Karkat Vantas, Failure and Fool. His mistakes where his own but, as a leader, others are doomed to suffer if you fuck up…
But it wasn't like he hadn't suffered himself, right? His Morail had been reduced to a murderous, gibbering wreck. His other friends where either dead or doomed. His race was virtually doomed to extinction. His whole life, he lived in fear of the inevitable cull… now he craved it… the sweet silence and unaccountability of the dead…
Yes He had suffered… But his friends had suffered more… He wasn't worthy to lead a bunch of wrigglers. Hell, he'd done that before and he'd managed to screw that up. He'd managed to break the damn machine and make too many… this was predetermined, he couldn't have changed history, but still…
He massaged his wrists. They were aching like hell again today. The perfect ring of scorched white flesh around each arm burnt hot, flooding with crimson as his hated mutant blood moved closer to the surface.
Red Shackles… Quenched in Blood…
Karkat Vantas, away from the eyes those he had once lead, cried himself into an uneasy sleep.
