The Prisoner of Rage

[Gamzee Makara]

It’s dark. Again. So motherfucking dark. Gamzee is afraid to open his eyes in this place. Whenever he does, he can’t control what he sees. That scares him. What he sees scares him- He’s kind of a wimp, really. Regardless of this wimpy attribute, Makara attempts some movement. His arms would be first. He tries to lift them forward and up, so that he can see his hands, but finds that both of his appendages are loaded down, locked in place by a viscous, goopy substance. Ew. He can’t feel with his fingers, but he can guess that his hands are stuck firmly to the floor.

Okay, well, lets try the legs. Struggling in vain against his slimey weights to stand up, Gamzee finds that he is in a kneeling position, sitting on his knees. The holdings are strong enough against his other limbs that he finds he is unable to move much from this position, much less stand.

The neck. Can he move his head? Twisting his neck from left to right, up to down, he finds that yes, he can indeed move his head. A miracle, that is. Quivering breath leaking from his lips, the lone Bard of Rage chances cracking his eyelids just a peek.

He kneels in a pool of white light coming from an unidentified source. It is not exactly dim, nor is it really very bright. There is a sharp inhale of breath as the grey teenager stifles a whimper.

Slime.

His arms are covered in green Sopor slime, pinning him to the floor.

At first, Gamzee tries his best to stay calm. He tries so hard, so very hard, but he can’t control himself when he begins to struggle, trying to flail and fling this putrid, acrid, demonic substance off of him. It is all in vain, however. The slime only seems to grow heavier across his shoulders and hands and arms and elbows and he can’t breath he can’t his mouth it ain’t working he ain’t working he’s gonna drown, this shit is going to drown him and there is nothing that he can do about it. Nothing.

Only briefly does it cross his mind that this is where he belongs, this is what he has done to himself. There's a reason he's going to be drowned in slime. There's a reason that the slime binds him.

But does this stop him? No. No it doesn't. The boy’s spasms are dotted with periodic shouts and screams of terror, sounds of agony and sorrow.

It’s pathetic.

Strazio Rockwell, the Blood Mage of Rage steps into the light from behind his veil of shadows.

[Strazio Rockwell]

Back in the hole.

Back down deep beneath the ashes and char of a burning village. Buried in the basement, underneath the dripping blood and screams of the dying. Nothing here except for smoldering cinders and fear. Strazio found himself dreaming of the massacre once again. This time however he was no mere child, no he was his present self. No, no this time he was the Avatar of Rage, the full-bodied child born of blood and flames. The living breathing manifestation of Damien's retribution, bearing the Rite of Magick and a less than reputable disposition. Never had he dreamed of Riverweldt with such terrifying power, such ruthless capability.

Something was wrong.

Something deep within the dark burning pit of anguish that plagued him nightly had changed. Something so very fundamental to the core experience of fear that fear was absent in this bleak place. Yes there was fire and ash and blood and screams, but there was also that undying rage, and the power that it offered to one willing to sacrifice his soul. Strazio moved in the darkness, standing beneath the crushing weight of the burning Riverweldt. There was a strange serenity in the darkness, a macabre chorus brought to life with hell as the backdrop. His flesh felt heavy and sluggish, molasses pumped through his veins and tar chugged through his muscles. Pain was strangely absent, and much like the fear that normally plagued the avatar he did not miss its presence.

Even more intrigueing was the presence of a large door, carved into the bloody stone walls of his prison. Upon its sanguine stained edifice the snarling visage of that damned clown was carved deep. A wicked grin cut deep into the rock and Gamzee's normally chill demeanor was absent. It seemed to breath and pulse ever so faintly with life. Stumbling drunkenly towards the door Strazio reached out in morbid curiosity. His hand pressed againts the stone and he felt a horrible churning in his guts. Viscous tar and soot spewed forth from his throat, vomiting painfully he ejected several liters of the brackish syrup. The scent of sun-baked fruit soda filled the room and his mouth soured with a terribly sacharrine taste, as if he had swallowed burnt sugar.
"Disgusting," he growled, wiping the excess muck from his stained lips.

Once again he placed a scarred paw upon the mute stone door and again his guts twisted into knots. A torrential burst of that rotten nectar erupted from his stomach and up into his throat. Doggedly stubborn the mage closed his mouth, trying to fight against the flood of tainted mollasses. It filled his maw with melted black licorice and it wormed through his sinuses, spewing out of his nose. Still he pressed harder against the stone, forcing it aside with one grinding heave. Pressure was relieved and with a spattering cough he cleared the liquid from his gullet. Before him a vast tunnel was revealed, spiraling deep into the terrible darkness below.

