chaoticDreamer [CD] began trolling cannyGuide [CG] CD: HEEEY! CD: YOU'RE ΔNHΔGΔ, RIGHT? CD: WORD ON THE STREET IS YOU'RE THE ONE TO GO TO WITH TROUBLE, PΔRTICULΔRLY HIGHBLOOD TROUBLE. CD: SO WHΔDDΔYΔ SΔY ΔBOUT HELPING Δ TROLL OUT? CD: NΔME'S KYPHER, BY THE WΔY. You lean back in your computer chair and crack your knuckles, then admire your claws. Clipped-off claws are for chumps who can't type with psionics. And you just got them lacquered black and sharpened last night. Pity about the manicurser, but hey, she smudged your pinkie claw. She was pretty good usually, but you're sure you can find someone else if you pay enough. Actions gotta have consequences! You wonder briefly if you should've been more "pitiful weepy lowblood" in your messages just now, then dismiss the thought with the twirl of a hand. It would get extremely tiresome keeping that charade up, especially in person. Best just to act more or less like you normally do and let them think it's false bravado.
You're in the middle of tending to your beefgrub herd when your palmhusk goes off. One of the younger ones, barely pupated, shies away nervously, it's pale hide glinting in the poorly-illuminated cave. You sigh irritably -now what?- and make your way out of the corral. Wouldn't do to turn your back on the stock, as docile as they seem- plenty of people get themselves savaged that way. Once you've got a nice sturdy fence between you and them you pull out your palmhusk, check the messages. After reading them, you shoot off a quick reply, dirty, calloused frondstubs tapping away. CG: hell9! i am she. ~^u^~ CG: if y9u're l99king for revenge y9u've g9t the wr9ng girl, 6ut i'd 6e m9re than happy t9 let y9u lie l9w in my cave system f9r a c9uple cycles! CG: us warm6l99ds have t9 stick t9gether, after all- n9t t9 say that 9ur c99ler 6l99ded 6rethren are t9 6e pushed aside, 9f c9urse, 6ut we d9 have t9 c9nsider things that they generally d9n't. CG: there i g9, ram6ling 9n a69ut things that aren't relevant to the t9pic at fr9nd. CG: i'll send y9u s9me c99rds and 9ne 9f 9ur warm6l99ded si6lings will meet y9u there, 9kay? cannyGuide has sent coords.txt ! Guess you're adding a little extra to the stew today.
When your alerts stop pinging and you click over to Trollian, you almost double over laughing. Shit, you forgot how hilarious Sufferists were. The fact that the 69 quirk is immeasurably stupid is just the icing on the cake—there's the fact that they all use the same quirk, and their ridiculous "hemoequality" bullshit. "c99ler 6l99ded 6rethren," give you a break. Highbloods aren't your brethren; as far as you're concerned, it's you against them in a battle for the finite resources of the universe, and you intend to win. But, you remind yourself, you have to pretend you've swallowed their preaching barbed metal object, strong connective strand, and weight intended to sink deeper in the water—or else they'll kick you out, probably, and you do need to lay low somewhere, and somewhere most trolls wouldn't dream of looking for you. Thus, Sufferists. CD: THΔT'S NOT TOO FΔR! CD: I SHOULD BE ΔBLE TO FLY THERE BY DΔYBREΔK. CD: ΔLSO, DON'T SWEΔT IT, I'M NOT INTERESTED IN REVENGE. CD: I JUST WΔNT TO BE LEFT ΔLONE. Here you have to pause and laugh for a while again. These suckers. CD: BY THE BY, WHΔT'S THE TROLL I'M SUPPOSED TO MEET LOOK LIKE? CD: DON'T WΔNNΔ ROLL UP ΔLL, "HI, I'M HERE TO HIDE OUT WITH THE SUFFERIST GROUP," ΔND THEN REΔLIZE I'VE GOT THE WRONG TROLL, YOU KNOW? CD: I CΔN SEND YOU Δ PIC OF ME TOO, IF YOU LIKE. CD: OR JUST MY HORNS ΔND SIGN.
