Chapter Text
The reasons the war with Earth ended are numerous and complex, but mostly boil down to trolls not wanting to waste time and resources on an infuriatingly stubborn race, inhabiting a planet that wouldn't yield much profit. In the years after it drew to a close, there were many treaties made, mostly to humour the humans, needlessly paranoid about another invasion, and even more pacts agreed upon. Most noticeably, the trolls acquiesced, deciding Earth would no longer be farmed for slavery, despite slaves being the planet's main export of actual value. This didn't necessarily negate the slave trade on Alternia itself. Something like eighty-thousand humans were returned to Earth, the ones who had been requested back by name; and then, of course, there were those without friends or family to notice their absence, and these made up the nine thousand or so still left on the planet.
As of the day she's given over to her mistress, Rose Lalonde has been on Alternia for five years. The war has been over for four and a half. Those six months that stood between her and freedom may well have been a lifetime, and Rose sees no point in lingering on the past, if it leads to regrets. There are some parts of her old life that she holds onto tightly, however: for example, though everything around her is measured in sweeps, and those sweeps themselves are broken down into twenty-six perigees, Rose keeps track of everything in months and years. She has been there for five years, not two sweeps and five perigees. She learns the troll tongue as instructed to, partly because she has no choice in the matter, but mostly because she won't allow herself to be disadvantaged in any more ways than are prerequisite of a slave. Whenever she can, when she is alone, allowed to meet with other human slaves, or even when she knows a troll has learnt just enough English to carry a conversation and embarrass themselves in the process, she uses her mother tongue. Luxuries are not often afforded to slaves, but Rose is perfectly obedient in her actions, when it comes to menial tasks like learning how to clean recuperacoons or how to cook to appease the troll palette; and so she is given small tokens to continue her obedience.
Pens and paper are all she ever asks for, and with these she writes, and through these she is free. She would ask for novels, for psychological magazines, maybe even a copy of the National Geographic, but she knows this would never be permitted. Too much mental stimulation is considered a bad thing. While humans are said to be useful, with their malleable think pans, easily influenced by outside forces, this same weakness leaves the potential for danger. They might snap and break at any moment, and though they have to learn that they are distinct from trolls, lower in the food chain (which is literal assertion, on some parts of the planet), they are to know that they are now part of Alternia, and their place upon it is not up for debate.
In her time there, from the age of thirteen to eighteen, and not six to eight, as her keepers write on her profile, Rose knows that much of herself has deteriorated. Intellectually, she has not been permitted to learn anything other than troll history, culture and language, and has missed out on the most vital part of her education; the part that all her years of schooling had been building up to. By this stage in her life, she should be making preparations to join university, but university is a mere concept now, and not one that's understood by most of those around her. At times, Rose is certain she's forgotten much about Earth. The distinct landscape of green and blue, with all the little imperfections and tainted hues in between, has been replaced by that of the arid, unforgiving Alternian horizon. Many of her memories of Earth are fictitious, created by what she pours into her writing.
No, of course there weren't wizards on Earth. That's just ridiculous, though if asked, she'd always tell a troll otherwise.
She holds onto herself in little ways like this. She rebels by giving out falsified knowledge that seems so sound that she almost believes it herself. All of her statements are sarcastic, when she knows she can get away with it and sometimes when she can't, for much of the troll population is incapable of picking up on her particular brand. Rose takes to her role well, tells herself it's all a charade, something she's doing perfectly to passive-aggressively piss off the trolls. Not because she doesn't have any other choice but to.
When she isn't busy actively not daydreaming about escape, about freedom (she has avoided doing so for close to three years), rewriting what she recalls of psychological experiments, though she knows she ascribes many of them to the wrong researches, and makes up some names and tests completely, Rose thinks of her mother. It's easy to blame her for all that's unfolded over the last half a decade. Easy, because it's her fault entirely. She just had to go ahead and out-parent every other mother on the planet, laying down her life in front of Rose during one of the troll invasions. She couldn't be like everyone else's mother, and sensibly cower in the corner, behind a kitchen table or an armchair.
Rose resents her for that, but today is not a day waste stewing over resentments. It's detrimental to cognitive development, anyway, and there's the small matter of finally fulfilling her destiny as a human-slave. She's being taken in by someone to be ruled over her.
