, this was probably a terrible fucking idea. In reaction to this sudden loss of breathing room, the insane clown lets loose something between a cackle and a roar before sinking his knife-like, predatory teeth into his best friend’s shoulder. Crimson blood splurts out like a water fountain, staining both the ground and their clothes. The smell of cherries and copper fills the air.
My god, did it hurt.
The Cherry-Blooded troll grimaces in between a slew of vicious swears before planting his palm on the clown’s forehead, well away from his teeth, and shoving the idiot back onto the bed as hard as he can. Immediately, the subjugglator begins to flail and resist, almost whining as much as he is growling and snapping his jaws. Someone yells at one of the medics to hold down the patient’s legs. But-
“Shoooooo-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh!”
Sh. Sh.
The mutant Low-Blood taps his idiot friend against the cheek lightly, repeatedly, eliciting a sort of pap-pap-pap sound.
Karkat has literally no fucking idea what he’s doing. It just feels...Natural. Like he’s supposed to do this. Like this was a thing that he’s had to do all his life, and maybe longer. It was almost like every motion, every syllable he muttered had been practiced for millenia. That didn’t really make a whole lot of fucking sense, but that’s how it felt.
The doctors stared at this odd, somewhat ridiculous yet almost ritualistic display, lost in a stupor. Slowly but surely, Gamzee’s growling, flailing, snapping, and resisting all faded to a strange, child-like sleep. He tossed and turned restlessly, as if he was a young boy having a terrible nightmare.
And then he stopped.
Utter silence, for a few moments.
Karkat stumbles away from his friend’s unconscious form, falling back to sit in a wooden, rickety old chair that he found oddly comfortable.
“Might wanna give that dumbass some sedatives. Or something. Christ I don’t fucking know. Keep him asleep for a little while.”
The Knight of Blood wasn’t sure if he was talking about Gamzee or himself.
---
Before Karkat fell asleep himself, he would speak with various medical staff, promising that another outburst like that was unlikely and that he and Gamzee would find a way to pay off any damages caused to staff or equipment. Truth be told, the troll wasn’t so sure if he could fulfill either of these promises, but it kept the scared and suspicious workers from turning him and his clown into the authorities.
While the staff patched up the shouty alien’s bite wound, he made all the medics that were present during Gamzee’s display to swear up and down that they would not tell the incapacitated clown about the frenzy. No use making the fool feel bad about something he can’t control. Speaking of can’t control, Karkat had no clue what that mess was. He didn’t know jack. Well he knew a Jack, but in this particular situation, he did not know any information about what had transpired. He should say. Yes. In fact, if the Jack he knew were here right now, he most assuredly would most likely not be having a good time, no.
Great, now he can’t even sort out his own thoughts.
---Present---
Gamzee had walked around the hustling bustling medical enclosure about five times now. He kept getting these strange looks and shit. He didn’t really know what was up. He tried waving all friendly like to some folks a couple of times, but they always just got all wide-eyed and stuff and just kept on their way. When did motherfuckers get so rude?
Whatever. He was chill about it. Kids can do themselves.
On the sixth roundabout, he decided it’d be best just to go on back in and see if his lil’ bro is awake.
Nah, son. He’s out of it.
Gamzee tilts his head, closing his eyes in thought for a moment. Man...He had no idea how long he had been out or who had beat the shit out of who or whom or whatever it’s supposed to be said.
The fool’s features scrunched up. He just confused himself half way from sideways. That shit didn’t sound correctamundo at all. Whatever though! He’s tired’a walkin’ around with all the rude folks and he wants to know what all up and happened back in the real world.
Because the real world is way better than the other world. The one he was in. The one he doesn’t want to-
Yo, let’s just not all up and be spreakin’ of it.
On his walks, he was trying not to think about it, but that wasn’t exactly easy when he was left alone with his thoughts. Man, Gamzee really doesn’t like his thoughts. ‘Specially when they ain’t all mirthful and junk.
