You'd always kind of assumed that if any of your friends were going to kill you, it would be Vriska. Because, well...she'd already tried once. It definitely never crossed your mind that Gamzee would be the one responsible, since he was one of the only other trolls who was ever actually nice to you, besides Nepeta, Kanaya and Aradia. Of course, Aradia had stopped being nice once she'd died, and now Kanaya's dead too.

Which pretty much leaves only Gamzee and Nepeta. Except probably not Gamzee anymore, either, since he's maybe going to kill you.

You'd spoken to Gamzee almost every night since you'd first met him. About his religion, which you always found kind of funny, and your belief in fairies, which he treated with a detached sort of respect. You spoke about slam poetry, too, and dumb little details from your everyday lives that didn't really matter, but were really just an excuse to talk about something. Because he'd always seemed kind of lonely, and you were definitely kind of lonely as well, and you really did enjoy talking to him. 'Cause sure, he'd always been flighty and not-quite-there, but he was still one of the few things in your life that was purely good, without really any sucky parts.

Except now there was the whole killing-everybody thing, which you're pretty sure counts as a sucky part.

You think back to what you might have said that would have made him want to kill you, and come up blank. Maybe it had to do with that time he'd kinda possibly flirted with you and you'd maybe sorta freaked out a little. But the next time you'd spoken, he'd acted like nothing had happened, and you'd managed to play along and not make it awkward.

More likely, it was because he'd finally realized that he'd been speaking to a brownblood all this time. You remember how surprised you'd been when he'd trolled you that first time, saying that Karkat had told him you were interested in slam poetry. Your experiences with highbloods had never been very positive, and purplebloods were said to be even more obsessed with the hemospectrum – and even more violent – than bluebloods. And while Vriska hadn't yet paralyzed you at that time, you'd been FLARPing with her for long enough to know just how callous and bloodthirsty a blueblood could be.

But he'd been friendly and kind, and didn't ever once make fun of you. At least, not on purpose. Not even when you'd told him about Rufioh and the fairies. You guess it really must have been the sopor that had made him so nice, though, and the thought of it makes it feel almost like you're being forced to jump off a cliff all over again.

It feels a lot like betrayal.

But there isn't really much you can do. You remember how Gamzee had fought the Black King – remember how he'd seemed stronger than even Vriska – and look down at to your useless legs. Someone had been thoughtful enough to alchemize you a new four-wheel device while you'd been sleeping, so you aren't completely stuck. But you doubt your lance will do you much good against somebody so strong and fast. Probably not even if you could walk.

The fact that you really don't want to hurt him doesn't help much, either.

So you wait, unarmed, for your murderer to arrive, and feel vaguely nauseous when you hear the honks approaching you.

Though really, Gamzee himself doesn't approach so much as appear. There's this creepy puppet perched on his shoulder, which seems to be modeled after a human for some reason you can't even begin to fathom, and he watches you with an intensity you never thought he was capable of. Three diagonal gashes mar his face, the skin around them raw and swollen and stained purple with his blood. There's indigo and olive on his clubs and his clothes.

So it looks like another one of your friends is dead, and you want nothing more than for Prospit to be restored and your dream self to not be gone. Because you want to be able to fly again. You want to fly and fly and not have to think about all the things that are awful, like the fact that pretty much all of your friends are dead.

But Prospit is still gone, and your dream self is too, and you're probably going to die for real.

"Uh..." you begin, bilesack roiling. "I guess...this is the part where you kill me?" You feel tears pricking at your eyes, but fight them back. The last time you'd cried had been when you'd failed to help Vriska reach godtier, and that had done nothing but make you feel even more pathetic. So if you're going to die, you're going to at least try and do it with a little dignity. You smile as best you can. "I'm sorry that, I won't really be able to put up much of a fight." Your smile widens slightly. "I could never even beat you in a slam battle, so I doubt I could do much against you, in a real one. Vriska always says, how boring I am...and I guess that, me being boring, is definitely a thing that's true right now."