Slowly the avatar stepped forward, taking careful strides to avoid any hidden pitfalls. Cotton filled his mouth and he bit the back of his palm in anticipation. Even now, at the peak of his power he still found fear within his own heart. For what could possibly lie at the bottom of this pit?

That damned clown.

Gamzee fucking Makara.

He was absolutely covered in that tar. But this stuff, it was alive, it was something that threatened to envelop all that it touched. Strazio watched in silence as the troll was consumed by the tacky liquid.

"Fight it," Strazio muttered, "I don't know what the fuck that stuff is, but it ain't good."

A grey hand stretched out towards the avatar and grasp at air. Thick ropes of slime wrapped tightly against the troll's bare flesh and pulled him deeper into the undulating mass of toxic goop. With a sharp sigh Strazio reached out for Gamzee's arm.

"I better not regret this clown-boy."

[Strazio Rockwell]

The two locked hands. Strazio’s scarred flesh pressed against Gamzee’s pale skin. Sparks danced across their bodies. An acrid burning smell filled the air as the ragesparks tore into the swallowing slime. Purple cinders were belched into the air as the troll gasped for breath. His yellow eyes darted darted around, absorbing every scrap of information. Vigorously he was ripped from his prison of tar, and thrown onto the damp cement. Miraculously the slime sizzled and burned away, turning into nothing more than ash and cinders. Strazio towered over him, larger than life, and with a smoldering look of fury in his eyes.

“What’s up?” the rage mage asked his now-found head-mate.

“Uhhhh,” Gamzee spoke cautiously, feeling a strange sense of clarity, “sup bro? Any idea where we’re at?”

“Not sure,” Strazio shrugged, “I’ve only fused with someone once before, and it wasn’t anything like this.”

“Lotsa bad vibes in here motherfucker,” Gamzee crawled to his shaking legs.

“Yeah,” Strazio muttered.

The earth shook and a grinding of stone and metal was heard. Before them their sanctuary crumbled and shook, falling into a nameless and faceless void. Words were submerged and neither could hear the other asides from the occasional clip or echo. Falling deep into an ocean of nothing. Drowning. Anger. Mirth. Everything mixed upon itself and became one. Then came the rushing earth, something akin to a movie theatre stopped their fall. Before them a movie starring Gamzio’s exploits against the Harbinger and Okor began playing. Every thunderous blow against the fusion’s frame echoed within the theatre. Hairline cracks sheared into larger gaps across the cement walls of the cinema. A particularly vicious strike tore a gash across the screen, spilling royal blood.

“Is that us?” the avatar asked, his voice trailing off in astonishment.

“Woah,” Gamzee responded, “we make one badass motherfucker.”

Another blow shook the light fixtures hanging above.

“We’re getting our ass kicked” Strazio growled.

“Nah chill bro,” Gamzee put a hand on Strazio’s shoulder, “we’ve got this, just sit back, relax, and chillax.”

Sparks crawled across Strazio’s form and he pulled away from the troll’s hand. Every blow, every laceration he could feel numbed like a dream. Their movements slowed and their strikes weakened. Even their bond was failing, a fading light in the darkness. Gamzee reclined in one of the cinema chairs, brushing a bit of detritus that had fallen into his hair. His untroubled being infuriated the avatar of rage.

“Chill out?” Strazio questioned, “we’re going to die out there! And you want me to chill out?”

“S’not like we can do anything but watch right now,” inexplicably the damned clown had found popcorn.

The avatar clenched his fists and fired a shatter burst off into the ait, lighting the theater with a bright white flash.

“I can’t lose,” Strazio turned back to Gamzee, “that Harbinger motherfucker has my journal, and I just can’t let him keep it!”

“Journal? What’s so important about your journal? Is it a diary or something?”

“Kind of,” the defender sighed, “when I was younger my father would tell me that people died twice. First was when they draw their last breath, second was when their name was last spoken. My village was slaughtered when I was young. I couldn’t save them, I couldn’t protect them. I was weak. That journal has the name of every villager in Riverweldt, my friends, my neighbors, my family. Without that journal I can’t remember their names, and I can’t just let them die again like that.”

