Chapter Text
It's not until you can feel the creeping pain in the back of your neck that you realize how tense you are, how hunched you are holding your shoulders and how low you are stooped. You make a conscious effort to relax your posture and adopt an adequately aristocratic swagger, but you can't pretend for long that they aren't getting to you.
The angels watch you closely. They hiss to each other—or maybe it is just how they speak—too low for you to make out anything. You think they might be speaking of you, but the few words you manage to catch are just snippets of their garbled prophecies.
Still, there is something distinctly accusatory in the way their gazes follow you with such persistence. You duck into alleys and passageways and under bridges and archways whenever you can, but whenever you need to step under the open sky again, they are there, watching and whispering. You never liked them to begin with, but now there is something overtly aggressive in their demeanor, even if they aren't directly attacking you.
You are pretty sure they won't attack you. Somewhat sure. Vriska—the real one—said they were here to help, as hard as that was to believe. You're sure she must have been lying, though. A subtle way to sabotage you. A downright caliginous maneuver, if you think about it. Assuming the one who told you was the real one...?
Yes, you find the log right away. Not every conversation you've had so far is a fiction, to your relief.
Then, it is entirely possible that the angels aren't on your side at all. Indeed, all evidence points to the fact that their sole mission is to torment you.
You tap a finger against your rifle. Tap, tap, tap.
They haven't helped you yet. Likely they never will. They hindered you. If pattern holds, they will hinder you further.
Your finger creeps over the trigger and you very slowly
squeeze
.
The beam comes out a fraction of a second sooner than you expected it and startles you. You hold the rifle steady though, and aim it at the corner of a building, where an angel sits atop a gargoyle. The brilliant white light consumes it. Even from such a distance, there is no escape. It takes maybe two minutes to kill it entirely, and when you are finished, when it has been reduced to nothing but a disgusting black stain on the already dark street—only then do you hear the racket around you.
There is shrieking and screeching and the flapping of wings. Half the angels have taken flight, leaving behind a delicate rain of feathers, and the other half sit pinned into place, throwing their heads back and howling like the restless undead during the day on Alternia.
You take aim again, and pull the trigger. Another angel falls.
Then another.
By the time you kill the fourth, the street is deserted, and you do not have any more of the demons to turn your rifle on. You are panting and sweating, but your heart beats loudly enough that you can hear it, and you can't help the giggle that escapes your throat. It is gloriously terrible, every part of it. This is fun—so much fun. You love this game.
CG: YOU NEED TO STOP.
CG: STOP NOW.
CA: bit late for advvice dont you think
CG: NO, YOU'RE MAKING A MISTAKE. STOP.
CA: im doin exactly wwhat im supposed to
CA: see i finally get it
CA: i get wwhere i failed before
CA: i get wwhy im a loser
CA: or wwas
CG: NO YOU DON'T. YOU REALLY DON'T. THIS IS THE OPPOSITE OF “GETTING IT”. WHAT YOU'RE DOING NOW AND “GETTING IT” ARE AS MATTER AND ANTI-MATTER TO EACH OTHER.
CA: sorry too late
CA: you dont get me to tell me shit anymore mr fakey liarface
CA: dont think i dont knoww youre not the real kar
CA: not after our last fuckin chat
CG: GODDAMMIT I AM TRYING TO HELP.
CG: I'M TRYING TO FIX EVERYTHING.
CG: I HAVEN'T EVEN TALKED TO YOU BEFORE, THIS IS THE FIRST TIME, AND YOU JUST NEED TO LISTEN TO ME THIS ONCE. I WON'T EVEN ACKNOWLEDGE YOUR EXISTENCE ANYMORE IF YOU STOP THIS CHILDISH RAMPAGE.
CG: I MADE SURE THEY WON'T CONTACT YOU AGAIN.
CG: THE ONE PRETENDING TO TYPE IN YELLOW. AND THE ONE WITH THE EIGHTS. I MADE SURE.
CA: dont you get it
CA: it doesnt matter anymore
CA: im not the person i was before
CA: wwhat the prince does is indistinguishable from wwhat the prince is
CA: thats wwhat fake vvris said
CA: wwell im the prince
CA: an im on my owwn
CA: i knoww wwhat i gotta do noww
There is a long pause. You think he might have given up, but two last lines appear.
CG: TURN AROUND. TAKE THE SECOND STREET ON THE LEFT.
CG: SHOOT THE DOOR.
And just like that, the chat window disappears again.
You snort. You'd think after your badass speech he'd get it through his head that you are not going to be doing what anyone says anymore, but some people are just thick, apparently.
And what kind of nonsense instructions were those, anyway? Turn around and take the second street on the... left was it? What door?
It is only out of curiosity that you go. You can satisfy your own curiosity if you want to.
You stop in your tracks, because you recognize the place right away. How could you not, when it has only been half a day? The remnants of the balcony are scattered all around you, and the foul remains of the angels are still there. You look up to the grate door.
Shoot it. Yeah, that's easy. Why are you here if not to shoot shit?
You step back a ways to get a clearer shot, but when you finally shoot, you realize you should have put more distance between you and the building.
You let loose only a short burst, barely a flicker, but once it blasts through the door—melting the grate—there is the sound of implosion, like in inside-out boom, and your ears feel plugged, like they do sometimes when you surface too quickly.
The building... melts. It darkles in steady ripples, outward from the door, and turns into something like tar. The smell is foul, like a rotting corpse after being left out in the sunlight, and strong enough to make you wretch, and heat emanates from the ground around it. You hop back a few steps, then turn around and break into a run.
You skid to a halt a full ten streets later, barely able to catch your breath. You kneel next to a wall and lean your shoulder against it, trying to steady the erratic beating of your heart and soothe the pain in your lungs.
The conclusion that was handed to you through this demonstration is clear enough to grasp. That does not mean you accept it.
Oh, undoubtedly, you would have been dead had you made that shot while still on the balcony. The angel's intervention had certainly saved you.
But it still doesn't matter. If anything, it has the opposite effect than what the Karkat impersonator hoped it would. This whole exercise did nothing more than stir the cold, slow rage that is the birthright of your noble blood. If you were meant to repent and change your course, you will do the opposite just to be contrary. You have not been proven wrong: the impostor has simply proven himself against you.
There are angels lining the roofs of buildings around you. It is clear to you now what you must do.
Grimly, you set yourself to the task of purging the land of demons. You will truly turn this place into a land of wrath—your own.