She is utterly ecstatic about the whole thing. Unfortunately, she's too busy straightening the hem of her shapeless, plain grey shirt that goes perfectly with her shapeless, plain grey pants, to remember to express or feel that much. She is transported across the desert in a motorised steel carriage with a 1.6 litre engine in the rear which runs on the compressed remnants of ancient flora and fauna alike that has been left under the natural pressure of the surface for millions of sweeps. In actuality, trolls call them cars as well, or at least have a three-letter word in their language, but Rose takes pleasure in making up ridiculously long names for their contraptions. The journey takes hours, but Rose has long since learnt not to be restless. The hours she gets to herself are few and far between, and she is in no rush to reach her destination. With her eyes closed, she spends this time thinking, dreaming without drifting off, and does not imagine that her new mistress will be a lenient one. She doesn't think about her at all.
She is lead up to the hive by a handler she has never come across before, or else has not been given reason enough to remember his face. As he leads her up the stairs to the hive, he reminds her of her duty under his breath, how she is not given the right to complain, to put her own needs before that of so much as an insect her mistress has stood upon. Rose finds it all very patronising, having spent the last five years listening to the extended version of his lecture.
Though it's the dead of night, the heat all around them is stifling, and Rose doesn't like to think of how much worse it will be during the day, or how much of a bad mood this will put her mistress in. She is already adept in thinking of her as her mistress, as she knows that it's best to accept the reality of some things, because at the end of the day, the truth is the truth. Her mistress is her mistress, and she is her slave, and accepting this does nothing to mean that she has to approve of any of it. Rose tries her best not to glance around, supposing that she'll be spending the rest of her life, no matter how potentially brief it may be, in this very place. She'd like to save pieces of it to take in at allotted times, to make it last. From what she does see, despite her best efforts, it is not the largest hive she's ever come across, but certainly far from unimpressive.
She is taken to the meetingblock, which on Earth would most likely be called the parlour, where there is a small but finely crafted table sat in the centre of the room with two sofas on either side of it. Again, Rose makes no effort to look around. She picks a corner of the table to stare at, and keeps her eyes on it. Her mistress is already in the room, and though Rose thinks of her in that cold, almost clinical term, she does know a great deal about her already. Her name is Kanaya Maryam, a green blood of a special type, who's been deemed worthy of possessing a human slave because of services rendered to both the Imperial Army and the highbloods. Fashion is only stupid in troll society when it cannot be used to evoke fear, promote rank, or humiliate prisoners. Rose half wonders if Kanaya designed the shapeless grey outfit she's been wearing over the past five years, that only changes in size as she herself grows. It seems a garment that dehumanising would take some measure of talent to create.
More interesting than her career is the fact that Kanaya, Mistress Kanaya, happens to be a rainbow drinker. When informed of this, Rose had raised a sceptical eyebrow, until it was properly translated for her: vampire. She had thought it a joke, at first, but did not laugh, because her handlers weren't deserving of her laughter. However, she soon learnt that vampires, rainbow drinkers, were something that were very real, albeit equally as rare, on Alternia; and that she was to serve as a food source. Perhaps terrifying would have been a better descriptor than interesting, but Rose was determined not to show fear, even though she had been left with the distinct impression that her lifespan would be a lot shorter than even she had anticipated.
Kanaya is sat at the sofa, and Rose's handler is opposite her. She is not invited to sit, nor does the thought of being asked to do so ever cross her mind. Her gaze remains fixed on the corner of the table for some time, but there is one curiosity she cannot go without sating. And so Rose looks up, brazenly taking a long, hard look at the woman who will determine her quality of life, or lack thereof.
Rose has certainly been Alternia long enough to immediately discern the differences between any two trolls, but there is a lot to take in about Kanaya Maryam. For one, nobody informed her that rainbow drinkers glowed, or that their skin was so brilliantly white. Too brilliant, perhaps, and Rose can't tell if her eyes hurt because it was so dark outside and she's spent so long staring at one spot, or if it's always going to be this way. She wears her hair short, and it seems to be styled, which is an oddity; most trolls are content to let their hair grow any which way. Her manner of dress is worth noting as well, for she wears a long, well-tailored dress, the same shade of jade as her lipstick. Rose reads too much into her presentation, and decides that this is her mistress's way of showing how far apart they truly are, how little Rose is worth.