"Yo, that's right righteous of you, my cantankerous friend." Gamzee does some weird sort of sign language that involves making a four fingered claw across his heart. "May the Miraculous Gods of Mirth be with you in all your endeavors. And, jus' cuz I all up and like ya like that, you can even have their most devoted, most whimsical servant."

“Uhm,” the clown's offer is met with a blank, somewhat mystified stare.

Chuckling nervously, servant in question explains, "It's me, my dude. If you ever need anything from me, I've got your back. Especially if it's a quest as wickedly virtuous as this. My word and rhymes of honor."

Strazio smirked, “I appreciate that, but just so you know I’ll keep you to it.”

“Don’t worry bro, I got you.”

“Good,” Strazio stepped towards the screen, illiciting a raised eyebrow from the troll, “you fucking better not let me down clown, or I’ll be coming for your ass.”

Before Gamzee could respond, Strazio leaped through the screen and into the real world. Their bond was violently shattered and Gamzee was sent tumbling back into the void.

Falling, falling once again.

[Gamzee Makara]

The grey kid blinks.

Back into the veil he goes. Gamzee sat stock still, illuminated by the mysterious spotlight in this dream world, knees hugged up to his chin. The only thing that dared move, that dared show a sign of life was his eyes. They darted around with a nervous franticity, afraid to focus in on one spot for too long. For if they did, the shadows and silhouettes would begin to take shape, they would grow solid into a being of terrifying quality that would swallow him whole. Despite the wonderful words of encouragement from his newfound friend, the alien delinquent’s breaths came short and shallow and ragged, like a hand saw scraping against a thick log.

Suddenly, dust falls from the impenetrable darkness above, visible only in the sparse cone of light. It was if an angry tenant the floor above had spontaneously grown to gigantic proportions, stomping on the floor to tell the kids below them to shut the hell up.

His hands claw at his moppy head of raven hair, pulling and scratching. For the first time, he’s realizing a very serious problem.

“THERE IS NO MORE SLIME, BROTHER!”

Gamzee’s head whips around to the direction of the mockery, the dismal chorus that just so obviously screamed at him. His breath quickens. There, staring down on him from a metaphorical pedestal on high, is another Gamzee Makara. His eyes are filled to the brim with a sickly orange. There is something primordial, something ancient and defiant and positively evil surrounding it.

But that- that thing is not him. That thing is something he will never become.

“Don’t motherfucking lie to yourself, kid.”

“SHIT’S A SIN! A MOTHERFUCKING SIIIIIIIIN!”

Gamzee’s teeth grind back and forth, his jaw popping under the strain. His eyes shut. He focuses very, very hard.

“Go away.”

The thing does not go away.

“That other motherfucker, the hellboy. He knows what the motherfuck is up.”

“ALL UP AND EMBRACING THE RAGE, BROTHER.”

“At least he had the balls to free me. To free you.”

“FREE! FREE AT LONG MOTHERFUCKING LAST!”

“Not like you. You’re pathetic.”

“MOTHERFUCKING SORRY ASS MOTHERFUCKER.”

It sounds like its voice is everywhere, but nowhere. The thing’s voice is in his left ear, but also his right. It’s annoying as shit, and so is this verbal abuse. He springs up from his emo-girl position and stomps towards the-

Where’d it go?

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere, brother. Stop denyin’ and get to testifyin’.”

“Leave me alone, you piece of shi-”

“WATCH YOUR MOTHERFUCKING LANGUAGE!”

“You’re in the presence of a God, after all. A true High-Blood. Not like you.”

“YOU’RE NOTHING! SCUM! TRASH! LOWER THAN THE LOWEST!”

It was a whisper, yet also a shout, a command.

Gamzee was angry. Angry at his foolishness, angry at himself for letting Strazio unbind him, angry at himself for being this way, angry at being born, angry at being dangerous, abnormal, and sick in the head. It was at this time that the poor boy reached a boiling point, and it was this boiling point that sent a haymaker straight at the thing’s ugly mug.

*SN~AP*

The monstrosity has latched a wicked grip onto the troll’s wrist, intercepting the blow.

“Heheh. Good for you. That other bright ass motherfucker, well, he ain't around to protect you now.”

“SOAK IT IN, BROTHER. MOTHERFUCKING SWALLOW THAT RAGE WHOLE.”

“Like a pill. A pill for your sickness. Complacency”

“MEDIOCRITY.”

