Work Text:
Go gather by the humming sea
Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell,
And to its lips thy story tell,
And they thy comforters will be,
Rewording in melodious guile
Thy fretful words a little while,
Till they shall singing fade in ruth
And die a pearly brotherhood;
For words alone are certain good:
Sing, then, for this is also sooth.
-Oscar Wilde
The corpsespores leak their same stale light into the tight and giddy sky. The musclebeasts low their same bleak low across the high and distant hill. The cool seas wash their same dead waves onto the coarse and barren shore. A familiar, fitful night in lonely Alternia.
Look closer.
The grey hive, a listless giant, slouches towards the ocean. Its stubby, crumbling hands lie clenched on either side. Feet in the sand, back to the cliff, and heavy head fixed on the horizon, it lingers: uncertain but patient. Does it sleep, or does it wake? Does it dream, or does it remember?
Look closer.
In the belly of the giant, there lies a shell. And in the belly of the shell, there lies a troll. The troll lies suspended between sheets of sopor slime, a grub in a cocoon. He spins, and shifts, and shudders, but still he finds no rest. He turns, and twists, and twitches, but still he finds no rest. He jumps, and jiggles, and judders, but still he finds no rest.
Look closer.
Gamzee Makara sleeps. Gamzee Makara wakes. Gamzee Makara dreams, and Gamzee Makara remembers.
Gamzee is a happy troll. He reminds you of a happy little nut creature, the way he scampers and capers and gambols in his hive. You’d bet that if you’d saw him he’d give you a great big hug, and share some of his special miracle foodtypes with you, if you were hungry. It’s not so easy to be happy when your bros are so far away, and your family’s never around. That’s why Gamzee tries extra hard to be happy all the time.
So, when Gamzee awakes from his recuperacoon, he always leaps out and smiles his smile with the extra-wide grin. “Yeah!”, says Gamzee, “life's so beautiful, it's a miracle!” But before he can scamper and caper and gambol, Gamzee has to make sure he’s been a Good Troll and performed his observance chores. These chores are special tricks he does on account of his passionate love for religion.
The first thing Gamzee does is make sure he applies his special make-up. He does this to make ready his body for the Dark Carnival to come. Gamzee can’t wait for the Carnival. It’s going to be the best miracle. He’ll know it’s the Carnival because all the trolls will get together, kind of like a big party, but better, because it’s a special type of party that never has to end. They’ll all be together on a bright new planet full of fun and parties and laughter forever.
“Pap, pap, pap, pap!” go Gamzee’s hands as he dips them in the make-up. “Pap, pap, pap, pap!” go Gamzee’s hands as he smears the paints upon his face. He smears them and swirls them and smudges them all over. If you happened to see Gamzee right then, you might think he looked silly, kind of like a funny painting. You might even laugh. But that wouldn’t make Gamzee sad, not one bit. That would make him extra happy, instead.
The second thing Gamzee needs to do is a special type of talking where he tells the bros of his religion all about how he likes to do the things they like and how much he’s looking forward to the Carnival. Now, normally, Gamzee speaks in a silly voice, the kind that starts off all high and makes you laugh, and then goes all low and rumbly and reminds you of the tickling feel of someone blowing a pussberry on your abdominal pit. But when Gamzee does his special talking it’s different. It’s all sing-songy and strong, so strong his voice is like the tunemaster of a cavalreaper choir. If you didn’t know what was happening, and heard the special talking from the other room, you might be afraid a whole regiment of reapers were coming, and jump right into the air! But you’d be wrong to do that. It’s only talking.
The third thing Gamzee does for his religion is his special movement custom. This is where he gets his clubs from off the hivefloor and makes them to do a pretty dance. The movement custom is to make sure that Gamzee is a Good Troll, which is important, because if there aren't enough Good Trolls, the special forever party planet won’t happen and then everyone will be sad. It’s best not to think about that though. If you were here, you’d forget your troubles watching the shiny clubs go tumbling around and around. That’s what Gamzee does, too. Sometimes Gamzee’s so carefree that the thing that happens next is the bit when Gamzee steps on a horn and screams and falls down. But that’s OK because he always gets up again. And getting up again is part of the miracle.