He doesn't move. "She don't know a motherfuckin' thing," he says.

You shiver at the weird resonance in his voice, at how the puppet's eyes seem to be staring at you, and your smile falters. "Um...thanks, I think?" You swallow. "I do have, one request. Which I know is, a little ridiculous, since I am definitely, not in a position to make requests." You wait for him to speak, but he doesn't. So you say: "Could you maybe...make it quick? I remember, after the accident, how badly everything hurt. It sucked a lot. And, if you just want my blood to paint with, it doesn't have to, take a long time...right?" He still says nothing, so you decide to press your luck. "And could you maybe, use some of my blood, to paint Tinkerbull? Just so that, there's something left, that shows he lived once. And that he was my friend." It seems only right, that he be painted with the blood color he shared with you.

"Shut up," he says.

You shut up.

He walks towards you, clubs swinging almost whimsically, and crouches in front of your four-wheel device. He looks you right in the eye, but it's difficult for you to maintain the contact without feeling like your digestive sac is starting to eat itself. So you allow your head to drop and look down at your hands folded in your lap. They're shaking.

"Motherfuckin' look at me," he says.

"Do I have to?" you ask, hating the way your voice cracks.

He doesn't answer, but you hear the staticy noise of him captchaloguing his clubs, and maybe (hopefully) the creepy puppet as well. He then reaches forward and cups your face, lifting it so that he can see your eyes. It doesn't hurt, but it would if you resisted. It reminds you just how strong he is.

He still says nothing, just looking, and you feel warmth spreading across your cheeks. "Karkat said you told him you wanted to kill us all," you say, even though you really should keep with the shutting up. "So if that's what, you're here for, please just...get it over with." A few tears finally escape, warm shame on your cheeks. "At least maybe, I'll be able to fly again, once I'm, uh, wherever it is, the dead go. And I'll maybe, be able to see, Aradia and Kanaya and Tinkerbull and -" your voice cracks, but you force yourself to press on, "- and Nepeta."

He wipes the tears away with his thumbs. "Makes a brother sad, how all up in a motherfuckin' hurry his invertebrother is to motherfuckin' die."

"...Uh, sorry, I guess." You sniff. "I don't actually want to die. I just...uh..."

He slides his hands up to just beneath your horns, which makes you shiver out of something entirely removed from fear. For all that you're probably going to die soon, it feels really nice to be touched.

"I can hear what's all whirlin' around your thinkpan, motherfucker," he says. "All that wicked motherfuckin' noise." He slides into your lap, using his legs to either side of him to help support his weight, and leans in very close. You feel his breath ghosting across your lips, and you shiver again. "Let your bro make that shit up and motherfuckin' better."

His hands go up further, fingers massaging at the base of your horns, and you make an involuntary noise at the back of your throat. You should be afraid – you know that you should. But it feels as if there's something warm and reassuring in your thinkpan, soothing away the fears before they can even properly form. You can't remember the last time you weren't afraid of anything.

You feel...free.

It's a little like flying.

Meanwhile, his fingers are filling you with pleasant little waves of sensation, making you liquid and loose. And when he leans in to kiss you, just a light brush of his lips against yours, it's all tingly. You can't help but compare it to your kiss with Vriska, which had been a lot more forceful, but a lot less...stimulating? You'd gotten flutterbugs in your stomach, but you're pretty sure that had mostly been from anxiety. You instantly miss the contact when he pulls back, and you surprise yourself by reaching to snag him around the waist, pulling him in for another, deeper kiss.

It's pretty obvious that neither of you have much experience. Even so, it still makes you feel shivery and good all over. His mouth is cool inside, and both of you have a few inconveniently placed teeth, but all of that just seems to make it even more awesome. You wonder foggily why you hadn't taken him up on his offer of sloppy makeouts before, because you think your life would've been a lot better in general if you'd done this a lot sooner.