She doesn't listen to what Kanaya and her handler say. Over the years, she's become remarkably talented at tuning things out. They are talking about her, and she does not want or need to overhear it.
When Kanaya is finally satisfied with the product she has been appraising, she hands over a pouch of beetles and Caegars, and one corner of Rose's mouth twitches. She can't say what about the whole process amuses her, only that it is like a the sort of deal that would be made on a medieval television show she's only now remembering seeing, though she doesn't remember its name. Perhaps it was one of the numerous versions of Robin Hood. Either way, it strikes her as absurd, which is a running theme in her life.
With the payment made, the handler leaves, and then she is left alone with Kanaya. Rose feels strange, like her body is light, lighter than the wind, but has been filled with smooth, heavy stones. It's a feeling she's certain she'll quickly become used to, seeing as that's how things will be from this point onwards. Kanaya leads her upstairs, says something about her resting up, and Rose still isn't listening with any particular deal of focus; it comes out sounding like a buzz, but Rose finds it within herself to find it bizarre that she's being told to sleep during the night. It often seems like she's always been nocturnal.
The room presented to her is basic, at the very best. Given Kanaya's general appearance, and the layout of parts of her hive she's not been able to avoid looking at, Rose concludes that it was laid out by somebody other than her mistress. She is left alone, does not say anything like goodnight to Kanaya (has yet to say anything to her, actually), and realises that it's the first time she's had her own room in half a decade. While she was being properly trained and broken in like a mare at the institution, Rose was made to share cramped quarters with a number of slaves, most notably Jade Harley. Jade was shipped off to be made use of three months ago, and Rose knows that she's never to hear from or of her again.
But more to the point, the room is basic. There is a bed in one corner, which surprises Rose; most trolls are of the opinion that as humans do not require sopor slime, then they may as well save on expenses and make them sleep on the floor. The frame is rusted, like a relic of a long dead civilisation, but when Rose puts her weight upon it, it just about holds. She feels the slats running across the bottom through the mattress, but a mattress is a mattress and complaining isn't something she's allowed to do. There is a bed cover, made from a rich jade material, and it's the only thing in the room that seems to have her mistress's fingerprints on. Disgusting, really, as she's expected to wrap it around herself.
Other than the bed, everything else follows standard procedure. There is a wardrobe in one corner, though Rose will never own enough things to fill it, and has only three outfits: the one she is currently wearing, an identical one to take the place of the first one while it's being washed, and a off-white shift in which to sleep. There is a wash basin opposite the wardrobe, possessing neither soap nor a mirror, a toilet next to it, and single tap high up on the wall, which Rose knows is expected to serve as her shower. Kanaya didn't close the door behind her when she left, and Rose pushes it to, not surprised to find that it doesn't lock. It doesn't really close, either, as the latch has been removed; but if she pushes it firmly enough, and there are no windows open throughout the hive, it tends to stay shut.
Rose places her possessions into the wardrobe, taking great care as she does so, like another fold or crease in her outfit might be noticeable, and then washes her face. Both taps produce cold water, which immediately feels tepid when she tries to drink from it. That done, feeling it become part of her routine already, Rose dresses for bed, lies down, and sleeps for as long as she's permitted to. At no point does she feel like this life is something she could wake from.
*
She wakes at six the next morning, marking four and a half hours of sleep. It's far above her average, and so Rose tenses, certain that she is going to be punished in some way for sleeping in. The paranoia soon flees, however, when she recalls that trolls are nocturnal, and that Kanaya will not yet be up for at least twelve hours. Rose spends her free time watching the clock above her bed, and observing the framed photograph of a landscape neither Alternian nor Earthly next to it.
An hour passes and she's proven wrong. It's not something that happens all that often. Much to her surprise, Kanaya knocks on the door, rather than immediately entering, and Rose lets out a stilted Come in, hating that her voice cracks on the very first thing she ever says to her mistress.
Kanaya chooses not to enter. She stands in the doorway, as finely presented as she was the night before, and again, the corner of Rose's mouth twitches. No one but her would ever realise it was the beginning of a smile, but this is all very entertaining to her: Kanaya doesn't know what she's doing. For a brief moment, it's as if Rose has all of the power in the situation, because Kanaya looks so very lost to her that she almost pities her. But then the reality of the matter comes to the forefront; yesterday, the tracer in Rose's collar was changed, so that it would shock her if she tried to leave Kanaya's hive without permission, as opposed to the compound she had previous been confined to.