The final thing that Gamzee does is to eat one of his special pies.
Normally, Gamzee would be loading a pie into his chumgullet right now, except right now is a tricky magic time where Gamzee has to stop having the miracle foodtypes for a while. It’s a special thing that Gamzee has sometimes done since always, on account of his passionate love for religion. But even so, it always makes him just a little bit scared.
Tonight, when Gamzee gets out of his recuperacoon he doesn’t smile his smile with the extra-wide grin. He doesn‘t leap, either. He simply slides out slowly like a newborn wiggler. You’d think that something was wrong, if you didn’t know already that this was on account of the tricky magic time. It’s been the tricky magic time for what seems a very long time now, and Gamzee sure has found it challenging. But it’s the most important religion observance of all, so Gamzee needs to stay strong, strong as a tunemaster‘s voice.
The first thing that Gamzee does is to go and put on his make-up, but his hand slips in the paint. “Splat!” goes Gamzee’s make-up, all over the cluttered hive floor. “Oh fuck!”, groans Gamzee. Gamzee picks up the paint, and continues anyway. The make-up doesn’t look good. You wouldn‘t think that Gamzee looked like a funny picture, and you probably wouldn‘t laugh. Gamzee tries to do his special smile, but the extra-wide grin hurts his face.
The second thing that Gamzee does is he tries to make the special talking, but his throat is too sore and dry from the singing and fasting. Gamzee struggles out a few sickly notes, but they don’t sound convincing at all. If you were standing outside, you wouldn’t think a cavalreaper was coming, and you certainly wouldn’t do a jump in the air. Gamzee steadies himself and half-jumps, half-slouches into the adjoining room.
Here, Gamzee sets his feet for a movement custom, but though his hands are lively, the clubs won’t dance. It’s like some great and horrible Griefswindler went and tore out the special hearts from all of his joybuddies. Gamzee moves his hands to make pretend he’s doing the custom, even though he’s not.
And then, Gamzee remembers the terrible hunger. He feels so empty inside, empty without his special foodtypes, and the magical miracles of the slime pie and whimsical elixir. Gamzee bends double and his eyes unfocus. The clubs fall from his hands. The world winks at him, and winks again, and he falls to the ground, moaning.
“HONK!” goes the ground. But Gamzee isn’t scared. Gamzee doesn’t even get up.
Every time I remember I exist it's different. Sometimes its nauseating, like waking up to a sticky-tear face and the smell of death across the psychic link. Sometimes it's a bittersweet climax, the way you catch your breath when you remember you’re in love. Sometimes, I fly into a panic. Sometimes I scream. Sometimes I scream for joy.
Tonight I feel a stretched-out desperate sorta longing, like a newpupe half-cut and alone at a party. It fades quickly enough. I have to be focused. I don't have much time.
Before getting down to business, I pick myself up and run straight outside. The salt of the midnight sea hits like a suckerpunch before I'm even half out the door. I throw myself down on the shore and roll around 'til I'm covered in it - sand, shells, weeds and tiny crawling things too. I laugh. I pull my shirt up and sniff. I look out at the stars and sigh. I scrunch my eyes tight and listen to the landscape bursting into life around me. I lie still until my body is almost too heavy to move.
I return to the hive. Luxury over, I sit down on the floor and hitch up the left leg of my ridiculous getup. Good. My little alarm clock is still there. As I watch, the colors melt into a familiar sickly yellow. I do some rough math. Enough time to make some personal calls.
It doesn't take too long to find my husktop, buried inside a pile of filth and paraphernalia. A frown tugs at that place where my lips end and my cheeks begin. Gee, would it have hurt to imagine him a little more fastidious?
Thing is, with characters, they have to be internally consistent.
My first contact is an obvious choice.
TC: Hey man.
AT: uHH, hEY,
AT: iS IT THAT TIME OF SWEEP AGAIN, oR ARE YOU JUST BEING, sILLY WITH YOUR TEXT?
TC: It's that time again.
AT: wOW, SO i GUESS THAT MEANS WE DON'T HAVE LONG TO TALK,
TC: Not very long, no.