“Idiocy.”

“HERESY!”

“Cowardice!”

“WEAKNESS!”

Struggle as he might, Gamzee is unable to break free from its clutches. So he stares at it. He stares it down with chattering teeth, with knocking knees. It scares him. Scares him more than the flamey skeleton motherfucker and the corpse knight. It terrifies him, but that will NOT stop him from being brave. That will NOT force him to let his new friend down.

But at the same time, he can’t do this on his own. Not in this state. Not like this.

So, Gamzee starts to laugh. Not it. Gamzee. He laughs hysterically, giggling and chuckling and barking and gleefully guffawing until his sides hurt. This fit soon begins to degrade into a sob however, streams of amethyst streaking down his dirty cheeks.

“Fuck you. I’ll show you a motherfucking coward. I’ll show you motherfucking weakness.I’ll show you.”

The normally bright beautiful eyes that Gamzee possesses begin to fill with a sinister, sorrowful orange. It’s a dark color, like a rotten mango, or spilt orange soda. It’s almost unnoticeable at first, but soon all the starry yellow is devoid from the High-Blood’s eyes.

“Oh I already know alllll about you, motherfucker. But you know nothing about me.”

“WE HAVE SUCH BEAUTIFUL SIGHTS TO SHOW YOU, MOTHERRRRRFUCKERRRRR!”

And soon, a hideously twisted laughter rings out victoriously into the void, mixing in haunting harmony with Gamzee’s heart-wrenching weeping.

[Strazio Rockwell]

"Fuck!"

Dead again.

Another failure.

This time however, there were no dreams. No blood. No ash. No char. No screams.

No, but there was a terrifying existence. Strazio could feel it thrumming between his ears and pulsing in his chest. Floating in this faceless void the mage was left with his thoughts and his thoughts alone.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

Even his magick was strangely absent in this forlorn world. In the distance a pinprick of light peaked through the curtain of darkness. Strazio orientated his body to face the star. Travel was slow in this world, without a floor or any cielings one could only float along. The mage-turned-driftwood thrash helplessly against his situation. His limbs flailed wildy in hopes of finding a handhold or anything really. But in this realm all that existed was him and that infuriating mote of light. A fly caught in a drain,  Strazio could only thrash so hard. As he was drawn closer and closer to the baseball of light he picked up speed. Every moment the white orb grew larger and larger and Strazio grew faster and faster.

Collision.

The defender of Darkshire found himself in a starch white room. Before him stood a humanoid visage of swirling energy. This creature of hate and fury was the Avatar of Anger. It was the physical manifestation of Strazio's rage. The Avatar was his smoldering coal that he refused to let go. The burning cinder that devoured his flesh and incinerated his bones. It was his power. Thick metal manacles pinned the raging creature against the wall. His beady yellow eyes glared at the newcomer and his energy-infused flesh strained against its bindings. He was more refined than what Strazio would unleash upon the battlefield. No, the energy that sparked and arced around this avatar's form was much more precise and collected. It wasn't a haphazard collection of energy, it had purpose, it had precision. A jet black stripe swallowed its spine and controlled the energy to a greater degree than Strazio could ever hope to accomplish.

"You," Rockwell spoke, stepping closer to the snarling avatar, "I called upon you, and you wouldn't come."

The creature snarled and roared in response. Strazio reached out towards the fuming Avatar. Large licking flames snapped out from the monster and dared Strazio to push closer. The defender of Darkshire held his hand at a measured distance from the Avatar's snarling mug. Their eyes met and a smoldering hatred sparked between them. Strazio cursed under his breath and reached out towards the creature's face. His flesh was incinerated before he could even touch the monster. Black lines like a virus pulsed through his hand and down his arm. Breath was ripped from his chest and fire raced through his veins. He screamed and thrashed as his body was violently torn asunder. Bit by excruciating bit his flesh was shredded and his bones were pulverized. A wicked smile cracked across the avatar's face, burning its visage into Strazio's mind.