After a moment's deliberation, during which Kanaya doesn't look her in the eyes, she tells Rose to get on with things at her own pace. To Rose, this is an absurd thing to say, because her own pace doesn't exist at all. If she had any choice in the matter, she wouldn't be doing any of this; wouldn't cook, wouldn't clean, wouldn't do whatever this woman behests without thinking twice about it. It isn't right for her to be given a choice in the matter, and so Rose pretends that Kanaya's told her to do it quickly and efficiently, to get to know the layout of the hive in the process, and she feels somewhat more settled for it.
Kanaya takes her to where the supplies are kept, and then leaves her to it. Rose watches her walk away, confident that Kanaya will get better at this business of handing out orders soon enough. They both have to be patient with one another.
The hive is in good condition. Good condition, because it has been cared for entirely by Kanaya for the eight sweeps and fifteen perigees and/or nineteen years Kanaya's inhabited it, rather than by someone who's been thoroughly trained in the art of removing dust from both nooks and crannies alike. Rose sets about working hard, scrubbing stone floors on her knees until her back aches, polishing surfaces until shooting pains jolt up her arms, because that way, there is no doubt in her own mind that she's done all she can, no matter what her mistress may think. There's a note left for her in the nourishblock, written out in neatly crafted English. It's a sentiment that's almost sweet.
You May Eat What You Wish Within Reason I Will Trust Your Judgement, it says on one line, and then below it: And I Take My Own Breakfast In The Hobbyblock At Ten O Clock Exactly. The exactly looks as if it has been added in after the bulk of the note was written, to make it seem more authoritative. Rose looks up to the clock, sees that it has barely gone nine, and concerns herself with her own empty stomach first. She hasn't had anything substantial in three days.
Troll food has long since stopped seeming alien to her, no matter how much of it involves slime. There's a certain type of food called koftui, for which there is no English or Earthly translation. It looks like bread, and has a very similar texture, but after several perigees of dining on nothing but it, Rose was informed that it was actually a sort of raw meat. That much doesn't put her off it, and she cuts herself two slices, which she then serves up with a glass of water, despite all that's on offer to her. She wouldn't like to overindulge and get ideas above her station.
When she has eaten enough to ensure that her stomach won't threaten to rumble for at least another three hours, Rose prepares Kanaya's breakfast. Breakfast is easy, as all trolls tend to consume roughly the same sort of food upon waking: slime, koftui, and more slime. Not knowing exactly what consistency of slime her mistress enjoys partaking in, Rose cooks and fries various different types, because making Kanaya think she gives a shit about impressing her brings a smile to her face.
Rose has to wait at least four seconds for the smile to fade, before she feels properly equipped to pick up the tray. In moments like this, she's tempted to stick a finger in the slime, in the hope that there are still faint traces of cleaning products caught under her nails, or spit in it, because the consistency between slime and saliva doesn't often vary a great deal; but she never does, because those are petty methods. She can cause her mistress distress in much more refined ways. Besides, she expects that Kanaya will subconsciously be wondering if she's done that very thing, and the uncertainty in the back of her mind is enough for Rose.
Rose knocks on the door of the hobbyblock and waits for permission to enter. Not because Kanaya did the same for her this morning, but because it's expected of her. Kanaya tells her to come in, voice catching a little, as if caught off-guard. Rose can tell she isn't used to company.
She steps into the block, and is almost so overwhelmed by it that she loses her composure. Almost. It doesn't show on the surface, because Rose manages to keep one foot in front of the other and neatly place the tray on the edge of the only clear tabletop in the block. There's just something about being there that makes her feel out of touch with herself, with the facts of her life; it is a place of creation, there's no doubting that, from the reams of fabric in every shade imaginable that hang from the walls, to what Rose swears is the scent of broken fragments of pencil lead, used to score lines as part of designs. Were she still on Earth, Rose likes to imagine that she'd have a place like this, if only in feel alone. Somewhere that was hers, where she could write until her heart was content for once in her miserable life, and not have to worry about prying eyes assuming the words were theirs to read and twist.