AT: nO, tHAT'S OK, i MEAN, uHH,
AT: i JUST WISH i HAD SOME KIND OF WARNING, sO I COULD BE BETTER AT THESE CONVERSATIONS,
AT: i STILL DON'T REALLY UNDERSTAND WHAT'S GOING ON HERE, nAMELY,
AT: aRE YOU gAMZEE, oR SOMEONE ELSE,
TC: I thought I'd explained this before...
TC: I'm Gamzee, yes. But not as we know him.
AT: i STILL DON'T THINK THAT HAS EXPLAINED THE SITUATION FOR ME,
TC: Then it might help to think of me as a homunculus.
AT: ,,,
TC: A tiny troll that lives inside your head.
AT: uHH, yOU SEE, i TRIED THAT JUST NOW, aND THAT IS NOT REALLY HELPING, mUCH,
TC: How do I put it...
TC: Think of it like I have an illness. A terminal illness.
TC: And if I want to survive, I can't be the Gamzee I am now that often.
TC: I have to be a very different Gamzee instead.
TC: 'fraid I don't have the time to explain it any better than that.
TC: So, tell me, how you doing? Last time we talked you said you were still having problems with your self confidence.
AT: oH, ok, yEAH, i'M STILL HAVING PROBLEMS WITH THAT,
TC: Did those self-help books not work out?
AT: wELL, aHH, kIND OF,
AT: tHERE WERE LOTS OF USEFUL EXERCISES ABOUT AFFIRMATION, bASICALLY TELLING YOURSELF HOW GREAT YOU ARE,
AT: bUT, uHH, rIGHT NOW i CAN'T SEE HOW JUST WORDS ARE GOING TO MAKE ME LIKE MYSELF ANY BETTER,
TC: It sounds pretty fucking frustrating.
AT: yES,
AT: bUT, uHH, iF YOU DON'T MIND ME SAYING
AT: uHHHHHHH,
TC: Go on?
AT: i, i, fIND THE FOCUS THAT, iS BEING PLACED ON ME, tROUBLING,
AT: eVERY TIME YOU COME ON HERE OUT OF THE BLUE, iT’S JUST THIS, tHIS INTERROGATION,
AT: wHICH IS VERY DIFFICULT, fOR ME,
AT: i KNOW YOU'RE JUST TRYING tO HELP,
AT: bUT iT'S SO WEIRD,
AT: gAMZEE IS MY FRIEND, bUT YOU'RE NOT hIM,
AT: fURTHERMORE,
AT: yOU MADE ME PROMISE NOT TO TALK ABOUT THIS, wITH HIM, oR, wITH ANYONE,
AT: sO THE AMOUNT OF PRESSURE, pLACED UPON ME, iS, sIGNIFICANT,
TC: I hadn’t realised how lousy my interjections were making you feel. Sorry, bro.
AT: nO, aHH, iT'S ok, i DON’T KNOW WHY, i SAID THAT, eXACTLY,
TC: It’s not OK. I'm being selfish. Probably I want to help you more for my own sake than yours. I feel shitty about that too.
TC: I just want to be your friend, and help you out, you know?
AT: i, uHH, aPPRECIATE THAT,
TC: But if you don't mind me saying, I think your assertiveness has really improved. You weren't feeling happy about how things were, and boom! You told me exactly how you felt. A younger Tavros would never have been able to do that.
AT: hUH, i GUESS,
AT: bUT, yOU STILL DON'T UNDERSTAND,
AT: iT DOESN'T MATTER HOW ASSERTIVE, oR AFFIRMATIVE i AM,
AT: i'M STILL ULTIMATELY, a CRIPPLE,
AT: aND WORSE,
TC: Tavros
AT: a GENETIC DEFECT, wHO CAN'T HAVE BLACK FEELINGS, fOR ANYONE,
AT: pERHAPS, iT WOULD BE BETTER IF THEY JUST CAME ROUND, tO EUTHANIZE ME, rIGHT NOW,
AT: yOU KNOW, tO FINALLY PUT ME OUT OF MY, mY MISERY,
TC: DON'T YOU EVER FUCKING SPEAK LIKE THAT ABOUT YOURSELF. DON'T YOU MOTHERFUCKING DARE.
