A/N: I couldn't help it. Two of my favorite characters, and they were stuck in my head. Of course, I own none of this. I wouldn't even WANT to own it, because frankly, I know I couldn't do a better job than Hussie is. This is a one-shot, pretty much contains major spoilers for those of you not caught up. So, enjoy, I guess!
"God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe the blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed to great for us? Must we ourselves become gods simply to appear worthy of it?"
It hurts, dying. She knows. She already died once, that is. Bleeding slowly to death on the cold stone slab. There's the pain, yes, but there's also a fear, that's there's nothing afterwards. Only nothingness. Non-existence. Not-being, not-knowing, not-thinking, all her plans and schemes and struggles marked worthless in a single instant.
And he left her to die alone, left her to face the fear and the eternity.
She rose again, but she never forgot that fear.
It hurts, dying. She knows. Not personally, but she can feel it in her blood, in her blood and in her ancestry.
There's a sort of an untouchable memory in her head of crushing defeat, snatching victory, pulled down under mindless masses, slowly being crushed, while the pirate scum laughed.
Justice. She didn't get it in that lifetime. If anything, it made her more determined to find it in this one.
But the feeling of failure, the knowledge that she wasn't enough, that in the end, the scum was better than her-it stayed with her. So she took an instant disliking to Vriska, found herself trapped in a cycle of hatred and rivalry and endless revenge.
Platonic hate, that is. One needs respect to form a kismesis, and she didn't have any respect for that cheating scum, only an unquenchable desire to defeat her. But even more importantly, a cold, blind search for justice.
Justice for a death that she couldn't quite remember.
She's scared. She's scared because she knows she's going to die, but there's no backup. No dream self. Death, for real now.
But she also feels something different. Something strange. She actually cares.
To the idiot trolls here, sort of. There are a few whom she wouldn't really want to be dead.
But mostly, a strange earth-boy. Who is nice to her simply because he's nice. Who doesn't kill people, doesn't judge her, doesn't hate her when she tells him the most despicable things, doesn't use her vulnerability. Someone who wouldn't betray her? Someone who wouldn't use her? Someone with no ulterior motives?
And it changed her. Suddenly, the game wasn't about her. It was about them, all of them. Because she knew that John loved all the others, and she didn't want them dead, not if it would make him sad.
The game wasn't about winning anymore. It became about...something harder to define. The story that they were weaving together.
And that was why she had to do this.
Because Jack was going to kill them. He was going to kill them all, and Vriska was tired of waiting for it. If she could help, if she could take him down, then maybe John might survive this whole fiasco.
The voice of the old her whispered of fears, of dying alone, of no one mourning her. Of what did it matter if John survived, if she was dead?
But there was something new, welling up inside of her. Something not hate, or pity. Something warmer. And she knew that none of that mattered.
If death was what it took, she was ready to die.
Terezi could smell the fear. She could smell the tension. She was getting her justice, but it didn't quite feel the way she had hoped it would.
It was sort of...empty.
The coin fell. The clock ticked. Vriska flew off. And she, Terezi, she died.
Lying on the floor, the world blacked by the overwhelming scent of her own blood, the pain, the coldness, knowing that it was all in vain. That she had been weak, and that she had failed the justice that she had devoted her life to.
Blackness. Emptiness. A dead future.
She died. She tried as hard as she could, put up an amazing fight. She had all the luck, but it's not all luck. Sometimes, you're outmatched, and even when you roll eight eights, it's not enough.
The sword pierces her. A heroic death, alone, in this cold, dark space.
But why does the sword feel like a shadow?
She gasps as the sword plunges into her back, through her chest. "Sucker sta88bed." How ironic.
And she sort of teeters, then falls over to the ground. The blue blood is flowing harder, now, staining the sun on her shirt green.
And behind her, Terezi feels drained. Numb. Because unlike revenge, justice doesn't bring happiness. It doesn't bring peace. Only death.
A just death? A heroic death? Or both?
She's so terribly tired, and so terribly cold, and so terribly scared. That it was all a lie, that it was all for nothing, that none of this pain would mean anything.
She wants to be in warm arms. She wants to see smiling faces. She wants a token, a sign, that someone somewhere cares.
But they all leave. They step away, and they leave her to bleed out alone.
Alone, and friendless. A monster. Unloved.
Heroic, or just?
And there are memories beneath all of it, memories from her journal. Mindfang knew how she was going to die. It almost gave her a...cavalier attitude about death. That it was coming no matter what, but she could be as reckless as she wanted before. A blessing and a curse in one.
She wished she could be like her ancestor. Unafraid.
But sometimes, she wondered if the Marquis hadn't lived that was because she was so scared. No true pleasure from life, because her seconds were numbered. Trying to prove to the world-to herself-that she wasn't scared, when really, she was.
Scared, and alone, and she wanted desperately for someone to care.
What could she have done differently? Was there no way for her to escape it? Heroic or just, was she doomed to die?
But she has to be strong, because that's all she knows. Her last thought is that she hopes John doesn't have to see her this way. That the others at least have the decency to clean up her corpse.
Then the blackness covers everything.
But there are questions, questions not yet answered:
How can it be a heroic death if you were stabbed in the back?
How can it be a just death if you were stabbed on your way to do the first good, selfless thing in your miserable existence?
Who defines whether the death was just? The killer, or the killed? Who chooses whether the death was heroic?
And the clock lies smashed on the floor, silent.
God is dead, and we have killed him. Must we ourselves become gods simply to appear worthy of it?