Rockwell awoke in a trashed movie theater. Chairs were upheaved and the cracks lined the walls. One massive slash gouged the projector screen, leaving it hanging haphazardly from a string. The acrid stench of burnt butter hung in the air, mixing noxiously with the scent of sugared candy. Strazio found himself seated in a torn chair in the heart of the cinema. He held his head and stood upon wobbly legs. The projector behind him clipped and whirred to life casting a greyscale five upon the torn screen. The number began to countdown slowly, with each frame change accompanied by a horrid clicking noise. Zero flashed across the screen followed by a wall of black and white static. Occasional "cigarette burns" singed across the frame, before being swallowed by the dancing static. Strazio's mouth was dry and his feet stuck against the tacky floor. A sticky crunch accompanied every step as he shuffled his way to the aisle leading towards the front of the theater. Soda stains and rubble covered the dried-blood colored carpet.

"This place is a mess," Strazio groaned, trying not to breath deep, "where the fuck am I?"

[Gamzee Makara]

*CLACK*

The screen crackles to life once again, the film ‘burning away’ to reveal a familiar scene. A skeletal being, body aflame, stands about fifty yards away in front of the camera. The gash across the screen prevents the entity’s visage from being completely seen. Around the tattered edges of the display, colorful juggling pins held by ash grey hands twirl in excess. Were they to cease their everlasting pendulum motions, it is likely that all hell would break loose. That’s when Strazio realizes that this is being filmed from a first person perspective. The mage whips his head in the direction of the clacking sound. A couple rows down, kicked back in a ruined theater seat was yet another familiar sight. All that was visible was a couple of horns, a copious amount of tangled hair, and an odd, ancient looking remote controller aimed at the screen.

Without fair warning, the person behind the camera crumpled to his knees. Strazio only knew that the subject was male because of the constant, ever-present laughter. It was a creepy, sorrow-filled sound that grew louder as the film progressed. As the point of view slowly drifted to the ground, it becomes apparent that the camera man is wounded. Very apparent. The pins clatter to the ground, and grey fingers tentatively touch a heavily bleeding wound. They come back stained in deep violet. The wounded fighter pitches forward, hands flying to the tiled floor for feeble support.

That’s when the movie-goers get a good view of the person behind the camera.

On the tiled Nexus floor, a stray puddle has congealed, presumably caused by the destruction of the Fountain of Infinity. The reflection of a battered, beaten, grinning Gamzee is plainly visible. The poor alien coughs up a smattering of royal blood, causing a purple haze to swirl over the image portrayed in the puddle. Suddenly, two pools of dark orange flash true through the amethyst murk.

For a moment, the boy on screen just stares at his own reflection, mouth agape. From an audience’s perspective, the tear in the silver screen split the Capricorn’s face, perpendicular to the trio of scars that he adorned himself with. With a new-formed smile, the ever-present laughter erupting from the clown’s ruined visage degrades into a sickening hysteria, and an orange, darkened sepia filter is placed over the movie screen.

There is a blur of motion as the Movie Makara bolts upright, grabbing his dual weapons as he does so. With a furious half war cry, half cackle, he begins to shout death threat after death at the Harbinger, who was once again in his sights. This was not the Gamzee that Strazio had met at the fountain, nor was it even the unstoppable force of stupid that he faced in the coliseum. No, this was a different brand of insane entirely. Not much scared Strazio Rockwell, but this horror show was well on its way. This was not Gamzee Makara.

Or was it?

Electricity prances over the camera lense, and the crazed clown begins a shambling death march towards the towering monstrosity that is- or was, rather, the Harbinger.

Twenty yards away now.

The camera is stock still, focused on the fusion’s burning form. Gamzee is staring at it.

A low growl thrums over the hidden speakers in the theater. This low growl develops into a furious, primal yell, and as the camera starts to shift, as the first person Gamzee begins to sprint to his doom-

*CLACK*

The scene pauses. There’s a close up of the Harbinger’s burning skull, which is only slightly visible past the rip in the canvas. A club is poised ready to split his stupid cranium wide open.

Strazio has trouble tearing himself away from the scene. When he finally does, he starts down the aisle to the seat where he saw the real Gamzee, only to find that he is no longer there.

“Uh...Gamzee?” He calls out.

No response. Behind him, he hears the whooshing and creaking sound of a swinging door, and a ray of artificial light assaults his peripheral vision. Brimming with more questions than answers, the mage takes off, unsure of where the door will even lead. Not much makes sense in this world.

[Strazio Rockwell]

"Gamzee!" Strazio shouted, "I swear to god if you aren't a figment of my twisted mind and you actually died I'm going to fuck you up!"

