(Vriska)
grabs Gamzee by the front of his shirt and yanks him down, her hot,
furious breath brushing his disgusting face.
GAMZEE: I sAiD tO yOu YoU gOtTa ChIlL, yO.
GAMZEE: It’S hIgH tImE yOu GoT yOuR rEdEmPtIoN
oN.
GAMZEE: sEe, YoU gOtS tO mAkE sOmE mOtHeRfUcKiN
aMeNdS tO yOuR tRaGiC bAcKsToRy.
(VRISKA): My WH8T????????
GAMZEE: HoNk. :o)
(Vriska) looks into his eyes. She beholds his
serene expression and the casual sag of his shoulders. His posture
is so contemptibly flaccid, it’s as if he’s literally wilting. Her
gaze travels to where his weird, long fingers are wrapped around
the curve of her shoulder. His hand is sticky for some reason. She
notices a few strands of her black hair clinging to whatever
heinous substance is coating his hand. It’s an image so viscerally
objectionable to her that she nearly vomits. After all she’s been
through today, this... THIS is the last goddamned straw. Her eyes
fill with fury, with indignation, with vivid, radiating
malevolence, and then it finally happens.
She just. Plain. Fucking.
SNAPS.
(VRISKA): Don’t you daaaaaaaare
(Vriska) clenches her fists together and slams
them into Gamzee’s nose. A brutal Double Axe Handle right off the
hook. His nose makes a crunching sound like someone just stepped on
a pile of crackers. He stumbles backward, cupping his palms over
his face to catch the gush of blood.
(VRISKA): FUCK8NG touch me
(Vriska) grabs him under the armpit and
delivers a European-style Uppercut with her bloody elbow. He expels
a wheezy, guttered honk. It comes out slowly, mournfully, like a
broken bike horn getting backed over by the rear wheel of a
hearse.
She spins out from under his flailing arm and
does a full 360-degree pirouette off the fucking handle to deliver
a ruthless Knife Chop straight to the cartilage at the center of
his chest, like a veteran butcher getting down to business.
(VRISKA): AG88888888IN!!!!!!!!
GAMZEE: :o(
Gamzee tries to get his bearings, but
(Vriska)’s spinning back in the other direction with a Discus Back
Elbow. Her elbow connects with his cheekbone hard enough that it
shatters. A sharp tooth goes flying out of his puckered lips so
fast that John has to take flight to avoid it. (Vriska) takes a
crow’s hop back, grounding herself to swing a lead-legged kick
right into his chin. Gamzee goes flying into a nearby tree. The
first branch splinters under the impact of his spine. He gets
clotheslined backward by the second one, spins around it and
face-plants on a hard root under the tree.
John winces, but not sympathetically. The impact was just that
rough. That HAD to crack a rib or two.
(Vriska) stalks over to Gamzee and triumphantly lifts him off
the ground, high above her head, only to drop him and slam her knee
into his face again. His lip splits, staining her jeans bright
purple. He’s rolling from side to side on the ground, groaning as
blood bubbles up from his mouth. It sounds like he’s drowning.
(Vriska) drags him to his feet again, her hands fisted in his
shirt. With an impressive maneuver, hard for the eye to follow
unless you’re a trained wrestler, she adroitly twists a hand in his
hair and Reverse Hangmans him against the tree branch.
GAMZEE: HONK!!!!
(VRISKA): WHY WON’T YOU JUST
She slams his throat against the branch again
and again. Each time he lets out a sound like a damaged squeeze
toy, his bloated, slimy tongue unspooling like a frog’s as all the
air is crushed out of his esophagus.
(VRISKA): D8EEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!
Shouting like a berserker, (Vriska)
perpetrates a textbook Groinal Clawhold around Gamzee’s codpiece
and rips it right the fuck off. He yowls as if he had actual
testicles to be mauled, and for all anyone knows, maybe he really
does. He paws the air desperately and fecklessly after his
treasured purple dick-sock, but (Vriska) tosses it over her
shoulder and shoves him into the mud with her heel. She grabs
Gamzee by the hood, pulls him up, and then grinds the top of her
shoe along the ridge of his broken nose, rubbing her laces into his
eyes.
Ah yes, John pauses his wince to admire, the good old Bootlace
Eyerake. Jake loved that one back in the day, even though he had
much more practice with the receiving end of it.
Gamzee grabs (Vriska)’s foot by the bridge. Instead of yanking
her off-balance, he opens his huge, bloody maw of a mouth and...
runs his tongue along the rubber bottom of her shoe? (Vriska)
freezes. She watches him lap the mud—and his own blood—out from
between the grooves of the sole. His lips drag lewdly over the
ridge of her footwear and begin sucking at where her big toe would
be, if it were not safely ensconced in several layers of rubber and
canvas. He draws back, a string of glutinous, tinted saliva
connecting the shoe to his lip, and catches (Vriska)’s eyes with
his own half-lidded gaze. His face is bruised, bloody, swollen. His
makeup is a nightmarish disaster. But the expression he’s giving
her is unmistakable. It’s not fear, not rage, not even pain.
It’s...
Lust.
(Vriska) goes perfectly still, absolutely paralyzed by the
sudden recognition. For several seconds, she doesn’t dare move a
muscle.
And then, quite suddenly, (Vriska) reaches a plateau of rage so
intense, so pure, that she isn’t even seeing straight anymore. She
howls like a storm cresting over the ocean, drowning out the sound
of the human government’s tanks firing their first volley over the
battlefield. She lunges at Gamzee’s catastrophic face lips-first,
and practically dives into his mouth, ramming her tongue into his
lewd, gaping maw like she’s questing for prizes at a carnival. They
roll over each other, groping, tearing, tongue-lashing, and vanish
into the underbrush.
Gamzee’s unwashed stench is so bad, the motion of him being
knocked into the dirt wafts it in John’s direction. The stink hits
him like an olfactory haymaker, and he does a full 180 to dry heave
into the impact crater.
Mercifully, John’s attention is caught by someone calling his
name from above. He has never felt so grateful for an excuse to
look away from anything in his life.
ROSE: John, up here!
ROSE: I need to speak with you!