Chapter Text
Before consciousness even hits him, he's already leaping up, his body jolted to attention by sweeps and sweeps of training. Hands empty, no weight on his hips--weaponless, then, so he has to rely solely on fists and feet. The air's cool in the room. Not left out to die, but it doesn't seem like a cell either--no gross smears of blood on the walls, or some creaky faucet leaking out shitty water.
It takes a couple seconds for his mind to catch up. The first thing Karkat fully processes is the light beige hue of the walls, a color so rarely used for wallpaper that he has to blink. And the room looks...normal? Odd, for sure, with these platforms that are long as a body and some kind of desk shoved in opposite corners. Clothes, too, strewn all over the floor. It doesn't feel like a cell; there's no deep, underlying stench of rotting, and there's a window closed off by blinds. If it's a cell, it's one he hasn't been before.
Second: skin. Karkat pinches at his wrist, wondering if something's got in his eyes--but the skin tone stays the same, a shade of brown that looks so fucking weird. Sure, there's different shades of intensity among trolls, but they're all still gray. Brown isn't--not even a bronzeblood can reach this hue. It's not just limited to his arm either. When he rolls up a pant leg, the ankle shares the same colour.
Mind-affecting, then. Why they'd give him a completely different appearance, he wouldn't know, but bluebloods weren't known for their sanity checks anyhow. At least they haven't stripped him and dunked him into a water tank. He still had nightmares from that event. And anyways, he doesn't really have time to laze around--a weapon is a priority here. He can examine whatever body his mind concocted for him later.
Nothing under those platforms except for some fuzzy balls of dust. Nothing in the corners. He pulls open the desk drawers, but it's just half-empty bags of food, stale and dry. They look similar to grubchips, although he knows for sure that they shouldn't be that colour of orange. It's probably poisoned. Next, he checks the wastebin, but there's only crumpled pieces of paper. It's the last drawer that yields up something moderately useful--it resembles a knife, except there's two blades attached to some kind of miniature pivot device. Not the sharpest, but it's passable enough.
Right. He should probably try the door then, see if he can pick its locks, but then--it might set off an alarm. If they haven't killed him or yet, or hell, even beat him up, then they're probably trying to fish out more use from him. Maybe he can wait for his team to bust him out of here. If there's guards, he can't exactly fight through them with whatever shitty knife-esque weapon he's holding, and it might just ramp up his chances of getting thrown into a worser cell.
Still, it's no reason not to get a better grasp of his surroundings. The room's boring as fuck, but there's still a window, and Karkat pulls open the blinds, expecting some giant Empress billboard blaring over a dumpyard. If he's lucky, he might even catch a warmblood's attention.
It's--
Karkat blinks, and blinks again, because...well, daylight. It's full streaming daylight, with a patch of grass and tree, and a brick wall extending in the periphery. And the sky's--the sky's blue. Not from haze, not from pollution, but an actual, unfiltered blue.
Virtual reality, he decides on readily, his brain shutting down other possibilities. He doesn't recall any mindbender that can control this much amount of detail, but hey, it's a first here. He yanks down the blinds. The sight of the sun gnaws away in his insides, like something's irrevocably wrong and he can't ever know what. It takes him a second to process that it's not hurting him. It's not burning his skin up.
"Huh."
It's certainly a bizarre feature for a VR, then, especially if they didn't want him finding out that he's strapped in one. Maybe they've got him in a holding cell in one of those colonies, but that still doesn't explain why his skin isn't blazing up like some shitty crispy chicken skin. Possibly a thicker atmosphere; but there's no reason it should be breathable, either, unless they're funneling special air into the cell. Karkat can't imagine why. And above all, fucking above all, the skin keeps making his eyes return to his hands and wrists.
Chemical modification? He's heard horror stories of it. He's seen it. Trolls plugged into vats, pumped with so many chemicals that when Karkat and his crew finally pry open the doors, all that slumps out is a barely-sentient writhing lump of flesh. But there's no residual pain here--and there's no good reason why the Empire wouldn't want to make his life living hell--and he fits into this...skin perfectly. No seams or rips or residue. Maybe he's a test subject for alien infiltration. Zip some threshcutioners into mimic suits and sent them among the locals. Although that doesn't cop up much sense, not if you could just kill your way through--
Footsteps.
Reality or not, the sound of steps instantly has Karkat position himself into a fighting pose, his newfound blade in front. Guard? Rescuer? He should put away the blade, at the very least, lest they try to pry it off him. He casually slips it back where he found it, and sits calmly on one of those platforms. It's surprisingly soft and reminds him of sopor.
The steps draw closer. They're right outside. Karkat tenses his muscles, wondering too late if there's cameras--fuck, okay, maybe he should've kept the blade. Before he can get back up, there's a faint click and the door swings open.
Karkat doesn't hesitate.
"Right, Karkat, so--what the FUCK--!"
Karkat's already lunging forward. It's effortless to disarm the alien of its weapon--some strange, red rectangular-like object--to sweep its ankles off the floor. He kicks the door close; there's no need to draw unwanted attention. Yet. The limbs work awfully similarly to a troll's; he twists one arm behind, driving his knee into the spine. They collapse on the ground in a heap of limbs, the alien squirming and yelling something incoherent and Karkat paying little mind, using his free hand to pat down the body. There must be keys somewhere. He might have to divest it of its clothes as well, if he is to blend in.
"Karkat--wait--what the hell are you doing?!"