CG: hiding 9ut, we can d9! ~^u^~ CG: and as f9r telling y9u wh9 y9u're meeting up with... You frown down at your palmhusk. No way in hell are you sending one of your kids over after giving a third party a description of them. That is an awesome way to get their asses murdered. (Okay, so maybe your kids are about your age, and technically not really kids anymore. Doesn't matter, though. You're responsible for them and that's what counts.) CG: i'd really prefer n9t t9. the w9rld isn't always a very kind place, despite it's p9tential t9 6e, and i d9n't want t9 endanger my fl9ck any m9re than i have t9. CG: d9n't w9rry, th9ugh. the sp9t i'm sending y9u t9 isn't well trafficked, y9u sh9uld 6e fine. CG: and yes, s9me way t9 identify y9u w9uld 6e appreciated, at least f9r my 9wn peace 9f pan.
You roll your eyes. "the world isn't always a very kind place," indeed. No shit. Not that you were planning to murder the kid she sent out or whatever. Sheesh, what does she think you are, a subjuggulator? CD: ΔLRIGHT, I JUST WΔNTED TO MΔKE SURE THERE WOULDN'T BE Δ MIX-UP. CD: I UNDERSTΔND YOUR SΔFETY CONCERNS. CD: I'LL BE FLYING OVER, ΔND MY PSIONICS ΔRE BRIGHT BLUE. CD: ΔLSO MY HORNS FORM Δ TRIΔNGLE. CD: THΔT SHOULD BE ENOUGH TO IDENTIFY ME BY, I THINK. Here you grit your teeth, but it has to be done. The troll you're pretending to be absolutely would grovel at this rustblood (you've already forgotten her name), so there's no getting out of it, no matter the blow to your pride. You'll get her back later, somehow, when she stops being useful to you. CD: OH, ΔND THΔNKS. I REΔLLY ΔPPRECIΔTE YOUR HELP. chaoticDreamer has stopped trolling cannyGuide! With that, you get up from your husktop and start packing a bag. You'll bring your oldest, most battered husktop and palmhusk, not the glossy-carapaced one you were just using—you're a lowblood on the run, after all. Some old, dried-up rations, for the appearance of it; if they don't feed you, you'll hunt for yourself before eating these things. Reluctantly, you pick out your oldest, dullest outfits, a little tight on you now—t-shirts with your sign, gone gray in places; stained (although not with anything identifiable as blood, you make sure), faded skirts; a battered jacket; and just one pair of yellow sneakers, so worn the soles are beginning to peel off. These are your slumming-it clothes, created through a combination of careful doctoring and genuine wear (the shoes required the most artifice, since you don't walk if you can't help it). Finally, you select an old cane for the appearance of strifekind. It's best not to let them know you could kill them with a finger snap. Thus costumed, you climb (well, actually you float) to your hive's roof, arm the traps, lock and alarm the door behind you, and take off into the night sky.
When Anhaga tells you that you're supposed to meet some fuck out by the decoy cave, you keep your sigh internal. Wouldn't do to have her thinking you were ungrateful, after all, it'd be completely out of character for the Stajak she knows. Instead you smile brightly and voice your eagerness to get started, stopping only to grab a cloak before disappearing into the maze of tunnels linking the cave system together. Once you're out and away from the caves where you're liable to see people, you let your scowl show. This is stupid and dangerous and who gives a fuck if the kid dies, honestly, it'd be their own dumbshit fault. As you approach the meeting place by the decoy cave you school your face blank, ready to break into the biggest, dumbest smile possible should the kid see you before you see them. You crouch behind a collection of boulders, cloak helping to camouflage you, and settle in to wait. You're not stuck waiting long -maybe half an hour- before the kid lights down on the ground in front of your boulders. They're skinny, wearing threadbare clothes and looking like total cullbait, not that that means anything when they've got psi strong enough to fly with. You wonder how they manage to be both powerful enough to fly and too chickenshit to deal with their problems without running to a bunch of freaks who live in a grubdamned hole in the ground. You push those thoughts aside, though, and paste your smile on. You step out to meet the kid, practically oozing friendliness, and extend a frond. "Gosh! Are you Kypher?"
