runespoor: 8-year old bruce kneeling in his parents' blood in Crime Alley (down on your knees)
[personal profile] runespoor
Title: no take 8acks
Characters: Terezi, Vriska (Terezi♠Vriska)
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: yes, assumes knowledge of canon to the end of Act 5 part 2.
Warnings: character death, graphic descriptions of violence, canon-typicality
Summary: You can only kill a god if the death is heroic, or just.
Notes: This isn’t one of the remix things, this is a bad case of Scourge Sisters feelings. For once, my first fic in a fandom is about my OTP.

Vriska, for all her faults and the motley blood of countless trolls on her hands, smells only of clean, crisp blueberry when her blood pours on the ground.

The blade went through her ribcage with no more resistance than when you used it to put down your enemies together at FLARP. You quenched your thirst of bloody justice and she quenched her mother’s endless appetite and you laughed louder than she did.

When you pierced her, her wings jolted, shaking off a last wink of fairy dust, and stilled, and now she’s splayed on the ground.

How you made a corpse out of this butterfly of a girl you cannot drop the thought. It’s a Seer of Mind’s powers to see the ramifications, and you can no more stop yourself from flashing back to the choked, wet gasp she made when you ran her through than you can stop your own bloodpusher from pulsing.

Around you the wide spurts of blueberry blood assail your senses with the scent of childhood, and steel-wrought gashes.

A god only stays dead if the death is heroic, or just. You await for the moment Vriska comes back to life, the blood in your ears pounding as to the ticks of a clock.

You stabbed your sister in the back when she was going to slay Jack. You disregarded the landing of the coin; it was never about chance. You did what needed to be done.

That was fair.

But you stabbed her in the back, and it’s not about the deaths of all the trolls she’s slaughtered before the game (you helped her), or about Aradia (sending specters after someone higher on the hemospectrum, the law is with Vriska), or about Tavros (running at her with a lance). It’s about Jack, and Vriska was going to kill him.

What’s justice for the game, anyway?

You killed her, and it was fair, but it wasn’t just.

Time stretches to the point of your canesword. You feel each drop of Vriska’s blood dribbling to the ground as sharply as you imagine Time players to be aware of the seconds passing.

Any second now, she’s going to start breathing. Her ribs will catch, and the powdery stuff of her wings will twitch, and she will cough and spit on the blood in her throat, and she’ll swear at you when you laugh, clumsy and sloppy when she pushes on her still weak spindly arms to straighten up until you step up to help her, and you--

you can’t quite See it for sure

you don’t want to use your powers that way, but you think

it might end up with the both of you sprawled side by side on the ground, too drained to fight after the initial attempts to claw each other’s eyes and hair and Vriska’s outrageous, gorgeously fragile wings out, and you think it might end up with you kissing, her trying to bite and you trying to eat her whole.

Any second now.

But she’s not moving, and while you know killing her couldn’t possibly fit any definition of justice-- (it couldn’t, you never even got around to telling her how much you hate her.

She’d been your best friend and you were sisters and she kills and kills and kills and lies, it makes your throat tighten how much you want to hurt her, it makes you want to shake her so her fangs rattle till she cuts her lips open and you smell-taste-bite blueberry on her lips.

She ruined everything you could have had, everything you wanted to have, and if you could pry her mind open the way she plucks inside people’s brains you would force her to See that she’s the reason everything’s wrong, that she’s ruined everything, that’s what Vriska does, she
ruins things, and you cannot imagine hating anyone as much as you do her.

She breaks things and people and trusts, disarmingly careless like she expects putting them back together to be as easy as Equius equipping a robo arm instead of a flesh one, like it’s all in good fun and payback erases all crimes on the record, like justice is an object she can manipulate to her ends and there’s no difference between the flip of your coin and the roll of her dice.

She ruins everything without even meaning to, and you’re so sorry for her you bloodpusher has bruised black with it.

She was going to kill Jack, and you killed her before; Vriska Serket, sacrificed to ensure the survival of your species.

The strange glow of her godtier wings has faded, dulled away, and the air is free of the strange, electric taste it’d acquired when Vriska was shifted into her godtier form. You’re only noticing it now that it‘s gone.

It wasn’t a just death.

But maybe it was heroic.
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