None of this is voiced. Barely even thought. Kanaya thanks her for breakfast, and Rose bows her head, stepping out of the room. She quickly reminds herself that what she saw in the block is Kanaya's and Kanaya's alone, so as to be better prepared for it the next time. The rest of the morning is spent cleaning blocks that Kanaya most likely rarely ever has reason to step into, and when Rose makes her lunch, pleased to see that there are clearer instructions, this time, Kanaya requests that she return to her hobbyblock in an hour's time, once she's done with the meal and Rose has cleaned all the dishes.
And so Rose does just that, not in the least surprised that her assistance has been requested, and kneels at Kanaya's side, while her mistress sits atop a pile of pillows. She is currently working on a garment for a nobleman, noble in name alone, which displays his purple heritage in full-force; he hopes to establish a matespritship in this particular piece of clothing. When Kanaya tells her this much, Rose personally thinks that if somebody needs an ostentatious garment to establish a matespritship, then it wasn't built on particularly stable foundations. Rose doesn't voice this. It takes her a long time to say much of anything to Kanaya, because she knows that once she begins to speak, she'll never be able to hold her tongue. After all this time, her words are still her own, no matter often she has been lashed for them in the past.
What Do You Like To Do Miss Lalonde*
Rose.
Excuse Me
Somehow I Get The Distinct Impression That You Are Not Providing Me With The Answer I Seek Although I Could Be Wrong
I Do Not Often Have Reason To Speak In English
It Is A Curious And Ever Coiling Tongue
My name is Rose, Mistress. Miss Lalonde was my mother. She never married, and refused to be known as Ms.. There was something entertaining to her in the assumptions people would make about her age, status in life and character before meeting her, as well as seeing their expressions as the pistons in their minds desperately fired in order to reassess the situation in a matter of moments when they met in person. Or so she said, at least. Personally, I was under the impression that she simply liked a title because it made her sound younger.
Hmm I See
With all due respect, I doubt that you do. After all, most of the information I've delivered requires knowing firstly about the nuances of Earth culture, and secondly, and more formidably, knowing about my late mother.
I Assumed It Was Simply A Cultural Thing I Wasnt Going To Understand Completely
However
I Would Much Rather That You Did Not Doubt My Intelligence In The Future For I Am Not Merely Going to Hum And Nod Along With All That You Say
I Have Taken Great Measures To Learn All That I Could About Your Home World Evident In The Fact That I Am Conversing With You In The English Tongue
Indeed. And your fangs give the ths and vowels quite a unique flair.
Rose
Would You Kindly Answer My Initial Question
This, Mistress, is what we lowly humans refer to as beating around the bush. File that information away for later, as I'm certain it will be of much use to you later. And as for answering your question, before I piss you off so greatly that you are distracted from your admirable work: you already know the answer.
Once Again I Am Forced To Repeat My Previous Statement Of Excuse Me
You know what I 'like'. My talents, along with what I suppose were once considered to be my hobbies, were detailed in great length in my profile. I was described as, and I quote, “A female human of relatively considerable intelligence, recommended to those who enjoy the more frustrating aspects of life: confrontational conversation, debate, snarky horseshit; fully trained in several Earth traditions, knitting and the playing of the violin included, prone to writing; famously efficient in her work, and obedient to almost a fault; however, owners must be aware that she can be verbally provocative with her sarcastic human wiles and psychobabble, and as such, violence is recommended for keeping her in line. Lashings and stick-based beatings are particularly effective.”
Rose You Are Not Quoting The Profile Verbatim
For One No One On Alternia Would Use The Word Horse In An Official Document
My apologies. Hoofbeastshit.
Yeah Sure Apology Accepted
I Can See That I Am Going To Become Fluent In Human Sarcasm In No Time At All
So You Like Knitting Then
Considering the fact that I'm currently holding up a sash of what I can only assume is purple satin, but knowing this planet, is most likely some sort of animal hide, I can see why that would be relevant to your interests, so to speak. However, asking me whether I “like” something only shows your naivety when it comes to the owning of slaves; which, despite the implications of the word naivety, isn't necessarily a bad thing. You see, technically speaking, it makes no difference whether or not I like anything, because I do what I am told to. That is my life. I can knit, yes, but whether I derive any pleasure from it isn't of any relevance. If you want me to knit, I will knit, and the needles will go clack-clack-clack whether I enjoy it or not. I apologise for a second time, but I have never been particularly versed in making believable sound-effects.