"Sure am!" You match the yellowblood grin for slightly crazed grin (yeesh, what are they on) and put your frond in theirs. It is comparatively kind of pathetic in its frailty, except for the reinforced claws—damn, you forgot to take the lacquer off—and you have to resist the urge to light a little flame against their frond, just to prove you aren't as helpless as you seem. Surreptitiously, you lift yourself a couple of inches off the ground. You flick a quick glance at their face again through your eyelashes as they shake your hand back. You can't quite decide if that smile is real or not. On the one frond, it is stupidly over-the-top. You smile like that, and you do it to frighten people, not to look friendly. Then again, they're presumably a Sufferist, and you just never fucking know with Sufferists and their touchy-feely shit. You back up a little and push your claws through your bangs, a calculated nervous gesture designed to let them see your eyepatch and accompanying scar. Look at me, I'm so pathetic, boo-hoo-hoo. You also tone down the smile a little, since you want to seem bashfully friendly, not, well, unhinged. "So what's your name?" you chirp, pitching your voice a little higher than normal. You also make it more nasal, just for shits and giggles. After a moment of consideration, you add, "And your pronouns? I'm a guy." People tend to get that wrong a lot. It's probably the skirts. And maybe the voice. (incidentally if you haven't heard the voice Bill Cipher's actor does for him on GF, go and listen to it. it's the worst thing. Kypher talks like that too, except right now he's leaning on it more than usual.)
You just barely catch your sneer before it mars the slightly manic smile you've got going on when he starts to hover. Showoff. By the Signless' holy fuckdamned nipplepants, you hate this kid already. You were fully prepared to resent him, mind, but the flying's quickly tipping you into full on platonic hatred. You smile wide enough to show all your fangs, just briefly, and chirp out an answer at him. "I'm Jak! And I usually use she, haha!" The inane tittering should be enough to make him underestimate you. Stajak-the-Signlessist is none too bright. What she doesn't have in thinksponge she more than makes up for in perkiness. She's sweet enough to give any clueless fucker a fangache should they look too close. Even to obnoxious little bulgeheads with stupid voices who flaunt their fucking psi everywhere they go.
Oh, man, she is definitely faking that smile. You only pull out the full-fanged grimace when you want someone to scream and preferably wet themselves; usually it's accompanied by at least one artful facial blood spatter. And that laugh, holy shit, it's more grating than yours. You are impressed, if grudgingly. She hasn't got subtlety, but she sure as hell has unadulterated rage. The question is, what's pissing her off in particular? Is it the voice? The voice tends to give people headaches. You're very proud of it. It might be the display of psionic powers, though; you notice her eyes darting quickly up to where blue sparks crackle around your horns. Hmm. Guess you'll have to find out. You set yourself down and try a bashful blink. It doesn't work very well with only one eye, you suspect. "Nice to meet you, Jak! I guess you're my guide? I'd probably get lost by myself." And here you append one of your trademark cackles, cutesied up a bit into something more like a titter, watching her face closely for her reaction. Yeah, sister, two can play at that game.
Oh, that little fucker. Either he's playing with you or he's too stupid to fucking live. And if he's observant enough to see where your oculars are going despite the lack of visible pupils, cares enough to bother, then, despite whatever idiot thing sent him running to Anhaga's 'flock,' he's probably not stupid. This could be fun. (Alternately, really awful! Sufferer preserve you.) You smile at him again and titter right on back. Oh, you'd definitely get lost by yourself, asshole. Lost and gone forever, what a shame. "Probably! The tunnels are super squiggly, people get lost all the time! Sometimes we find skeletons!"
You take a moment to marvel at the sheer audacity of "squiggly," and a slightly longer moment to fight off the temptation to reply with something like, "Wow, I love skeletons! I have a whole collection!" It's not even that much of a lie; you do have a collection of skulls—and not edgy second-hand shit bought off eFlay, either, they're all personal kills of yours. You've got most of the ones whose skulls were intact enough to bother, actually! It's a point of pride. It's really tempting, actually, mostly because you don't think she's as dumb as she'd like to seem and thus will probably see through you eventually, if she hasn't already. Also, the type of troll who'd try and pull this "teehee I'm so friendly and nonthreatening" act is probably pretty adept at sniffing it out in other people! So there's no point in trying to be believably nonthreatening; you've been pushing it a little already. Hmm. You arrange an exaggerated expression of fear on your face and decide you're going to see how outrageous you can be before she calls you on it. Damn, but you love fucking with people. "Wow, that's kinda scary! It's pretty tough out here in the wilds, huh." And you smile at her, showing just a few too many teeth. "Thank you so much for coming to meet me! Shall we get going?"
