Your name is Gamzee mutherfucking Makara, and you are currently making your way out of a ventilation system. You carry a club in either hand. As you walk, you listen to the voices that surround you, battering you with their incessant chatter. The corners of your paint caked mouth turn up as you absently swing your clubs, droplets of multicolored blood dripping down to the floor. You make a few turns are your palms begin to sweat in anticipation. A few minutes are all that separate you from being all that you are destined to be. The Mirthful Messiah.
You begin making an effort to walk quieter, managing to be almost silent by the time you make your next turn. Before long you find yourself at a ventilation grate. You slowly, with infinite patience, unscrew each screw. Through the gaps in the grate you can see a pile of horns, and the view brings an even wider, almost manic smile to your face. You silently move the grate aside and steal into the room, pausing to check for any unwanted guests. A smile still plastered to your face like your thick paint, you creep across the room. As you approach the pile, you see the figure you were looking for, asleep peacefully. You scoot even closer, and, looming over the figure, you raise your club and- hear a rustling behind you.
You turn around, your smile widening as you see the latest distraction. Terezi Pyrope stands before you, sporting her dragon cape and holding out her cane in a very threatening manner. You chuckle darkly in a low tone and walk calmly towards her. She stands her ground admirably, even as you begin to attack, launching blow after blow with your Mirthful Clubs. She manages to block the first half dozen or so, but then she begins to falter. Your eyes widen in delight and you redouble your efforts, driving her back step by step until she is against the wall with your club at her throat. She looks up at you defiantly as you bring your other club down, and you add teal to the stream of colors that are already dripping from your weapons. You turn your back on the remains of the blind girl, and hear a wet thump as they fall to the ground. Turning your attention back to the horn pile, you descend upon your intended victim once more.
His chest rises and falls in a deep rhythm, and his face contorts a little, as if he's in pain; and his cheeks are flushed bright red. You absently rub the top of his head, thinking with a fond smile about all the good times you had with your moirail, back when miracles still existed, before the blasphemous one came. You feel yourself harden at the thought of that nameless monster, and hope that he is the next one to fall to your blows. Turning your attention back to the sleeping troll next to you, you look with no little pain at his distorted, unhappy features. You know it is your duty as a moirail to put such suffering behind him. A Messiah's duty is not always easy however. You frown, your paint flaking off and falling onto his arm like tiny little snowflakes. A former you would have called that a miracle.
He mutters out a small sound in his sleep, and you're brought back to the present, and back to your task. Setting your clubs aside gently, you position yourself atop the sleeping troll. He begins to thrash a little more as you press your hands down over his throat, and you have to use more of your strength to keep him from throwing you off. His eyes pop open, coursing bright red; and you smile down at him in what you hope is a reassuring way. His struggles get weaker, and finally his eyes stare up at you blankly. You release your former moirail, pleased that you were finally able to be what a moirail should be, and that he no longer has to suffer.
You retreat back into the ventilation system, to prepare for your next hunt, taking parts of your fallen comrades along. Behind you, teal and red mix together, creating exquisite patterns and swirls on and around the pile of horns, a testimony to the power of the subjuggulators.