So here's the second one-shot. I really have to get these up faster, but I've got other stuff going on.

I wasn't really sure how to portray either of these guys. Makara is dangerous in that instead of flipping out like Gamzee, he stews and plans and gets you back a thousand times worse. Pyrope is cold and all business. Probably the two hardest characters to write.


Chapter two: Tents and Books
Starring: Makara and Pyrope

Makara sat on his knees on the floor. There wasn't a carpet or anything. He'd never been big on decorations. He dipped his fingers in a jar with teal "paint" in it, and spread it across the tent in front of him. A big sweeping arc, in teal, against the purple cloth. He looked at his work, judging it silently. He deemed it good, and dipped his fingers into the jar again. This tent was nearly finished.

Later, when he ducked out of the tent, Makara grimaced as the light hit his face. He had been expecting it. But that didn't make it any less pleasant. A stupider troll would've lost track of the time in the darkened tent. The tents didn't let any light in, and it could get confusing. For a stupider troll. Makara wasn't a stupider troll.
Makara was silent as he walked through the tents, weaving his way through the ghost carnival. Of course, he was thinking. Something he often did to pass the time.
He came to his own tent, and ducked in. Inside, bottles of untouched faygo lined the walls, and horns that honked when you stepped on them sat in a pile. He walked past the subjuggalator garbage and into his own respite block.
Inside that room, bottles of painting substance sat lined up, along with paint brushes and towels. A desk had been placed there as well, along with a husktop. A recupracoon sat in the corner, and a door to his bathroom sat in the other. Well, not a door, more like a doorway made out of the tent fabric, covered by more fabric to cover the entrance. That was how the entire carnival was. Just tent fabric and more tent fabric and more tent fabric. And more tent fabric. I bothered him, and had Makara been a stupider troll, he might've freaked out about it. But he wasn't.

Makara was relaxing in a pile of tent fabric when his husktop dinged. He would've been resting somewhere else, but the fabric was really the most comfortable thing he had. As much as he hated the fabric it had its purposes. He wasn't stupid enough to pretend it didn't just because he hated it. It was his experience that everything had its purpose and that extended to things he hated.
Makara pulled himself up and sat down at his desk. He had left his trollian account on. He usually did. That way, when he chose to ignore people, it was entirely possible that he was away and had simply left his account on again.

mechanicalArcher started trolling clownsHate

MA: D: HighDlooD
MA: D: While I finD it unlikely that you will responD
MA: D: I have a request.
MA: D: I have Deen unaDle to find paint, and require some so that I may carry out my Dreamcestor's request that I learn the finer arts of troll etiquette.
MA: D: Will you lenD me some?

Makara crossed his arms as he watched the words pop up on the screen. No doubt the blue blood would find it easy to achieve everything his dreamcestor required of him. Like most of the trolls, he found his dreamcestor easy to get along with and quiet amazing, and they had endless things in common. When he had been younger, Makara had believed that they had all been lying to him, and that they had many secret conversations where they made sure that all of their information correlated perfectly with each other's before talking to him. As he aged, Makara had come to the conclusion, that while that was preferable to the reality, it simply couldn't be true. They were just too stupid.

CH: Of course, I would be more than happy to.
CH: I will send the paint over the next time something is delivered to me.
MA: D: Thank you, highDlooD.
MA: D: This will not De forgotten.
CH: Oh, I have no doubt.

clownsHate logged off

MA: D: What?

Makara got up and walked over to the jars. He chose one of each color, and carried them outside. He ignored the sun and found a box to put them in. He tore some tent fabric off a nearby tent, and stuffed in between the jars, insuring their safety.
He carried the box back inside and set it down, before deciding to call it a night, and getting in his recupracoon. Everything else could be taken care of tomorrow.

"You'll get sun burn if you stay up like this." Makara didn't bother opening his eyes. "I'm back."
"I see that." He responded, slow and mellow, careful not to disrupt his chill.
"With your eyes closed?" He sat up and looked over. A young female troll was sitting in front of his husktop, her legs crossed as she leaned back. Her lips were drawn in a thin line, and her eyebrows drawn together, just a touch. A normal expression for her. She continued. "An amazing feat."
He calmly pulled himself out of his recupracoon, and walked over to the bathroom. He rinsed off, and got himself some new clothing. A black shirt with black pants, his symbol painted on both, and bare feet.
He walked back in the room and sat down in his pile of tent fabric. She stared at him, and he stared back.
"How was your trip?" He asked.
"Fine." She responded. All business, strict and harsh. Perfect.
"And Megido?" The boredom in his voice wasn't faked. The question itself was faked, he didn't care about her. The only way the rust blood affected him was when she "borrowed" his mateprit. And that just affected him by affecting those around him.
"She's fine."
"Oh?"
He could see there was something she wasn't telling him. Not that he cared. If she had something she wanted to tell him, she would tell him. And if she didn't, she wouldn't. Really, perfect.
"I need some more paint." He said.
"What color?" She asked. She was already standing up. Makara frowned.
"Not now." He said. She looked down, and her customary frown deepened. "You just got back. I was hoping we could spend some time together before you went back to the library."
"Time together? Doing what?" She asked. He smiled and stood up. Her surprise wasn't very, well, surprising. They'd never been into doing special things together just because they were Matesprits.
"Painting, of course. I need more teal and purple, and it seems like this is the perfect time for it. Don't you think, Pyrope?" He said. By the time he got her name out, he was already out of his respite block, and well on his way out of the tent as well.
She followed obediently, and he could feel her cold curiosity. Everything about her was cold. Only her skin was warm, and that was due to her lower blood color. She would make a perfect legislator.

Later, as Makara and Pyrope painted the new tent Makara had pitched, he could feel a question bubbling up. They worked in silence, like they did everything else. They were sitting on their knees, side-by-side,
"Yes?" He asked. She looked up at him, twisting her head so she could meet his eyes. He twisted to meet her gaze.
"Why do you keep putting up more tents and painting them?" She asked. Makara nodded slowly. He could see where her confusion was coming from.
"Well, it's certainly not my fault that both my ancestor and my dreamcestor were into the same strange beliefs. And it's not my fault that my ancestor left me all this tent material and faygo and horns and everything else a subjuggalator needs. I am merely…" He looked back at his painting. "I am simply…fulfilling my duties and expectations. I have nothing else to do, because they left me nothing else to do. It's…"
"Simple." She finished for him. Makara nodded.
She was still staring at him. He could feel her eyes on him. He coolly worked on his painting, ignoring her.
"Makara." He looked down at her. She slid off her glasses. They were red, and shaped funny. Not like normal glasses, but almost tear shaped. His mind latched onto that thought, and he almost missed her sigh. "We need to talk about Vantas."
Makara looked back at the tent cloth. He dipped his fingers into a purple jar, and carefully brushed the substance across the fabric.
"Are you flushed for him?" He asked, coolly. Pyrope laughed. It was rare, and sent a shiver up his spine. He looked at her. In place of her normal scowl, her lips had twisted into some mimic of a smile. The hair on the back of his neck stiffened, and he felt the urge to kiss her forehead. He resisted.
"No." She said. "I am not."
Makara returned to his painting once more. She did the same. They worked in their normal silence until she touched his arm. He turned to her, again. She lifted herself up, and gently kissed his cheek. He didn't return her sentiment, and she pulled away.
"I'm flushed for you." She stared blankly.
"I'm flushed for you." He repeated.
They returned to their painting. Nothing had changed, and nothing ever would. Of that, Makara was certain.