"Look, blueblood," Karkat snarls out, "I don't know if you've got a turd in your pan, but the mind shit doesn't work on me anymore. Fucking resistance built up, okay?" The alien is humanoid, at least, so the coldbloods couldn't have warped his pan too bad. No horns, though. Karkat realises he hasn't checked his own yet--damn, he's really off his game--but focuses on twisting the arm further. The alien gasps in pain. There should be keys right--
"Karkat, where the fuck are you touching--shit! Shit!"
It's near where the bulge would be. Karkat tugs out the keyring, then--just one large one, painted dull gold--and pockets it carefully. Okay. He has pockets. He's starting to think he maybe should have categorized his own features better. He rests a hand on the alien's neck, pushing its face back onto the floor until its voice comes out muffled. Maybe it'll knock it out if he cuts off air.
"Okay," he says calmly. His skin prickles at the violence, but there's little alternative. "I'm asking you questions here. If I don't like the answers, then I'll wring your neck until I do." He doesn't know if he can follow on the threat, but he needs the answers, and he needs them now. "Alright?"
No answer. Good.
"Alright."
He loosens his grip. At once the alien raises its head, sucking in air wildly. Karkat adjusts until he's straddling its lower back.
"Jesus," it whispers. "Holy shit, holy shit..."
Karkat tightens his grip, and the alien thrashes. "Okay, okay! What the fuck, okay, just stop...stop twisting my arm so hard--" Karkat further wrenches it back, and the alien bites back a scream.
"You're not here to set any conditions, you scumsucker." His mind races quickly. He can't have that much time left; someone's going to notice it missing. "Is this a VR or not?" If it's a VR, he thinks ironically, then technically he's just arguing with himself. Possibly.
"What...what the hell? VR?"
Karkat digs in a knee, and it yelps. "Fuck, okay! Okay. No. Holy crow, no. It's not. I dunno why you asked--"
"Second question," Karkat says, and his voice comes out bored. He's anything but. "You're not a troll, clearly, so this must be some kinda colony. What fucking planet is this?"
"Just a nightmare," he hears the alien mutter to itself, and it's low enough that Karkat doesn't feel like heaping on extra pain. "I--what? Planet? Is this some extended-ass scifi con? I swear to fucking God if you--"
Karkat yanks the arm and wrenches it.
The crack fills the air, and Karkat slams its head down to muffle the scream. Too bad there's not a closet somewhere. The alien is full on twitching, legs kicking wildly, and Karkat turns its head by the hair--more gasps--and shoves his fingers in its mouth. Teeth instinctively try to clamp down on the digits, but they're so laughably blunt and flat that even a rustblood would piss themselves in laughter. Tears drip down to his knuckles, and it's that detail--that the thing can fucking cry, even if it's in pain--that has a bubble of guilt well up in Karkat's stomach.
It's the only you can get back to your friends. Terezi would never forgive him if he died--well, she couldn't, since he would be dead--and Kanaya would crumble, and Sollux--
Karkat pulls out his fingers, and as maybe a half-assed apology pats the alien clumsily on the cheek. It doesn't calm down. Good cop - bad cop might work, he suppose.
"I'll ask again," he says calmly. "What planet is this?"
The alien just lays there. Pathetic floats across Karkat's mind--that a mere arm snap somehow puts it out of commission--and he notices other details. The same skin spectrum, although slightly paler. Thin, bony, just like--like--wasn't wearing any uniform, unless the uniform is some fucking drab shirt and pants. No psionics or psychics either.
"E-Earth," the alien finally croaks out. Its voice is clogged with tears.
Earth. Huh. Karkat doesn't recall that one, although it might have a different designation in the Empress' database. The presence of the alien suggests the Empress bothered to draft them rather than completely wipe them off the face of the fucking world. The arm looks--oh, shit, okay, it's a lot more fragile than it looks, and there's no regen factor going on. Karkat warily sets it to the side, earning another muffled moan.
"Earth. Sure. Third question." Karkat doesn't take long to think. "What happened to my friends? What'd you do with them?"
"F-Friends? Karkat, we're--" The alien turns its head more, and Karkat sees its face. It's similar enough to a troll, but the eyes...
White sclera. It's not any blood hue--not cobalt, or indigo, or even teal--but one eye's grey-blue, and the other's hazel, light enough that it almost appears red. Red and blue eyes.
"Tealblood. Jadeblood. Y-Yellowblood." Sollux is barely even a...but Karkat has to know. He grabs the alien's hair again and shakes it. Something about the face makes his stomach feel cold. "I'm sure you already know them by the feed. You kill them? Put them somewhere?"
The alien doesn't answer.
"How do you know my name?" Panic and anger rises in Karkat, but the alien's biting its own lip now. Its eyes flick to Karkat, just once, and...and...
"How do you not know mine?" the alien snarls, tears of pain streaming down its face. Strangely, the liquid is colourless. "It's me, you fucking crazy douchenut. I don't know if Vriska gave you some fucking drugs, but you--what the shitting fuck. Is this the shit you do in your free time?" More tears come down, but the glare is pure poison. And so familiar. "Do you not recognise me, asshole?"
Karkat rolls off him, heart beating in his throat.
"Asshole," the alien repeats, spitting it out, but there's fear and something else in its voice. If Karkat knew better, he'd thought it sounded a little like despair. "You can't just..." the eyes rest on him, and recognition punches him like a boot to the gut. It's a different face. A different skin. But the voice--and the emotions--and everything--it clicks into familiarity, all at once, a person so close and far that it feels like the light of the Alternian moons.
"Sollux," he whispers.
"No shit," the--alien--mumbles out, before falling unconscious.