The kiss is gentle enough at first, leaving aside the occasional fang catching a lip or tongue. But after a while, Gamzee makes a desperate noise and grabs you by the horns, and suddenly it isn't very gentle at all. It's good, though –in a way you didn't even know it was possible for something to be good. All desperation and hunger.

When he breaks off the kiss, you let out an embarrassing little whine of protest.

"Open your eyes, motherfucker."

You do. Honestly, you can't remember closing them in the first place.

"Always knew you'd be a motherfuckin' miracle," he says. "Always knew you'd be like warm motherfuckin' chocolate in my mouth."

There's no resentment in his tone, no hint that he maybe wishes that you were someone other than who you are. Again you think back to Vriska, who has always seemed angry at the fact that she finds you attractive – is always trying to change you to fit an impossible ideal that she's built up in her head. And though you're inclined to agree with most of her grievances with regard your personality, it's still nice to feel like you're being wanted for who you are. It almost makes you want to cry again.

"So I guess this means that you aren't going to kill me," you say.

He slides his arms around your neck and nuzzles your shoulder. "I am the motherfuckin' highest," he says, then kisses the bare skin at the base of your throat. "My new best friend's been advisin' me to get my subjugglate on, but still what's my choice who all gets dead. So it's to my motherfuckin' discretion which motherfuckers get the wicked mercy of the Mirthful Messiahs. And if I wanna spare my best shitblooded brother, it is all motherfuckin' chill."

You can't help but bristle at the casteist slur, and it's enough to put to rest any of the giddiness still lingering from the kiss. Enough to really remind you of the circumstances that brought him here in the first place, in spite of the warmth in your thinkpan. Like the fact that he'd killed Nepeta. "So, if I'm understanding what it is you're saying: you may or may not still kill everybody else?" you ask. "Because that still sucks, in pretty much every way it's possible for something to suck."

"You don't have to get your motherfuckin' worry on about nothin'," he says. "All things will be motherfuckin' miracles."

There's a brief stab of fear that doesn't manage to break through the wall in your thinkpan for more than a second, but there's a deep, horrible sadness that lingers in its wake. "Please don't hurt her," you say, knowing that he'll know who you mean. Because for all that she's done to hurt you, you don't know how you would be able to handle a world without Vriska Serket.

He doesn't respond for a few moments, but you can feel the sudden tension practically vibrating through his body. Eventually, he says, "Told you already not to get your worry on."

"I'm not worried," you say. "I can't really be worried right now, since you're doing...whatever it is you're doing, to my thinkpan. I just know that you're probably going to kill her, and it makes me sad."

He pulls away from you, and it's as if he wants to bore holes into your eyes with the intensity of his gaze. It's easier to deal with, now that your fear is gone. "Don't wanna be makin' my miracle brother sad," he says.

This of course tells you absolutely nothing, which is really frustrating. Which leads you to say something that probably (definitely) never would have left your mouth if you could still feel any fear. But you can't, so it does.

"If you hurt her, or any more of the others, I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive you." You don't know if you'll be able to forgive him for killing even just Nepeta, but that's not really the point.

He says nothing at first, tension still radiating out from his body in a way that's almost palpable. But then he relaxes, a slow smile stretching across his face, and the warmth in your thinkpan expands outward. It gets to the point where it starts to become uncomfortable; you can feel it, pushing and prodding at all the secret places inside of your mind. It occurs to you that you can probably only feel it because he's letting you: a conscious reminder of how powerless you are if he really wants to violate the sanctity of your most inner thoughts.

But you still can't seem to feel afraid. Just...tired. As if you've been hollowed out like one of Jade human's pumpkins.

"Please stop," you say.

He shooshes you, smoothing down your hair, and you feel your eyelids beginning to droop. "It's all chill, brother. Just go the fuck to sleep."

The last thing you feel before you give in is his lips brushing across your forehead.