He did it.
Gamzee Makara had finally made his way to one of the Clown Church's hideouts. Well, it wasn't much of a hideout anymore. Glass and rock and stone had forced their way through all the nooks and crannies of the Church's exterior and what seemed like its interior in turn. Beautiful, mosaic tiles and patterns depicting his holy Messiahs had been shattered and broken into unsurmountable pieces in a rampaging fashion, as if a drone had made its way towards the building and sneered upon it like a mutant awaiting execution.
He kicked away the glass shards that found its way into the once welcoming arms of the Church doors, now nothing but splinters of wood and paint and pain that stood between him and the inside of the building.
He pushed his way forward, moving the crumbling pillars blocking his path and with a large *thud*, a storm of dust had whipped its way up in the meantime as he did so. Underneath it all however, he was finally inside a place of peace. A place of solace.
He cackled softly to himself: "...If only you STUPID MOTHERFUCKERS could have seen this place!"
He slouched his way along, the sound of glass and splinters under his feet giving him all the audible feedback he needed to continue on into this place, a melody of destruction and chaos. It fit well with the decorum. A violet symphony dripping down his torso all the while.
Eventually sitting down on one of the surviving chairs near the front of the building, he took this chance to lay down his clubs and breathe a sigh of relief, wincing slightly as the cut in his body seemed to disagree with his posture, voicing its displeasure faithfully.
Taking in the smells and the visuals of the blessing surrounding him, he noted the spills and strokes of a myriad of colours that had painted the floors and surviving walls with the signs of a massacre, a painting stuck in motion with incomplete brushstrokes. Rust and bronze colours were the ones that littered the area the most, only taken up next with the fainter aspects of gold and teal that had made their presence known at the foremost seat of the church. A fitting view for carnage.
Candles that were once lit laid dormant, wax stuck in place in remembrance of the times when they saw life in this Messianic driven hellhole. None were alight. It didn't sit right with Gamzee.
How did he fall so far? What had happened along that long, narrow, bloody road that set him on a life of destruction and religious zealotry?
He remembered the time when he and his fellow brothers and sisters had finally completed the game, that truly heretical session that was strife with arguments, fights and mentions of becoming a God in of themselves. Even remembering those sadistic words stuck in Gamzee's gut like a sick, twisted tar that laid ice cold in his digestion bladder.
But his own warped thinkpan couldn't comprehend not have that sort of power, though it was a lost cause in the first place. He was drugged up to the heavens above in the past, so high in the motherfucking clouds he would have likely been mistaken for a talonscreecher if he looked upon his own miserable self. An apparition that only a moirail could get clear of.
A moirail he held so dearly in his barren bloodpusher, a mutant troll that gave the world to Gamzee and everything else he could have ever wanted in his miserable lifetime. Someone to connect those cloudy thoughts with when he was still lucid in his days and erratic in his nights.
Then they all got dropped out of the game abruptly. We were promised a new universe to save us from this ungodly, blasphemic home we called Alternia. A way to start over. We were so close. That door was right there after all, with everything we could have ever dreamed of waiting behind it, the Messiahs themselves seemingly beckoning to him behind that door to come to him, awaiting their open arms for a fellow of the faith.
It was all for nought. They were all dropped off on a restored Alternia, back to where they were before the game had even begun. Most of them facing their impending adulthood and likely banishment from the planet if they were to be found and rounded up. Many of his brothers and sisters in the lower castes had made up their choice when facing this decision, choosing to run off in the hopes of saving themselves from the dire fate that awaited them on the ends of a trident.
What Gamzee got was a first class ticket to a mandatory conscription by the Grand Highblood. All that followed his own blood had to attend that conscription, the drones wouldn't miss a couple rustbloods or anything lower near that caste. But a Highblood? No. They would be searching far and wide for him if he had not attended that proverbial execution ground. His moirail begged and screamed for him to stay, for them to run away to the vast wilds surrounding Alternia and to get out of the situation before the drones finally descended on them.
He knew otherwise. He chose otherwise. No matter what his heart bled at that moment as his moirail slumped to the floor, grabbing onto Gamzee's worn out clown shoes as he cried out for him to say otherwise. To say it was another one of his "motherfucking jokes" and to call his bluff.
He knew the drones would eventually come for him if he decided to do otherwise. He wanted to spare his moirail that nauseated life of misery his God had attested to.
Giving himself a triple-portion of the sopor pie did nothing to calm his nerves as he was rounded up like cattle for the drones to inspect and cull. It probably made him all the more obvious.
As he made his way to conscription, he was surprised to see them not cull him on first sight as he was still a massive user of that blasphemic drug he called sopor. Baked sopor. It still gave him shivers to remember those first nights when he went cold turkey in those dorms. Arguments were had. Heresies were uttered and blood was faithfully spilled on those cold nights as he finally snapped under the immense pressure.
It was a crying shame he wasn't culled that night. It was a shame that the Grand Highblood had found an "alternative" use for his so-called abilities when he stepped into the dorms, tall as anything he'd ever seen and about as monstrous as you'd expect.
It was ironic that the "alternative" use had led him here, covered in a multitude of differing colours and shades from all across the hemospectrum, a mission given to him by the GHB to head down to the lower blooded areas of Alternia to find and root out Sufferists that were causing political strife and unrest within the population.
