A/N: so... A little bit of basic research has turned up a rather cursed fact. If a troll were to get a suntan, (as they can in this world, since the sun isn't too dangerous to go out in) it would be the same color as a human tan. Brownish. Because melanin is produced roughly by the oxidization of an amino acid, producing brownish (similar to rusting). So... It's a good thing Freyah isn't the blushy sort, or who knows what her complexion would look like. Also, if you're easily disturbed, be careful reading this chapter, it has some disturbing elements.

The night drew to a close as Bug finished up the school work he had been doing. He sat at the kitchen table, facing towards the open door to the living room, where a handful of children were watching cartoons as their parents finished their work for the night. He supposed he really should read that book Medusa had offered him, Frieda the Namer, as the cartoon adaptation seemed to be quite the hit. Looking out the window at the slowly brightening sky he saw a small, elegant scuttler pull into the driveway and a figure get out.

He thought they were a stranger at first, with shoulder length, unkempt hair that fell in their eyes, oversized blue tee shirt, black leggings, and flip flops, but as they ran hurriedly up towards the house he realized it was... Freyah.

Once out of view of the window, he couldn't see her until she got into the mudroom, cracking up with laughter. Making her way up the small staircase, she froze as she saw Bug staring at her, a smile on her face.

"The results of our tests aren't normally this... Destructive. One experiment makes your hair grow at lightning speed, another leaves all your clothes covered in pinesap."

She said, giggling.

Bug knodded incredulously.

"So how was your day, Lightning Bug?" She said.

"Ah, pretty much amazing. I think I like baking quite a bit."

"That's good to hear. I think you'll fit right in here. If you'll excuse me, I need to go reattain my generally socially acceptable haircut."

He chuckled, and she strode through into the hallway, sticking her head into the living room and making the kids laugh before heading upstairs.

The light from the basement room was kept out by a thick curtain, so that wasn't what was keeping him awake. The basement wasn't stuffy any more after it had been aired out all night, so it wasn't that either. The day had left him happy and tired, and yet sleep refused to come. He sat up, picking up the history book from where he'd left it in the window, and opened the curtain a bit to let in light.

Flipping to module he'd finished in the late aftermid, he turned the page to find the first page of module 7 illustrated with a haunting painting. A tall, lanky troll with spotted pants and long, spiky hair, standing in profile. He carried a large club in one hand, face and chest covered with swirling paint.

"Module 7: the second great calamity."

After the world had been established for well over a thousand years, a rift began to form among the troll groups. Until then, the societies had tried to follow the old laws as much as possible, without the harm that came with them. So humans were builders, Carapacians were scientists, and the various troll subspecieses formed groups based around what work they were traditionally suited to, from Rustbloods as farmers to Olivebloods as hunters to the uncommon fuschia bloods as scholars.

This practice was almost universally accepted, with a few branches or denominations based around things like the old humans' work towards erasing species roles or the arrival of lime blooded trolls, which hadn't existed in the old world.

(At this point Bug realized what had seemed off about Freyah and one other troll he had taken for jadebloods. They were actually limebloods.)

The issue arose when a purpleblood known as the Scaramou decided that instead of the old laws being followed too much, they weren't being followed enough.

He gathered followers over several years, in the form of trolls on the blue end of the spectrum, especially purplebloods, which, up until that time, were the close allies and assistants of the carapacians, living with them in their temples and towns.

A small feeling, like anxiety, twisted in Bug as he continued reading. The party under the Scaramou committed horrible acts, from raiding breeding caverns and killing hundred of fuschia fry to enforcing a cruel caste system to trying to re-form a twisted religion that had died in the old world. The history book didn't go into too much detail, since it was made for 12 year olds, but it was plenty detail enough for him. Especially the name. The name the group decided upon for themselves. Juggalo. The only word he could remember from his old life...

The group was eventually fought head on by the other hemotypes and specieses. They were defeated, but their movement still stood, and stands to this day.

The rulers of the other peoples ordered them to leave, to find a land of their own. They traveled to the islands they inhabit today, to accommodate the seadwellers in their population.

But before their left, they buried their dead. Only a few of the powerful warriors had fallen in the fighting, and they buried them on the mainland before heading out to sea. The Scaramou hadn't died in the incounters, and ruled the juggalo people for many years after.

Today, the Juggalos were more peaceful, (but could by no stretch of the imagination be considered a peaceful people) and, while the society was still devoted to the old ways of life, killing no longer a necessary part of the culture to most groups.

The book dropped to the floor. Eyes wide, Bug pieced together the meaning of this new revelation. He might have been a part of that. No, he probably had been a part of that. He had killed innocent fuschia infants too small to even see. He denied people their living rights because of the color of their blood. No wonder he had been hidden beneath the earth in a tomb. Had he died, or just been buried to keep him out of trouble?

He put his face in his trembling hands, thinking. He had probably killed people with those hands. The thought terrified him.

Eventually, the room pressed in on him too hard, and he stood up.

Stepping heavily up the stairs and into the chilly house, he opened the kitchen window, letting in late morning light.

Slowly and deliberately, he got out the ingredients for bread.

As he prepared it, going through the motions of mixing and kneading, he thought, long and hard.

He'd done some pretty screwed up things in his past life. And there was nothing he could do to change it. And he was truly, deeply sorry, and couldn't imagine wanting to hurt anybody ever again.

As he kneaded, the disgust, anxiety, and fear began to stop gnawing on his chest. He couldn't change what he had been or done, but he could try and do better here. He could protect this family that had taken him in, that he was starting to love. He could do that, first of all.

A/N: slightly shorter chapter than usual, I suppose. The next few will probably be nice and long though