TC: oh shit
TC: I'm sorry
TC: I didn't mean to shout at you
TC: fuck fuck fuck
AT: gAMZEE, aRE YOU OK,
TC: ...what I meant to say was: there's really no need to hate yourself.
TC: You wanna know something? I would give anything to be like you.
AT: aHH, wELL, uHH, aS NICE AS IT IS TO HEAR YOU SAY IT, iT DOESN'T REALLY EXACTLY, hELP ME VERY MUCH IN MY PRESENT STATE OF MIND,
TC: True. But I want you to know that there are people that care for you.
TC: I do. Other Gamzee does too.
TC: You're a kickass game-playing fairy-loving animal-communing cavalreaper-in-training. You see the good in almost everything. Who wouldn’t like you?
TC: Nobody worth a damn, that’s who.
AT: uHH, gOSH, tHANK YOU,
AT: i KNOW YOU'RE JUST TRYING TO CHEER ME UP,
AT: bUT IT'S, uHH, kIND OF NICE TO HEAR YOU SAY THAT ANYWAY,
TC: You're welcome. Actually, that reminds me. There was kinda one small thing I wanted to ask you, before I go. If that would be cool?
AT: pLEASE, gO AHEAD,
TC: About the way you commune with the beasts and the creatures and such. How does it work? Do you just, sorta, reach inside their heads with your mind and tell them what to do?
AT: wELL, uHH, iN A WAY,
AT: i'M NOT TOO SURE HOW IT WORKS MYSELF, bUT ACTUALLY, iT'S MORE LIKE,
AT: i MAKE A VISIT TO THE ANIMAL'S MINDHIVE AND WE SORT OF, dISCUSS WHETHER IT WOULD BE OK FOR THEM TO DO A THING TOGETHER WITH ME FOR A WHILE, aND i SHOW THEM THE REASONS WHY,
AT: aND MOSTLY, tHEY AGREE,
TC: I see. Much appreciated.
AT: aH, nO TROUBLE, gLAD TO HELP,
AT: mOSTLY TROLLS AREN'T INTERESTED IN THE SAME SORT OF THINGS YOU ARE,
AT: sO IT’S GOOD TO SPEAK, aBOUT THESE DIFFERENT SORTS OF THINGS, i MEAN,
TC: Well, I hope we get to speak again soon.
TC: Thanks for talking to me, Tavros.
I close the chatbox, uncross my legs, twist the left one quizzically before me. The colored half of the emotion anklet jangles into view, angry and orange like a killer’s eye. Fuck. It happens more quickly every time. And I managed to lose it at Tavros, Tavros, of all trolls. Geez.
I said that I might speak to him soon. But maybe I won’t. Maybe there won’t be time for words.
You stalk your way into the small hive. A flash and you’re on him, so close and so quickly he smells you before he can turn around. The last thing he glimpses is that extra-wide grin: a loose smile pinned poorly to a terrible face, a demon’s face, with its eyes so wild and wet.
Kill, Gamzee, Kill!
Maim, Gamzee, Maim!
Killing and maiming
are such good fun.
Fuck. Bad idea. Think about something else instead.
I think about how I got into this messed-up situation. It’s so long ago that it’s difficult to remember, although that’s what tonight is supposed to be all about.
I had barely puped before I knew something was wrong. Blackouts and fevers. A lusus too frightened to touch me. Nightmares of courtrooms and hangings. Sleep terrors so intense that this one time I ran straight out the hive and burnt myself raw. Behind it all, my shadow pulsed.
My shadow was impossibly strong. And my impossibly strong shadow said:
“Gamzee, you are weak. You come from our blood, but are not of it. This world is not for you. It will haunt you and hound you and harry you and in the end murder you. Come to me. Come to me, and I will show you a power that will make you strong. Come to me, and I will show you your birthright.”
And I knew who the shadow was, and it made me afraid. Yet behind my fear, my spirit sang. My spirit was wickedly brave. And my wickedly brave spirit said:
“Shadow, you are wrong. You come from my soul, but are not of it. My life is not for you. I will stop you and stall you and stymie you and in the end banish you. Leave me be. Leave me be, for I will build a prison around you that will make me free. Leave me be, and I will find my own destiny”.