After what seemed like sweeps, it looked like the Sufferists were finally gaining the upper hand in the ongoing conflict. He had no doubt that many of his brothers and sisters were probably still involved in the fight: Karkat, Equius, Tavros, Sollux, he knew that they would have never backed down when faced with blinding adversity.
He had little clue on what the other trolls in his group in higher castes were doing in this whole situation. Vriska was likely causing mayhem and chaos all across Alternia, she could never stay out of trouble after all. Though in relation to Eridan or Feferi? Even he didn't know.
Maybe Eridan did the same as him, going to conscription and signing up for the empire as a fellow confidant of his own blood. Feferi likely suffered the same fate, no way was a fuschiablood going to get out of this whole situation by the Condesce. They were just too rare to leave up for grabs by the Sufferists. He knew they considered their own caste as its own weird competition of sorts. It gave him a weird sort of peace to know that his own caste didn't consider each of one another some kind of competitor in a game.
It was always chaos in the upper echelons of the empire when a seadweller got marked in that way, it led to distrust and fearful, unholy motherfucking obsessions to be commonplace within the many fleets that the Condesce owned. No troll trusted one another soon enough. The split between the Carnival and the empire itself only grew more and more each day as blinding paranoia took hold of the higher castes.
Gamzee breathed a painful sigh and looked up to the starry sky behind the broken down roof. He had already seen and been through so many churches and carnivals relating to his faith already, they were once bustling with activity and fervor from its inhabitants, though there was a strange calmness to the activity that could only be felt from within the carnivals clown church's community, a sense of everlasting peace and acceptance that made everything seem like it was going to be alright for the sinners that laid their feet within.
That was away from the more violent sects of the church, those that didn't want to hear about the spreading of mirth and joy, but instead wanted a heretical form of holy supremacy over the other castes in the empire. Wanting to spread the good Messiah's name in a form of a vengeful, hateful vendetta against those that held none of those motherfucking beliefs.
And as things got more secretive within the empire and as trolls started to whisper behind each other's backs, those sects only grew larger and larger within the church's ranks. Those that were disillusioned with the more joyful aspects of the church turned to them as a last resort as a way to "protect" themselves and their moirails, their matesprites.
It was never going to work.
The Grand Highblood finally got word of the inner workings of one the more extreme sects of the church, they were going to a carnival for Highbloods, a place for relaxation, games and entertainment for those within the faith. He caught them and one of them said something to the GHB that he really didn't like, he decided to rip him limb from motherfucking limb on the spot. The other members were too petrified from his chucklevoodoos to do anything about it.
They weren't seen ever again. And every-time Gamzee asked where his fellow brothers of the faith went, he only got a disturbing smirk in response.
It only went to fuel the divide even more, enough to make the Condesce decide that these violent sects needed cracking down, the GHB also didn't like that. You may ask why? He hated those sects as well so wouldn't this be a win-win for him? Well that goes back to the whole divide with the church against seadwellers in the first place, they really distrusted seadwellers as a whole, and no-one embodied that sentiment more then the church's religious figurehead himself.
It all devolved into madness soon after. Gamzee was just stuck between it all.
It made him think as he sat in the abandoned place of worship; what if he actually went with his moirail and fled from the conscription fleets?
Wind howled across the room as Gamzee stared outside of one of the broken down windows. His hands trembled as though he was freezing. Sweat ran down his face in streams, darkening his blood crusted clothes and onto the ruined floorboards. His eyes were glazed over and weepy; he hadn't slept in days.
He moved his chair away from the windows, where the Messiahs could peer down from the carnival in the skies above and look upon him with shame. No. Instead, he was curled up on a chair, desperately awaiting his fate to come to him as the cold crawled into his very being, deeper and deeper.
There was a sound after a while, a scuffling of noise against the wooden floorboards. Gamzee Makara glanced up and felt his bloodpusher freeze. His hands sunk to the sides of him. He tried to stand up, but his motherfucking legs felt like they were stone, and he stumbled to his knees in a truly heretical action. As he felt the strength begin to drain from whatever he had left in his arms, he could no longer drag himself forward to what was in sight. A pounding sensation began to encapsulate his thinkpan, a pain like no other he felt - but he pressed forward.
For how could any other troll not be enraptured in the presence of his Messiahs?
Two individuals stood before him. Darkened crowns were adorned on top of their heads with a cape of ermine behind them, speckled with gold and jewels all over. They looked older than he had actually expected them to be, but they shone with the light of all of the carnivals above. The light of all of civilization. Two immortal sovereigns had laid before him. The holiest of holy. Gamzee opened his mouth to speak, to question them, to marvel and to grovel at their feet for forgiveness and mirth in turn, but the words would not come to him. The divine power of his saviours were overpowering, momentous and one of a kind, paralyzing his entire body. Every muscle had turned to nought in his body.
Then uttered a scream.
Bones. Two skulls with a bullet hole in each of them. Scraps of the church's robes were stained with old blood and laid over them. The scream turned to a choking gurgle as the pain exploded in his thinkpan, blacking out his senses. He collapsed, staring in horror into the darkness surrounding him.
And Gamzee Makara, member of the Clown Church of Alternia, Highblood to the Empire, had breathed his last.
This was just a little idea I had in my head after a while. A short little one-shot that could flex my writing skills a little. Though whether it's good or anything is up to you, the one who's actually deciding to read this sooooo...
Thank you to those who are, its invaluable to me.
As always, critiques and reviews are always encouraged and accepted.