A/N: My first update in a while. Summer has made me pretty damn lazy, and roleplaying tends to suck up a lot of my time, but sometimes it's nice to face a blank page and try and work something out on your own, so this happened. This is going to be the first in a small series that I try to make regarding the dynamics of the kids and trolls, although my main focus will be on the betas.

Written for the Seattlestuck AU, where humanized versions of the trolls and the kids played the game and reset the universe. The question is, at what cost?Q!

Enjoy! ouo And do review, I appreciate the feedback!

One uninvited houseguest has made a perch on the rickety recliner with a busted-up bobby pin in the tips of his fingers and a sanguine smile settled on his lips. He sits on the armchair with his feet on the table, free hand prodding his host into some sort of action. He did, after all, come for entertainment, and it'd be no good if she didn't even know he was dropping by to keep her company.

"Mnh…not now, Charolette…get off of me…"

"Not your motherfuckin' pet, babydoll. On the contrary, I be thinkin' it's the other way around."

"!"

She stirs, eyes narrowed behind cherry aviators. A bony hand swats the finger away, and she grits her teeth, baring a chipped and stained set. She doesn't have it in her to dislodge him, for moving hurt.

Her bruises still throb from the needle.

"How did you get in here?"

"Carefully."

"Gamzee!"

"Gamzee!"

"Knock it off and just answer me already!"

"Yeah? How about you motherfucking make me?" A pause; he makes a flourish of his hand and puts the pin close enough for her to see before throwing it at her. If she thought she was uncomfortable from a prod, he made sure to then hover into her space, lips close to her ear.

"Bitch."

She screams, hands pushing against his shoulders with any strength she could muster. It's only enough to lift him off by just a few inches, before he makes himself heavy and ends up sinking on her like the used-up furniture they both sat on.

"Well shit, now I'm real comfortable right here. Sure know how to treat a guest, Terecita."

"Don't fucking call me that."

"I'll call you what I motherfucking please. You ain't worth shit."

A growl, and she is elbowing into him at every crevice exposed. It isn't enough to hurt him, but it certainly makes him snarl in irritation. He's forced to lift his weight off, and decides to spring onto his feet.

Perhaps, it would seem, the better tactic is to encircle her like prey. Trap her, make her grovel, and leave before the final kill.

"How did you even find me?" She traces every move – it's blurry, and she only sees a dark-skinned man with purple and black clothes wander around, but it's just enough for the moment. "I never told you where I moved."

"Don't have to get to tellin' me. I have my ways."

"Quit that mysterious clown bullshit. You're not as intelligent as you think you are, Makara."

"You say that babydoll but if I motherfucking recall, it was I who got to wreckin' you in the first place, not the other way 'round. If you had any ounce of wicked sense to you, you wouldn't all up and be in this fine mess, would you?"

She clenches her fists, lips parted to speak. Only air comes out.

"You heard me." There. He's struck a nerve fine enough to twist his fingers in the wound. A half-used needle sits on the table; he grabs for it and starts to examine the instrument that delivered liquid drugs right into her veins.

"Look at you. You're fallin' right apart and I ain't even done a thing in sweeps or years. I quit when you bore me and you're still deterioratin'. Ain't that a shame? Thought you was the best, Terezi. You were so motherfucking confident…"

"Shut up!"

"Don't tell me when to shut up, bitch. You ain't the one that gets to callin' these shots 'round here, seein' as you's too busy gettin' drugged up on motherfucking heroin. What's next, Terecita, cocaine? Man, won't that be a righteous sight…you should call me when you do."

He chuckles, throwing the needle at her chest. It was capped, so she wasn't hurt, but a surly frown mars her features.

"What do you want? I'm done with you, you fucking psychopath, why can't you just leave me alone?"

Another snarl from him, this time louder.

"Oh, you don't like the truth, do you Gamzee? You think I'm doing bad, but at least I'm still sane. Why haven't you been thrown into a Goddamn loony bin yet is my question? You'd be doing me a favor!"

He kicks her sofa and shouts, fists clenched. These tides aren't going to be turned on him, he had something to gain; establish.

He hates her and her very guts, wished to rip them out straight from her stomach (although murder, even violence towards her, were all thoughts he didn't like to entertain). Every inch of his veins boil with liquid loathing; each nerve sang when she was miserable and screamed when she was happy.

This sensation would almost make for a black romance if he had even remotely cared for her well-being. He just wanted to watch her burn and smolder in a self-orchestrated demise.

Besides, those kind of times were over. This isn't a game anymore; this is their new universe.

"Don't ever motherfuckin' call me that."

"What, a psychopath? That's what you are, you stupid schizo – "

The rest of her letters fell on deaf ears; by the time she can finish that sentence, he has flipped the table on its side and put a hand on her chin, speech muffled. His grip is tight enough to push her skin upward, lips stretched while she started to whimper underneath him. No suffocation, no physical harm – just one fair warning of what he could do.

"If you ever say that again, I will never motherfucking stop haunting you. Not while you're awake, not in your wicked sleep…you won't ever rest easy until you're motherfucking dead, do you hear me?"

A compliant nod. He releases her. She just glares back up at him.

"You're sick, Makara. Why are you even doing this, why can't you just fucking go?"

"I hate you, babydoll, not even like I used to. You make me motherfuckin' sick just to look at you…I can't believe I ever wanted to fuck you in the first place."

He would not admit that he had other reasons for such abhorrent. Nobody else received this kind of attitude; he saved it just for her, pushed her around because he never did quite like the way she treated his palemate, or even him. She used to step on backs to try and pull them all forward but silly mind games don't work here, anymore.

He wanted to make her pay in kind.

"What, that's it? Don't you have better shit to do, like I don't know, go fuck up everything else like you always do?"

"I don't need any better reason to get my tauntin' on of you, Terecita. Hatin' you is the only one I need."

"I don't care! Leave!"

That's what he wanted, to hear defeat in her voice, to watch colorless tresses hit the back of the recliner while her body sank into the cushions.

"Fair enough." He kicked her ashtray out of the way and titled it over, making it vomit contents of ash and cigarette butts on the carpet. Next, a few pieces of mail are scuffled by the underside of his boot before he reaches the door.

"You should get a better motherfuckin' lock, by the way. Never know what kind of monster will get to comin' in next, do you?"

Slam!

Silence, one so thick it came down on the apartment like a comforter; it sinks so deep into every pore and each bone that she dare not move.

She didn't even think she cared, anymore. No tears are wept, no pitying whimpers made…

Sorrow was just a luxury.

Apathy is cheap.