I Will Not Object To You Enjoying Things Rose
Oh, how chivalrous of you. Are you now going to regale me with reassurances that you won't sneak into my block in the dead of night and take advantage of me? I know slavery is a twenty-four hour occupation, and at least half of this service is expected to be rendered on our backs.
Rose Dont Speak Like That
Yes, Mistress.
Rose's fake profile aside, she gets the distinct impression that Kanaya likes the challenging conversation; likes being called out on this and that, as if it'll help her be a better slave-owner in turn. At night, Rose wonders if she's simply pushing her luck with her words because Kanaya wants her to, in order to provide some intellectual stimulation. She certainly doesn't believe that she'd talk quite so freely around anyone else after such a short period of time. Things continue in such a manner for several weeks. Rose wakes early, attends to the hive, and then assists Kanaya in her making of this and that, much of which isn't commissioned, and ends up used in various parts of the hive. It is remarkably fine work, which Rose tells Kanaya, but makes sure to remind her not to mistake admiration for her creations for admiration for her.
She still isn't trusted to go outside, nor has Kanaya yet to feed on her. There is a supply of blood in the freezing unit, and Rose expects that her mistress wants to use it all up before she has to resort to lowly red human blood. Neither of these facts particularly bother her, and Rose finds that she doesn't object quite so vehemently to this life as she might've done. She has yet to be beaten, no matter how sorely tempted she has pushed Kanaya to become in that regard.
Three weeks to the day since arriving, Kanaya receives a visitor. Rose is made to answer the door, and it is an order to do so, no matter how politely Kanaya asks, and greets a woman with a shock of black hair and her blue blood proudly displayed on the symbol on the front of her shirt. She grins upon setting eyes on Rose, and there is something almost repulsive about her left eye, and the way it seems to have split into seven distinct pupils. Her fangs look bigger than Kanaya's, or at least more threatening, and she pushes Rose roughly against the wall in order to pass, heading straight for Kanaya's respiteblock.
The troll, who Rose quickly discerns is named Vriska, speaks loudly about her, wanting to know all that Kanaya has to tell her. Rose lingers in the hallway outside, polishing off a cabinet that's so clean she can practically see her ragged reflection in it, listening to what they have to say. They are certainly familiar enough with one another, and Rose entertains herself by playing Guess The Quadrant, in the same way that she would've once analysed the relationships on poorly acted soaps. It doesn't even strike her as strange that these days, for the quadrants make so much more sense to her than human romance ever did. It's neat, far less restrictive, and easier to pick apart.
Once they have spoken about her for a good long while, Vriska and Kanaya begin discussing more personal matters. Rose loses interest, and moves on to the nourishblock. She has yet to scrub down the stove, a task which requires all of her concentration and a fair amount of elbow grease.
Rose likes to think that she is constantly on-guard, for a slave needs to have a firm understanding of their surroundings at all times if they are to survive. A two minute break sat at a table may allow a slave to clear their mind and work more efficiently for the next four hours, and a master or mistress would never understand that much. If the slave in question was not listening to the sounds of the hive carefully enough, then they would be caught red-handed, and promptly punished. When Vriska sneaks up on her, Rose is not sitting at a table relaxing, but nor does she hear her approach. It's all she can do not to jump when Vriska speaks up.
Hello.She chooses to speak in her native tongue, but Rose doesn't know her well enough to say whether it's because she doesn't know English, or just to better exert her authority. From what Rose has been taught, a mistress's friend is a superior in and or themselves. As such, she graces her with an exaggerated, deep bow, to which Vriska howls with laughter.
Good evening, ma'am.Rose makes her Alternian sound rougher than it truly is. She is fluent, by this point, and the only words she doesn't know are words that nobody uses; words she only knows exists because there are English equivalents that she discovered hidden away in heavy novels and thorough dictionaries.
Oh, what a good little human slave! I was 8eginning to think that what Kanaya was saying a8out you knowing a respecta8le language was all a lie. Or was that sentence too long for yoooooooou?Rose is agreeing with what Vriska said, rather than giving her permission. She knows Vriska neither requires it nor waits for it. She steps forward, closing the small distance between them, and at times like this, Rose is amazed by how she no longer flinches, no longer makes a useless move to protect herself. She grinds her teeth together, thinking to berate herself for it later on: she needs to keep her reflexes sharp, no matter how they hinder her.
