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Then, she had to tell herself over and over that it was justice to stab clean through the center of Vriska’s chest.

Before, she had to tell herself over and over that it was justice to level the gavel at other children and condemn them to a death that drained them of blood and flesh—and even pain, in the end.

She knew nothing of consistency. No matter what she claimed otherwise, she was wrong and Vriska was right. Justice, despite all her yearning, was not a constant. It fluctuated rapidly from day to day: a slight yesterday meant nothing in the face of the crimes of today, but then the grudge of half a sweep before meant the world must crash down around the criminal’s horns.

At least as a Scourge Sister, justice was fun. It was fun to roam with a makeshift gamblignant acting as her executioner and standing by her judgments. It was fun to go home at the end of the night and relive their conquests. It was even fun to relish in retrospect the pleading of their prisoners on bended knees.

But then Vriska tried to bring justice to bear on their friends, and it stopped being justice. It wasn’t fun. It made her want to pull every fang out of Vriska’s mouth in retaliation—because it would have been most just.

And if she was honest with herself, she didn’t really want to do that to Vriska.

Terezi wasn’t honest with herself until Vriska was justly dead.