Shoving these thoughts out of his think pan, the clown sits on the ground in front of Karkat. With a trademarked friendly yet stupid grin, the capricorn leans up to run a hand through his buddy’s hair, tussling it all up around his horns. His crabby counterpart spasms and jolts awake, nearly falling out of his wooden comfy-comf chair. Karkat flails his hands around in a karate-like defensive fashion, before his eyes alight on Gamzee below him.
“Y-You stupid-
Motherfu-
Damn-
-nnnnggg Honk fiend!”
So out of sorts was he, it seems that Karkles could not decide on an appropriate swear to properly describe present company.
“You know damn well that the horns are sensitive!”
This exclamation earns a blank stare from the clown. Before-
“Honk.”
Karkat could practically see that stupid clown emoticon floating right on this dumbass’s face. Right about now, he feels like knocking it clean off. Trying to keep a twitch from developing in his jaw, the crabby cancer clenches his face muscles and carefully shoulders his shirt, shifting the fabric closer to his neck. Totally nonchalant.
Gamzee doesn’t notice a thing. He just wears that blank grin like he always has.
Ouch.
The first cohesive sign of cognition that the tragic clown showed was simply sitting up in his medical cot. The air around him held a sort of sterile heaviness, so much so that Gamzee had trouble breathing correctly. His breaths came in large, obnoxious gasps, until he got enough strained gulps of oxygen to breathe without looking like a fish out of water. It was really dark. Dim was probably a better word for it. Still, The troll could see just fine. Living underground your entire life will do that to a brother, he supposes.
The clown was in some kind of medical enclosure, that much was obvious. Tent? Maybe. But a downright boring one at that. The tents he was accustomed to were magnificent, miraculous, and sometimes a little morbid. At least this tent had the last part down; there was blood all over the damn place. Some of it was his. Some of it, not so much. The majority of his was painted about in glorious fashion. It was more or less centered around the cot that he was currently occupying. There was also quite a bit of his royal life force creating a trail of sorts that goes around a corner, out of sight. Must be the exit. Or entrance. Or whatever. Upon closer lookifying, the dazed High-Blood noticed that purple wasn’t the only color staining the ground. It was a little too dark, the blood to faded to make out what hue it was. It didn’t pop out like his. Whatever, he guesses. Aside from the blood, there wasn’t anything else interesting to look at. Just medical equipment.
There was a water basin next to his mattress. Gamzee swings his legs up and over the edge of his bed with a slight groan. Sore. So, so sore. Looking at the mirror above the sink, the troll studies his own features.
To put it bluntly, he looked like hammered shit. But clean hammered shit. His ragged Capricorn shirt and trademark clownish polka-dotted pants have both been replaced with a fresh, clean set. Lifting his new/old shirt up, he examines his wounds. Or rather, his lack thereof. The burns and scrapes and nasty cuts that he sustained in the fight with Strawso have all but healed. Even the nasty gash in his chest. Bonus points, he guesses. Never question the miracles. His face, however, was less fresh and less new. Dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. Hair even more disheveled than usual. It was only just now that he was noticing the sickly sweet taste in his mouth that he just couldn’t get out. Ew. He spits into the sink a couple of times, then runs some water to wash it down. Nasty.
Yeah. Hammered shit.
The exhausted jester stumbles away from the mirror, about to follow the trail of his own blood before he notices something a little troubling. Kar-Bro was passed out in a wooden chair, right next to the clown’s old hospital bed. Like, this dude was ZONKED out. Posted up, lying back, mouth wide open catchin’ all kinds of flies. Gamzee chuckles bitterly, quietly. Lil’ dude all tuckered out, worrying about his friend. The High-Blood could see him fretting now, stressing out and shit over some little cuts and burns. Maybe he’d let him sleep a little longer.
---Earlier---
Karkat distances himself from the Coliseum. He decided that Adam’s death was a great time to make a disappearance. He’s seen enough upsetting things today. Not that his death made the crabby alien SAD, it was just particularly gruesome. Yes. Grotesque, in fact. Regardless, the amount of triggers is just off the charts. If he has a need to contact Jade, he’ll just throw open pesterChum. Whatever works. Maybe it’s time to go check on the only idiot he can mildly tolerate.