He wasn’t kidding. My spirit helped me find a different source of power. Not the power to make puppets of others, not the power to lay a troll low, but a power to shape truth and memory and destiny nonetheless. The power of stories. ‘Cause what’s a troll but a bunch of memories? And what’s a memory, but a story we tell ourselves to make it true?
So anyhow, my spirit and me came up with a plan. I’d write myself out of the old story and into a new one. A story without fear or malice or anger. A paradise of toys and friends and dreams of a beautiful salvation to come. But there was a catch.
A flash on the screen knocks me out of myself. Just as well. Who knows how much time I’ve wasted zoning out.
It’s him again. The sinister bastard. Though his conversation’s fascinating, he makes me feel like scum. Better bust out some of my signature purple prose. It never fails to piss him off.
Happy Remembrance Night, clown.
TC: What’s up, doc?
TC: I’ve got this ornery feeling. A terrible rage is welling up inside of me. I'm fit to burst.
TC: When I get that feeling...
TC: I need sexual healing.
TC: Won’t you help a chucklebrother out?
Your solicitation is meaningless.
You know very well I'm not here to help you.
TC: Still got your harsh on, I see. If you don't care about me, why are you here AGAIN?
The same reason I’m always here.
I’ve had to endure your company for some time now. It may please you to learn that I view your destruction with something approaching anticipation.
It’s difficult for me to get excited about the inevitable, but in this case, I’m happy to make an exception.
TC: This shtick. Tell me, if you already know what's going to happen, why the need to intervene?
Because the intervention is a necessary part of the what's going to happen.
For a bard, your grasp of narrative is lamentably poor.
Have you settled on your decision for tonight?
TC: Which decision would you prefer?
TC: You're always suggesting that I should let that fucker take me.
TC: So I guess you’re bluffing. Which means that my continued existence is what you're after.
TC: Unless you’re double-bluffing.
How perceptive of you.
A lesser being might find themselves perplexed to see how unwilling you are to realize your potential.
Like a starving miser, seated on a vast hoard of wealth.
Could it be that you're simply too stupid to notice?
TC: Hey, you're the omniscient one.
The truth is that either decision helps me.
Indeed, both decisions are needed to effect my plans. Give in now or give in later: your agency really has no part in the matter.
TC: I can tell you one thing, doctor. When Gamzee Makara finally does flip the fuck out, it will be at a time of MY choosing.
Hee hee. You're as naive as you are pathetic.
TC: Not so naive I don't realize you’re trying to get me angry.
I thought that much was obvious by now. I need you to be angry to ensure that the choice you make is a meaningful one.
TC: Ain't going to happen, bro.
And why not?
TC: Because I don’t want it to.
Is there not sound enough dramatic reasoning? Does it not fit the pacing? Is it not in keeping with our arrogant protagonist's boorish character?
It seems that you are treating life as a storybook again.
I've warned you about that.
TC: What’s your musclebeef with stories?
Inevitably, they lead one to place unrealistic expectations upon the truth. For someone in my line of work, that would be a very dangerous thing to do, if it were possible.
TC: Stories are what make a troll thrive. When the chips are down, why go on if not to struggle through to the dramatic turnabout?
TC: Stories are the special stardust our truth is made of.
Stories are for clowns, and for children. The omniscient have no need of stories. The facts are simply there.
TC: Oh man. Must have been a dolormancer in here just now, because hearing that has cast a powerful sadness on me. You’ve got no stories?
I have as many stories as I want. It is simply the case that I do not require them.
Why, here's a story I came across just now.
Once upon a time, there was a troll.
The troll was heir to a great and terrible power, but he was too afraid to use it. The arrogant troll told lies and tricked themselves into believing all was well. Later, the troll was consumed by rage and murdered all of their friends.
The End.
Wait, did I say "story"? What I meant to say was "accurate rendition of fact".
One of my little jokes.
Hee hee.
TC: You really don't get it, do you?
TC: What you've done there isn’t a fact. It’s a little piece of another Gamzee, crawling its way into my hivepan. No better than my stories, for sure.
TC: And yet I'M supposed to be the liar? Hilarious.