If the clown was here it meant that he had failed; Shang still held Strazio's journal, and the mage's sacrifice against Harbinger was in vain. Strazio stormed through the door before him and found himself falling again. The drop was only a few feet, but it was enough to stumbled the prime. Around him the world was chaos. Burnt wooden skeletons of old build creaked under their own weight, and a thick viscous liquid dripped from their remains. This wasn't Riverweldt. Indeed the mage had every scrap of Riverweldt permanently burnt into his brain, and this place was certainly not his hometown. Around the smoldering remains of this town sat a ring of burning foliage, blazing forever outward.

"Gamzee! Where the fuck are you!?"

"Go away!"

The troll's voice echoed through the ruined village like cinders on the wind. Strazio trudged forward, his boots stomping through ash and blood. This place was dark, darker than any place ought to be. On the horizon, silhouetted by flames, stood the troll teen with his back turned towards Strazio.

"Gamzee you clown fuck!"

"Go away Strawso!"

Strazio rushed towards Makara, fury in every step. The clown had failed, and now he had the audacity to invade Strazio's death dreams? Unacceptable. And so with every stride Strazio's rage grew like a cascading flood. His eyes narrowly focused upon the target of his ire, tunnel-vision was never more apt to describe the unequivocal focus he had upon Gamzee. Around him the world melted into a murky blur of browns, reds, and greys. This place seemed to accent every emotion, the depths of rage that Strazio felt grew ever deeper as he neared the troll. With one swift movement he grabbed Gamzee's wrist and whipped him around. Strazio's fist was raised, ready to crack into Gamzee's jaw, but the blow never came. His muscles strained, and yet he could not bring himself to strike Gamzee. There was nary a better word than haggard to describe the troll's current state. Small spiderwebs of blood shot through his eyes and a glistening wetness was apparent in their corners.

"Where are we?" Strazio asked, keeping his grip upon Makara's wrist.

Gamzee took a moment to respond hesitantly, "Ambrosia."

"Ambrosia?"

"Yeah, it's kinda like my home in the Omniverse, the only place I really feel at peace here."

Strazio looked around, "place looks like a warzone, what happened?"

"I did."

The words hung in the air like an unwanted pregnancy.

"What?" Strazio furrowed his brow, "you wouldn't do something like this."

Gamzee ripped his hand free from Strazio's grasp and spoke in a fevered meter, "the slime's gone! It's all gone! Without it there's no good vibes, no chill, no motherfucking chill!"

"What are you talking about? What slime?"

"Sopor slime brother! It makes me whole, without it this happens!" he pointed at the remains of Ambrosia, "Everyone is dead motherfucker, and I DID IT!"

Strazio took a half step backwards, "calm down Gamzee, you're making me anxious."

"Can't you hear? I said their is no calm, none. Not anymore, not without slime, not without the good motherfucking vibes. Nothing but dark dreams ahead brother, nothing but death dirges motherfucker. We'll sing and dance our sad songs in the flames motherfuckerrrr, in the flames!"

Strazio smacked Gamzee across the face, hard and fast, sending an echoing thunderclap across the fields of death.

"Stop that shit! You're creeping me the fuck out!"

[Gamzee Makara]

In a very over dramatic and unnecessary display, Gamzee throws himself to the ground at the force of Strazio’s strike. The clown lay on the ground, crumpled and defeated and deflated. Strazio stares at him for a moment. The mage isn’t exactly one for pity, but in this situation, at this moment, all he felt for his fallen friend was remorse.

“Get up, Gamzee.”

The troll barks out something akin to a laugh, before rolling over onto his back, eyes pasted on the smoky sky. He can see the stars, little pinpricks of light flashing through only when the ever swirling smoke allows it. Ambrosia was truly razed, the blotting out of the sky testimony to that fact.

“I said, get up.”

Before he has even finished his command, Gamzee grunts and bolts upright, rounding on Strazio with sparks of intensity crackling in his gemstone eyes.

“And what if I don’t, motherfucker? What if I don’t feel like it, you rage-spittin’ angst-feelin’ contradictory low-blood?”

“Wh- Gamzee, you just got up.”

A hand, stained in dry, rusted blood grabs the mage by his collar, pulling him closer to an insanity he wasn’t sure how to deal with. “What if I didn’t want all them nightmarish abominations all roused and kicked up? All up and freed and let loose? ‘Cause you done kicked the hornet’s nest, brother. You done stomped on it.”