---
Approaching the tent, the knight of blood-
“Anesthesia! Sedatives! Magick! J-Just do something!”
The voice in his head narrating day-to-day actions, which happened to be his own, was abruptly cut off. There was a big ass commotion coming from one of the larger tents. Sounds of a struggle, screams of agony, and the like. Curiosity got the better of this ‘Kat, as the troll drew ever closer to the wails and shouts. It didn’t dawn on him, until he was already opening the flap doors, that this was the same tent that housed an injured High-Blood.
“I’ll kill all you ignorant Motherfuckers!”
Rusty needles scraped and pin pricked every joint in the cherry-blooded alien’s entire body. That guttural threat is reminiscent of a harbinger of destruction or some poetic prophetic bullshit like that. Shit sounded downright primordial, like an ancient Gothic statue had suddenly come to life and been given a voice. Picking up the pace, Karkat swung around a tarp corner and into quite the grisly scene.
Several medics were attempting to restrain a very angry, very distraught Makara. The clown in question was being held down by cerulean strands of wispy magical energy. Judging by the unconscious attendant in the corner, the medical staff had quickly figured out not to attempt keeping down the clown at close-quarters. Quite frankly, it is generally a bad idea to attempt to keep down the clown at all. You simply cannot.
Every fiber in his entire being shaking, the Low-Blood forces himself to take a step forward. Close-quarters is the only way he knew how to do things. Another step, and another, and another.
“Gamzee!”
Both the medical staff and the injured troll shut up real fast. Karkat is pretty damned good at shouting. Heads turned. Gamzee craned his head against the magical forces pinning him to the cot. The interrupting alien ignored the orange eyes, the royal blood spilling from his friend’s mouth. There was this wild, primal look plastered across the clown’s normally jovial and chillaxed face. What Karkat noticed most, however, is that there was the undeniable, palpable scent of fear in the air that was so terribly childish it couldn’t possibly be coming from the doctors, and the intense aura of pain emanating from his friend’s features. It was a constant pain. The kind that didn't go away easily.
In the next couple of seconds, shit escalated right up to the whirling device without warning. Distracted by Karkat’s arrival, one of the attendants tried to warn the boy to step back before he was hurt, losing all of the concentration necessary to hold down the beast in the bed. His magicks shattered like glass, providing the tortured troll the opportunity necessary to break the rest of his bonds. One by one, the rest of the magical restraints broke like plates thrown angrily to the ground by a toddler pitching a fit.
Just before Gamzee gained the momentum necessary to sit up, Karkat rushed him. The shorter of the two aliens wrapped his arms around his friend in a fierce bear hug, restricting any sort of arm movement, attempting to body slam the juggalo into his bed. In hindsight, this was probably a terrible fucking idea. In reaction to this sudden loss of breathing room, the insane clown lets loose something between a cackle and a roar before sinking his knife-like, predatory teeth into his best friend’s shoulder. Crimson blood splurts out like a water fountain, staining both the ground and their clothes. The smell of cherries and copper fills the air.
My god, did it hurt.
The Cherry-Blooded troll grimaces in between a slew of vicious swears before planting his palm on the clown’s forehead, well away from his teeth, and shoving the idiot back onto the bed as hard as he can. Immediately, the subjugglator begins to flail and resist, almost whining as much as he is growling and snapping his jaws. Someone yells at one of the medics to hold down the patient’s legs. But-
“Shoooooo-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh!”
Sh. Sh.
The mutant Low-Blood taps his idiot friend against the cheek lightly, repeatedly, eliciting a sort of pap-pap-pap sound.
Karkat has literally no fucking idea what he’s doing. It just feels...Natural. Like he’s supposed to do this. Like this was a thing that he’s had to do all his life, and maybe longer. It was almost like every motion, every syllable he muttered had been practiced for millenia. That didn’t really make a whole lot of fucking sense, but that’s how it felt.
