Disclaimer: D: Neya-ha.

You are Karkat Vantas.

Right now, you should be in the quasi-safety of your base located in the Veil. But you are not. Instead, you are fighting alongside either Sollux or Gamzee's ancestor — you can't really discern which — against a dozen feral imps. He hides his face with a black hood and his body is draped in an onyx robe, so you can't tell what blood color he has because everything above the nose is a mystery. After a few imps explode into grist, you decide it couldn't be Gamzee's ancestor, because there would be no way to fit his horns under there without tearing the fabric. He could still be Equius's, but he's wielding a cane and he wouldn't have the patience for such a weapon. It couldn't be Terezi's because the ancestor is so clearly male. He's talked to you a bit, but the voice didn't really help you that much.

You're wearing Terezi's shirt at the moment and it's a couple sizes too small for you, so it's clinging to your skin and you're having a hard time using your sickles as is. It was terrible shenanigans that got you to wear it, all of which you are assured Vriska had a hand in, but despite the lack of comfort, you're glad you're wearing it. The ancestor is convinced that you are a tealblood's descendant.

Yes, you have considered the possibility that the ancestor is your own, but his voice is so calm and he hasn't said a single curse word, going as far as rebuking you for it. He's too courteous and it's driving you up the belfry.

Three imps inexplicably manage to team up on you and you're sent skidding to the floor. Your name is called loudly and you're absolutely sure of the rock your head hit because there is no way you heard concern in the ancestor's tone. You feel your head, and to your great relief there's no blood coming out. You close your eyes and take a long, celebratory drink of air. The thought of bleeding here and now and in front of him terrified you out of your wits. It registers distantly that your side is throbbing.

You open your eyes and absorb the fact that you're sprawled out all over the floor, and all you can see of the troll is his feet. You don't understand why he isn't moving because you remember being certain that your fall had some effect on him. Finally, when he does move, it's hesitantly backwards, but then he moves carefully around you and you can't see his feet anymore because he's behind you. The distant throbbing of your side gets much louder. You turn to address it, and once you see it, your head lolls back to the ground with a quiet thud. You're bleeding. Of course, you're bleeding. You can never catch a break. What's worse, the ancestor's going to be twice as hard to fight off with your side flowing a river of candy red blood.

There's no movement on his part and you can't take his silence anymore. He's disgusted, of course he's disgusted, but does he have to leave you drowning in anticipation?

"Ditch me or kill me already. Quick. Before the suspense fucking does." You cry in an effort to sound deadpan, but the attempt rolls off your tongue like sincere trepidation.

He doesn't utter a word, but there's a flutter of fabric moving and it sounds too loud in your ears. You faintly wonder where are all the imps had gone. Only faintly, because most of your thoughts are concentrated on the absolute truth that he has chosen to kill you. If he was going to simply ditch you, he would've done so by now.

But he surprises you. He hoists you up onto his shoulder and begins running, slashing imps left and right as he does.

"Oh. Oh, I get it," you can use deadpan more freely now that some of the fear has dispersed, "Public execution." But then your sarcastic retort starts to get to you and your voice settles into something that teeters on bitter acceptance, "Good thinking. Don't want the credit of capturing a mutant freak to go to waste. Oh. Wait. There are only twelve trolls left, and they all unfortunately don't give a damn."

He doesn't utter a word.

He stumbles upon a grey complex on one of the meteors and gets to a white room before stopping his sprint. The room looks reminiscent of a kitchen, but there aren't any food appliances and you're positive there is no food. But there is something in the cabinets.

He sets you down on the alabaster countertop and even though you can't see his, you're pretty sure he's looking you dead in the eye.

"Sit." He commands as if it's something you weren't doing before. You suppose he means stay, though, so that's what you do. He rummages through the cabinets until he finds a red plastic container. He opens it and pulls out an unmarked, dark brown bottle. He unscrews the cap and presses a white rag to the top as he tips it over and in one, fluent motion, sends it upright again. He lifts up your shirt and basically stabs the wound with it.

"Why did you lie to me?" You suppose the words were supposed to sting as much as the antiseptic does on your wounds, but it holds no potency compared to the burn that flares up your abdomen. But he sounds dark and angry and he is in current possession of liquid fire in a bottle, so you don't talk back to him. It's a departure from his usually mild-mannered and understanding disposition, and you can't comprehend why he isn't as understanding now.