You make as if to start walking before bringing your frond to your forehead and smacking it lightly in annoyance. You rustle around in your 'dex for a moment and locate a strip of thick cloth, raise it up where he can see. You're gonna enjoy this part. "Darn it, I almost forgot! Can't let just anyone see how to get hive, hee! I'm going to need to blindfold you for a bit. Security reasons, I'm sure you understand!" You smile at him beatifically.
You manage to keep your face impassive, but you feel a spark jump between the tips of your horns. If she tries anything she is fucking dead, subterfuge be damned—if something touches you, you are going to fry the thing. (Possibly you can get yourself accepted by the Sufferist group even if you have to kill her, if you're convincing enough with the wibbly "s-s-she just came out of nowhere, I b-barely was able to defend myself!" shit. Still. You wouldn't want to push your luck.) Belatedly, you realize you're still blank-faced, and manufacture a couple wide-eyed blinks at the blindfold. Then you try your frond at a concerned and unsubtle examination of her face, followed by a relaxation into trust—which is tricky, and you're not entirely sure you got it right, but hey. You nod. "Yup, I... guess I do! Go ahead." And you turn your back to her, the spot between your shoulderblades itching despite your best attempt at relaxed body language.
He looks a bit weird when you pull out the blindfold, which fills you with mean-spirited glee, if that's even worth specifying. Do you experience any other kind of glee? "Wonderful!" You clap your fronds together as if that's just the very best thing since sliced bread, and affix the blindfold over his oculars a bit more firmly than strictly necessary. Just a bit, though! You're not a sadist. "Well, let's hit the road!" You grab his wrist and yank him off into the labyrinthine mess of caves and tunnels that make up your new home.
After you stomp on your initial impulse to zap her with all the psionic force you can muster—which is a bad idea firstly because it might give you a headache, and secondly because if she's crispy-fried you'll have to figure out the way to the Sufferists' hive yourself, which would probably be tiresome—and somehow manage to not trip over yourself and land face-first on the ground, you manufacture a whoa! "Huh, you're strong!" you tell her. What was her name again, Jaq? Something boring like that. "You almost knocked me over there!" After that, you decide if she wants to tow you behind her, she can damn well do so, and good on her for making it so you don't have to walk. So you float yourself a couple inches of the ground and let yourself trail behind her, like a wiggler's low-density-gas-filled rubbery sack. She can't complain; you can't imagine it's much work to pull you around, given how easily you can psionically lift yourself. Then you kick back and start counting her paces and keeping track of her turns; it wouldn't do to not know your escape route, after all.
"Really? Gosh, sorry! You're pretty tiny, haha!" You titter obnoxiously. You take him through the longest and most convoluted possible route to the caves, as per Anhaga's instructions. You would've done it anyway, honestly, there's basically no way that this kid isn't going to try and pull something. And you may think that all of these people are morons, but they're your morons. No one else gets to move in on your turf. It takes a fair hour for you to get up to one of the cave entrances from the route you're using, and once you get up to the well-camoflaged faux-stone door you knock briskly, make approximate eye contact with the camera that you know is hiding in the shadowy ceiling, and mutter the password, trying to sound as secretive as possible. It'd be hilarious if the little fuck tried to use your burner password to get back in, and while it's markedly unlikely to happen, there's no harm in trying.
You fully expected her to take an unnecessarily long route, but frankly her dedication to making sure you can't get out fast is kind of admirable. You'd bet the quickest way is at most ten minutes, since escape routes aren't very useful unless you can, y'know, escape in a timely fashion, but her way was so long that you got very bored! You couldn't even use your palmhusk, and like heaven were you gonna talk to her. She'll pay for that boredom, one way or another. And although the route is really long, you did memorize it, and if worst comes to worst you can just blast a hole to the surface. A cave-in would serve them right. When she finally slows to a stop, you look for the entrance and note with some surprise that it's well-concealed even to your practiced eye. Maybe they are competent! Marginally. And her line of sight is pretty difficult to track, you'll admit, but there's probably a camera up on the ceiling somewhere; you'd expect nothing less. You lazily memorize the password she uses, although you very much doubt that someone who went to that much trouble to conceal the way in would use anything but a temporary password in your hearing—the memorization is more so that you can prove that this password'll be invalid than out of any expectation that you'll use it in future. That accomplished, you watch with interest as the door begins to grate inward.