The doctors stared at this odd, somewhat ridiculous yet almost ritualistic display, lost in a stupor. Slowly but surely, Gamzee’s growling, flailing, snapping, and resisting all faded to a strange, child-like sleep. He tossed and turned restlessly, as if he was a young boy having a terrible nightmare.
And then he stopped.
Utter silence, for a few moments.
Karkat stumbles away from his friend’s unconscious form, falling back to sit in a wooden, rickety old chair that he found oddly comfortable.
“Might wanna give that dumbass some sedatives. Or something. Christ I don’t fucking know. Keep him asleep for a little while.”
The Knight of Blood wasn’t sure if he was talking about Gamzee or himself.
---
Before Karkat fell asleep himself, he would speak with various medical staff, promising that another outburst like that was unlikely and that he and Gamzee would find a way to pay off any damages caused to staff or equipment. Truth be told, the troll wasn’t so sure if he could fulfill either of these promises, but it kept the scared and suspicious workers from turning him and his clown into the authorities.
While the staff patched up the shouty alien’s bite wound, he made all the medics that were present during Gamzee’s display to swear up and down that they would not tell the incapacitated clown about the frenzy. No use making the fool feel bad about something he can’t control. Speaking of can’t control, Karkat had no clue what that mess was. He didn’t know jack. Well he knew a Jack, but in this particular situation, he did not know any information about what had transpired. He should say. Yes. In fact, if the Jack he knew were here right now, he most assuredly would most likely not be having a good time, no.
Great, now he can’t even sort out his own thoughts.
---Present---
Gamzee had walked around the hustling bustling medical enclosure about five times now. He kept getting these strange looks and shit. He didn’t really know what was up. He tried waving all friendly like to some folks a couple of times, but they always just got all wide-eyed and stuff and just kept on their way. When did motherfuckers get so rude?
Whatever. He was chill about it. Kids can do themselves.
On the sixth roundabout, he decided it’d be best just to go on back in and see if his lil’ bro is awake.
Nah, son. He’s out of it.
Gamzee tilts his head, closing his eyes in thought for a moment. Man...He had no idea how long he had been out or who had beat the shit out of who or whom or whatever it’s supposed to be said.
The fool’s features scrunched up. He just confused himself half way from sideways. That shit didn’t sound correctamundo at all. Whatever though! He’s tired’a walkin’ around with all the rude folks and he wants to know what all up and happened back in the real world.
Because the real world is way better than the other world. The one he was in. The one he doesn’t want to-
Yo, let’s just not all up and be spreakin’ of it.
On his walks, he was trying not to think about it, but that wasn’t exactly easy when he was left alone with his thoughts. Man, Gamzee really doesn’t like his thoughts. ‘Specially when they ain’t all mirthful and junk.
Shoving these thoughts out of his think pan, the clown sits on the ground in front of Karkat. With a trademarked friendly yet stupid grin, the capricorn leans up to run a hand through his buddy’s hair, tussling it all up around his horns. His crabby counterpart spasms and jolts awake, nearly falling out of his wooden comfy-comf chair. Karkat flails his hands around in a karate-like defensive fashion, before his eyes alight on Gamzee below him.
“Y-You stupid-
Motherfu-
Damn-
-nnnnggg Honk fiend!”
So out of sorts was he, it seems that Karkles could not decide on an appropriate swear to properly describe present company.
“You know damn well that the horns are sensitive!”
This exclamation earns a blank stare from the clown. Before-
“Honk.”
Karkat could practically see that stupid clown emoticon floating right on this dumbass’s face. Right about now, he feels like knocking it clean off. Trying to keep a twitch from developing in his jaw, the crabby cancer clenches his face muscles and carefully shoulders his shirt, shifting the fabric closer to his neck. Totally nonchalant.
Gamzee doesn’t notice a thing. He just wears that blank grin like he always has.
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![[Image: dlpaou6b73f.gif]](http://www.auplod.com/u/dlpaou6b73f.gif)
-by Jade Harley
Never Falter in the Face of Infinity.
-Tearan Wover
-by Jade Harley
Never Falter in the Face of Infinity.
-Tearan Wover