"I didn't know how you'd take it." You answer calmly and bite back the retort that itches in your throat.

"It isn't good to lie." He still sounds angry as he replenishes his supply of analgesic with a dab and you assume he's pushing it against your wound harshly on purpose, "No matter what the repercussions."

"What good would it have done? You know now."

"That's not exactly the scenario I wanted to learn of your ancestry from."

"Oh. So you know my ancestor?"

"I did." He mercifully screws the lid back on the bottle and opens a pack of gauze, "Now, where did you get the Libra shirt from and tell me the truth this time."

"It's my matesprit's."

"You…you have a matesprit?"

"Yeah."

"This early? How old are you?"

He sounds purely conversational, his curiosity subsiding from the previous inquisition, but it still offends you in its own way.

"Six."

"Oh." He wraps the gauze around the wound gently, "Well, how is she? A tealblood, hmm? Can't say I was close to any of them, so I probably didn't know her ancestor formally."

"How is she? She's too fucking perfect for her own good. And she knows it too."

He's finished dressing the wound and steps back a moment to inspect his work.

"Why didn't you want me finding out about your blood color?" The question hits you in left field. Whatever that idiom means.

"Um. It's a color nonexistent on the hemospectrum. If anyone found out about it, I'd be dead."

"Really? Things still haven't changed." He muttered under his breath, "Then that sacrifice was truly in vain."

He finagles the bandage secured around your waist and cuts off the end of it.

"But, Karkat, none of your friends mind, right? Your blood doesn't matter to them?"

"Kidding me? They don't know."

"None of them?"

"Well. Terezi, my matesprit, knows. But that's only because we* — um, that's only because she can…smell really well."

"Smell?"

"She's blind…it's, um, really hard to explain if you didn't know her ancestor."

"I said I didn't know her formally. It's not impossible that I maybe ran into her here or there."

"Yeah, fuck, I hope my ancestor did. She's crazy about my blood."

"Really? Is that why you two are matesprits? Just because she pities your blood?"

He's starting to sound a little angry again, but like hell if you know why.

"Oh, no. She doesn't pity me because of my blood color, fuck, she doesn't pity me at all. She sees with taste and smell, and candy apple is her favorite flavor, that's why she likes it. Also, it may sound crazy, and maybe my ancestor might've mentioned it to you, but our relationship is outside of—"

"Outside of the existing four quadrants, yes, I believe I've been around him long enough to grow accustomed to that concept. Do you know the greenblood?"

"Nepeta? Yeah, sure."

"He had a word for her…made up a quadrant for it…think it was called Sister, if I'm correct."

"Really? Damn, I haven't made up one for Terezi."

"Yes. And the jadeblood?"

"Kanaya?"

"I believe so. There was a quadrant for her too…Mother."

"Wait, my ancestor was getting it on with Nepeta and Kanaya? Fuck, I mean, shit, they're both cool, and Kanaya's probably one of the only sane ones, but I never thought about it like that."

"Yes, well." He stood back, "Why don't you hop down from there and see how the wound feels?"

"Shit, okay."

Big mistake on your part, once you jumped off, your waist lurched and your legs slipped out from underneath you, leaving you sprawled out on the floor once again. An angry wave of heat sifted through you and elicited a loud scream. He was on his knees in a second, inspecting your wound. You don't remember the bandage being quite that red.

"I take it you can't walk."

You shake your head, giving him the harshest patronizing glare you can muster to salvage some of your own dignity.

"Well. We've got a long way to go, then I can give you some stitches. But right now we've got to get to our destination."

You're being lifted again, but this time your two legs are resting on his shoulders, and you have to throw your arms around his neck to keep from falling off.

"You never did tell me who we're meeting at this 'destination.'"

"That's because I don't even know."

"WHAT?"

"But I have a reliable source. There's really no need to worry."

"Who?"

"Well, we better be off."

He doesn't answer your question, rather picks up his cane and begins walking. It barely registers to you that the cane is topped with a white dragon head.

AN:

Yeah. This is probably a multi-chapter fic. Really, it depends on reviews. If anyone can tell, I stole part of this from, I, er, ugh, mean, was inspired by the fic "Looking Down."