“Listen, I don’t know what the fuck you’re screeching about, but if you don’t start making a bit of sense, I think I might have to punch you in the mouth again, you little shit. Now calm down, let go of me, and maybe we can get your head back on straight.”

“There is no such thing as straight, brother. Not with me. Not when I’m like this,” he mutters, gesturing at his blood stained clothes. The clown swallows a huge gulp of air, and then points frantically at his dark, orange eyes. “You see this shit? You see these eyes? These eyes ain’t okay. They ain’t motherfuckin’ straight. Thas ‘cause all they want to see is blood, ruin, death and destruction, motherfucker. And who am I to object? Eh? So I see what I want to see. And if I don’t see it, I make it seen. Get it motherf-”

*THWACK*

Gamzee’s fingers let loose the scrap of fabric giving him hold of Strazio. His eyes are once again a luminous, alien yellow. He stares at his rage-friend incredulously.

“Ow.”

“I told you I’d hit you.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

They just stare at each other for a moment. Several times, Gamzee’s eyes fall to the ground, only to return to Strawso’s gaze once again.

“There’s this thing inside me right? Like a nasty hobo livin’ all up inside my bloodstream rent free. Well, I used the slime, that green stuff. I cooked it, made some admittedly dee-licious pies with it. But uh, shit was poison. Literal poison. Addictive and druggy and all that crap. Kept that stuff in my High blood motherfucking suppressed like a rebellion or some shit.”

Gamzee drones on, little inflection in his voice. No trembling octaves or lowered tone. He just blurts it out real slow like, as if stating a fact he wasn’t quite sure he knew to be true.

"For the longest time, it kept my chill all chill. I could have friends and shit, y’know; Kar-bro and the rest of mah wicked species. But draining all that slime down my gullet gave it a nice little pit to make a home in. Shit was fucking me up all over and inside. But I had to keep cookin’ and nomming, you know? If I didn’t, well, shit wasn’t really good for anybody.”

There wasn’t much for Gamzee to explain. What the Riverweldt native saw in the run-down movie theatre answered any questions he might have had about how ‘not good’ things could get with this particular clown. As if he needed a further reminder, nearby Ambrosian home collapsed in on itself, sending the flames and sparks higher into the smoggy sky.

“Well, ever since I got vortemenexed into this magical universal place, I ain’t really felt the slime that much. That pit I was talking about? Gone. At first, I was kind scared shitless, really. Thought maybe I’d lose control and just be destined and ordained by the Mirthful Messiahs to wander around the O-Verse looking for shit to kill until someone put my ass down like a rabid dog. The only amount of inner-chill I could’ve found in that motherfucking outcome would be that at least I was all up and disappeared yaknow? From my home world. No friends to murder, nope. Not here.”

Sheepishly, the High-Blood scratches the back of his head, looking as zoned out as ever.

“But I soon realized that naw, this ain’t the same deal. The slime wasn’t really gone it was just...I don’t even know. I really don’t. It’s been there, right in my motherfucking face, but I can’t see it, even now. Hurts my think-pan tryna puzzle that shit out. S’pose it was a good thing that I was still uh, sedated, I guess, would be a good word,” The teen says, trying not to cringe at his own word choice. “I dragged my best buddy into this mess, found this little chillville called Ambrosia, and hell, I made more than a couple new friends all over. Kinda fucks up the whole “well at least I won’t murder everyone I care about” plan.”

There’s a bit of a pause. Gamzee hadn’t talked this much since he had to explain how a giant seahoofbeast had managed to find its way into Karkat’s hive. His jaw was starting to ache.

And he really didn’t want to talk about this next shit.

“Now, it was in no way, shape, or fashionform your fault, but you and I found that shit. That nasty, green, delicious sludge. And guess what? You tore that shit out. You tore it out by the throat. Straight up chokeslammed that shit. Know what the fucked up bit is? We had to. Without a shade of a dizoubt, we had to. And you know what’s even worse? It didn’t matter. Look where we ended up anyways. Deader than home entryway pins. And you know what’s the absomotherfuckinglut-”

“Get on with it.”

“Right, my badness. Well, what’s all kinds of fucked up from sun down, is that it felt good. It felt so motherfucking righteous to have that big ass stage curtain fly off of my shoulders. It felt like the greatest show on earth was about to begin and I was the centerpiece and I was gonna-”

“Got it.”