Not at all, ma'am.
Haha, gr8. It looks like she definitely got a good one! Fussyfangs' hive is usually spotless, but this is really taking it to new extremes. At least you know your place.
Thank you, ma'am.
I'm still on the w8ing list for a human slave. I don't really mind the delay, 8ecause I always have an a8surd num8er of irons in my fire, so it's not like I notice the time ticking 8y, anyway. I'm faaaaaaaar too 8usy for that.
I'm certain you are, ma'am.
8ut Kanaya is such a gr8 friend, and says that I can inspect you.
Of course, ma'am.
As expected, Vriska doesn't really know what she's looking for in her inspection. She prods her sharp fingernails against her stomach, lifts her shirt up and presses a thumb bruisingly hard against her ribcage, and Rose reminds herself that her dignity is stored not in her body, not in her flesh and blood, but in her mind, and in the things she allows herself to think. Quickly tiring of her torso, as Rose gets the feeling Vriska does of many things, she taps the toe of her boots against both of Rose's shins, and then gives one of them a swift, hard kick. Rose's knee bends, and she bites back a yelp of surprise, quickly straightening when Vriska takes hold of the line of her jaw, and then forces two fingers into the corners of her mouth. She pushes her lower jaw down, and Rose opens her mouth wide to irritate Vriska with her compliance. With her so close, Rose can't help but notice the twin wounds punctured against the side of Vriska's throat. Vriska huffs, and then begins prodding and poking at her teeth, as if amused by the bluntness of them, paying no heed to the way her roaming fingers make Rose gag until her eyes are watering.
With a satisfied smirk, though Rose knows she's learnt absolutely nothing, Vriska stands back and is silent for a moment, as if giving Rose the opportunity to wipe her eyes with the backs of her hands. She doesn't take it.
Hmmmmmmmm, not 8ad at all! You're not quite as pathetically weak as I expected you to 8e.It turns out to be one ma'am too many. Vriska shouts something about her really, really pissing her off, but her voice is suddenly too loud to cling to, and it booms off all the stainless steel in the nourishblock. This time, Rose does remember to flinch, if only because Vriska has taken hold of a hefty rolling pin, and wields it with as much precision as if it were part of her own body. The blow to her ribs comes first, though Rose is busy defending her head at the time. A shock of pain rushes through her, and although it is not an unfamiliar sensation, that does nothing to make it any less frightening; but she refuses to show her fear, refuses to beg Vriska to stop as she brings the make-shift weapon down again and again, all the while reassuring Rose that this is simply something Kanaya should've done in the first place.
I'm glad, ma'am.
Ugh, is that all you know how to say? This-and-that, ma'am? Honestly, I'm starting to wonder if you really understand what I'm saying at all!
My mistress hasn't given me permission to speak my mind, ma'am.
Ok. Whatever. Do you thiiiiiiiink I'm going to go and tell her that you're fucking around and running your mouth? And even if I did, what's Kanaya going to do to you? She's waaaaaaaay too soft. So, say something interesting!
When you put it that way, you do make a valid point. You don't seem like the sort to run off with your proverbial tail between your legs, just because somebody's set a foot out of line. Not that I'm well acquainted enough with you to know what it is you find interesting, that is.
Tell me what you think of Kanaya.
She is my mistress. Naturally, I hold her in the highest regard. In my opinion, that is in no way biased at all, she can do no wrong.
You're fucking around with me, aren't you?
Perish the thought, ma'am.
You're doing it again.
Infinite apologies for my wrongdoings, ma'am.
Stop that.
Right away, ma'am.
It doesn't take long for Vriska to tire of her torso for a second time, which Rose somehow finds room to appreciate as bile rushes up into her mouth. She knows her own body, knows when enough pressure has been placed against it to rupture something; and she knows that trolls are not equipped with the knowledge to repair damaged spleens. Both thighs are hit, and then her knees, too, but Vriska soon decides that enough is enough, and though Rose is certain she strikes her skull multiple times, the first blow is the only one she feels before the nourishblock becomes harrowingly dark around her.