I told you it was one of my little jokes.
Moreover, you're getting your limited understanding of reality horribly confused with my objective standpoint.
You must stop doing that. Really, it's filthy.
TC: I REFUSE to admit that my understanding of reality is worse than yours.
TC: What does your ‘objectivity’ matter when we’re talking about trolls, anyhow?
TC: There's the me I know. Then there's the me that Tavros knows. Then there's the me that you know. Are any one of these mes less 'true' than the other?
And the clown turns philosopher.
Subjective reality is all well and good, but no matter how hard you imagine a bullet is a bonebulge, that won't stop it from killing you. No matter how hard you imagine a clown is a cute little creature, that won't stop him from murdering his friends.
TC: But what if no-one was around to witness the murder, and then everyone believed a bonebulge had killed me, huh? Wouldn't that fucker become a truth with a life of its own?
No, it wouldn't.
TC: Anyhow, you’re comparing cueballs to clown horns.
TC: The difference between me and a bullet is that imagining myself differently actually changes who I am.
TC: So you’re wrong.
No.
I never said that your imagination had no impact on how you behave.
I simply stated a fact. And then another fact.
TC: URGH.
TC: Let's try a different approach.
A less tedious approach?
TC: By telling stories, I've changed who I am. I imagined a new reality for myself, and now I'm living it.
TC: That HAS to be true, because otherwise I wouldn't be here, speaking to you now, under these circumstances.
Might it not be more probable that your changed state of mind results primarily from those psychoactive comestibles, rather than some grand scheme of memoro-emotional engineering?
As ever, you give yourself too much credit.
TC: The pies don't work like that.
TC: And even if Gamzee only exists only because he's too doped up to be angry, that doesn't account for me.
TC: Right now, I exist. And right now, I have the choice of taking the violent way out, or sleeping it over until next time.
A perfectly meaningless choice.
TC: Fuck you.
TC: You know what doesn't matter?
TC: Your FUCKING opinion.
It's not an opinion.
TC: AUGH.
What's the matter? Getting a little worked up?
TC: You know what?
TC: SHUT up.
TC: You know what else?
TC: I don't CARE.
TC: I don't care if in reality I'm strapped into some cosmic fucking rollercoaster and you’re the sinister carny watching the cars go round.
TC: I don't care that I'm not judged worthy to survive in this universe you've groomed like some pervert lusus.
TC: I don't even care that I've been given a really fucking short life to live.
TC: You might be omniscient, and intelligent, and one FUCKING annoying pain in the ass, but you know what you're not?
TC: YOU ARE NOT MY AUTHOR.
TC: I am.
TC: GAMZEE MAKARA IS ALREADY HERE, MOTHERFUCKER!
TC: And no matter what you did, what you’re doing, or what comes after, my life is a truth I have created. I’m a fucking TRUTH ALCHEMIST, and my stories are my miracles.
Haa Haa. Hee Hee. Hoo Hoo.
Hee Hee. Hoo Hoo. Haa Haa.
Hoo Hoo. Haa Haa. Hee Hee.
Oh, clown. We'll speak again later.
I shatter the screen with my forehead, washing out the hollow text in a tide of sticky indigo. I laugh. I laugh a deep and booming laugh, and laugh, and laugh until the darkness finally takes me.
Except I don’t. That didn’t – that doesn’t happen.
My breath’s ragged. Feebly, I survey the room in which I live. The door outside has swung open, but the air is stale. The posters on the walls seem impossibly huge. Things never go quite to plan. You’ll never quite be in total control.
Life’s a question of power. The strongest survive. The weakest die out. How easy must it be to be a troll like Dr. Whitefuck. Reality and all its mysteries eviscerated. You can see their corpses as you lean across the killing floor below. To know your destiny. To see past all the accretions of self, all that baggage and bullshit, to some higher purpose, the ultimate punchline of the universe. A troll enthroned.
NO. Fuck. Think differently. Get perspective. Look at the mood ring. Look at the damn mood ring.
How sad to be a prisoner to the plotline. How sad to be a troll without stories.
When I think about it, the decision’s not quite so bad after all.
For a moment, the anger lifts.