“Yeah. Well, long story short I liked that power. That rage, coursing through my lifeblood. I can’t like it though, I’ll fucking lose it if I like it. Trade in one addiction for another, ya dig? I just can’t win, Strawso.”

“It’s Strazio.”

“Right.”

[Strazio Rockwell]

“What good is rage? That tempestuous storm of ruination brings nothing but melancholy to mankind,” Strazio spoke, “My teacher used to always ask me that.”

The twisted troll looked up at Strazio in anticipation. He expected, rather hoped, that the mage would offer some sage-like advice to turn his life around. Strazio scoffed and spit into the ash-caked dirt before speaking once more, “I always told him he was full of bullshit. I’m feeling strangely generous Gamzee, let me show you something.”

Even stripped of his powers in this sleep-death realm confidence erring on the side of arrogance spit through Strazio’s throat. And it was that confidence, that unabashed aura of willpower, that forced Gamzee to answer with a quiet “Okay”. The troll watched as Ambrosia disintegrated and the very fabric of this cruel play was torn asunder. Behind the torn veil pale alabaster walls formed a massive atrium. A cathedral, one might say, made from ivory pillars and bleached pews. White upon white formed a dizzying dance where the only definition came from the razor-thin black outlines forced upon such imperial objects.

There was no pulpit here, not in the church of rage; in its place a man made from lightning was chained to the cream-colored cobblestone. The man brought an almost welcome deviation from the hues of alabaster plaguing the cathedral. Inside his skull black coals smoldering with yellow pupils stared daggers at the newcomers. A strip of ebony hugged his spine. Grey-metal chains were clasped around his limbs and kept him as the cathedral’s prisoner. There were no screams, no declarations of hatred. The creature simply stood taut against the chains seething with an unyielding anger.

“Where are we?” The high-blood asked.

“Not sure,” Strazio responded, walking towards the chained monster, “ Only been here a few times in my life. Kinda looks like a church or some shit right?”

“Yeah, yeah it does. What did you want to show me?”

“This guy,” Strazio turned his back to the Chained and held his hand up palm-down, as if presenting the thing.

“That thing gives me the creeps, “ Gamzee half-laughed insincerely, “Motherfucker’s givin’ off all kindsa bad vibes. What is it?”

“This, my neurotic friend, this is my rage made manifest. The Avatar of Rage himself.”

Gamzee gulped.

“See, I was thinking about your blood problem. About how you can’t control yourself without that slime bullshit. That gnawing feeling, that scratching in the back of your mind, that -that- need for destruction. You see I get that.”

“How brother? You ain’t no high-blood, you haven’t been horking down pies.”

“No,” The mage smirked, “But I get that feeling every time I unleash the avatar. Hell, I’ve had that feeling since I was a young kid buried beneath my dead town. That need for a release, that need to kill, that unearthly desire to decimate anything, everything .”

Gamzee stayed silent, almost hypnotized by Strazio’s speech.

“If my teacher hadn’t found me I probably would’ve been dead in a ditch after trying to kill some random scrub.”

“So what, what’d he do? It’s still there, your anger ain’t it?”

“He taught me magick, you see these chains?” Strazio kicked the metal plated bolted into the ground, “These are my magick.”

“They control it?”

“No,” He said, “But they let me wield it constructively. The scratching is still there, just quiet, just subdued.”

“What’s that got to do with me?” Gamzee asked.

“Whatever is in you is running loose man, fucking you up major without that druggy slime in your blood.”

“Yeah?” Gamzee took a few steps forward, until he was close to Strazio.

“You need chains man,” Strazio rattled the Avatar’s chain, much to its chagrin, “Magick, man I can teach it to you. Teach you how to forge your own chains, teach you how to wield that thing lurking in your blood. And if this place has more creatures like the Harbinger, trust me, you’ll need it.”

“I... I don’t know,” Gamzee put a hand behind his neck, ‘I’d rather just have more slime man.”

“Up to you, think on it and let me know when we wake up.”

“Sure...” Gamzee began to speak but was interrupted.

“Oh, and get out of my damned head.” Strazio growled, delivering a kick square into Gamzee’s chest. The high-blood toppled backwards but found no floor to catch him. A black pit opened up and swallowed him, removing the bleached cathedral from sight. He yelled, but found an absence of sound. His eyelids grew heavy and the sudden fall turned to a more peaceful lilt towards some unknown ground. Even the troll’s demon’s seemed at peace as he feel deeper and deeper into oblivion.