‘To become my own messiah… is it really worth it?’
He was having doubts again. He cast his gaze across the room, locking purple eyes with the puppet, which was lying across the desk in a limp manner, spaghetti-esque limbs flailed in all directions, and the mischievous look ever present in that twisted expression. He then looked down to his hands, which were stained with a mixture of lime and indigo. Blood. His friends’ blood.
Running a sticky hand through tangled locks, he replayed the recent events in his mind. The puppet… it had spoke to him. Hadn’t it? He couldn’t be hallucinating, after all…
The headache struck again, and the young troll muttered a variety of expletives under his breath. Clutching at his forehead, Gamzee staggered over to the fridge, already knowing what sights would greet him.
There was no more slime. He’d tried checking back countless times, but no matter how much he hoped, how much he begged his deities, it never replenished. But of course. He was set to become those very deities himself, after all. That’s why it was all worth it. That’s what the puppet had told him.
Cal could be very persuasive.
‘Come on, brother,’ he mumbled, ‘Gotta say sober now.’
Gamzee stared at the bodies in the fridge. Their unmoving eyes still made his stomach turn, or maybe it was just what the humans called ‘cold turkey’. The eyes. Lime and indigo. He had needed to kill the highblood, he knew that he was part of the grand scheme of things, a piece of the key to his ascension. As for the smaller of the two… she was collateral. He’d kill all of them eventually, he told himself. Even his best friend. Still, at least he hadn’t had to be the one to kill…
At the thought of Tavros, Gamzee choked back a sob. He still hadn’t retrieved that body; it had been too much for him to bear to look at. The pungent, rusty odour of spilled blood filled his nose as he thought about it. He recalled the moment he slumped to his knees beside the corpse, caressed the young man’s face as the tears blinded his vision, gently closed the icy cold eyelids and kissed his sweet Tavros one last goodnight. It tore at his emotions, but the still troll was in a better place now.
Gamzee kicked the fridge door shut and returned to his corner, dragging the puppet along with him. He wiped his face, wincing as his hand passed over the scratches the limeblood had left. He pressed his forehead to Cal’s.
The voice responded, echoing throughout his think pan.
‘Find the cherub. Protect him.’
He stood up tall, casting away his usual hunch, having been instilled with new confidence. He could trust the words of the doll. Gamzee was Cal. And Cal was Lord English.
They were always both him.