By the time an hour is up, you've got bleeding knuckles(Amongst various other scratches in other spaces. At lower concentrations, of course.), your hair is royally fucked up, hardly worthy of being on a Strider at all, and the room around you is littered with green gel and embryos or some shit. If that wasn't enough of a hint, I'll just say it: you're not in John's room anymore. After coaxing him to show you the extent of the damage, which "wasn't really damage," in his words, you weren't exactly in the mood to stay in a small room, let alone that of your bro. You'd really have regretted fucking up his stuff.

So, like a sensible person, you left, tearing down the hall, well out of the range in which people occupy. Shortly after, you found yourself a nice, large room, full of gigantic glass cylinders that had various preserved life-forms within them. Needless to say, you went fucking crazy.

Now, you've finally managed to stop smashing things, but you are by no means calm. If you were flipping your shit earlier, you're going completely berserk and flipping the ice cream of small children, even though it's falling on the ground, they're crying about it, and you aren't some weird child-hating freak, because you need to flip SOMETHING, and you're all out of shit. As was said earlier, there's blood dripping down your knuckles, and unfortunately, it's yours. Normally, that's how you'd prefer it to be. Not today. Today, you have someone specific in mind, whose blood you'd absolutely love to have dripping down your fists, or anywhere else really. Splattered all over the floor sounds nice. If only you had less of an idiot for a bro. Someone who'd be smart enough to let you beat Karkat's ass, or, even better, someone who wouldn't get involved in his messed up, alien-shit in the first place. But nope. Not only has fait deemed it fit for you to be a member of the group of idiots who brought the world to an end, but you've got the kind of idiot for a best-friend who makes you promise not to touch him.

The only good part of this situation is your own wit. You've made Karkat pass out with rage before; you can damned well do it again. Only this time, it won't be once in a while, it's going to be a daily occurrence. Maybe you'll even get creative and switch it up a bit once in a while, and say, opt for causing him to cry instead of pass out. That should be doable. In fact, you think you'll do that today.

Not right now though. Taking a breath, you plot the best way to get out of the room without getting more goo on you than you've already got, which is admittedly quite a bit. Oh well, it's really a matter of principal anyway.

Hopping over a few rather large chunks of glass(Which sounds illogical, but really isn't, considering that for some reason, they're surrounded by the least goo.), you begin your not-so-long trek to the door. Said trek ends after about thirty seconds of perilous journeying, and you shake yourself out a bit before taking the final step through the threshold, and out into the hall.

You're not really sure where to go from here. You may have had some vague idea in your head, but said thought in gone, leaving way for a shit-ton of uncertainty, which is only a little bit of frosting on your cake. The cake itself is rage. Pure, unadulterated, rage. You should really do something about that before you actually fuck shit up.

First things first, to push out thoughts of what John showed you an hour ago. No matter how hard it is, you need to stop thinking about the appearance of his skin, and no matter how much you recognize this fact, it's damn near impossible to stop the various dark, jagged lines and a mix of yellowing and fresh purple bruises from reentering your mind every couple seconds or so. During those allotted couple seconds, you find no respite, as images of your own creation take advantage of the opening, causing your rage to flare all that much hotter. This is so un-cool, you don't even want to think about it. Too bad that, as it seems, that isn't an option.

ooooo

Holy crap, I am so sorry for the long fucking hiatus. I never intended to imitate the Huss himself. Although, doing as the great ones do is a sure-fire to greatness... Anyway, after I wrote this chapter, I decided that I'm gonna go re-do the other chapters. God they were horrible. I've already got number one done, but I thought it would be best to say something about it beforehand, so as to avoid you guys wondering what the fuck was up. Hopefully there will be a steady inflow of chapters for the next while. I feel like I've gotten used to writing now, so it doesn't take four hours to write a measly three hundred word chapter with weak narration. Not that it's much better now.. But. I'm going to shut up.

Edit: Oh shit. I meant imitate. Not intimidate. Damn. I hope I haven't invoked the great one's wrath. #im the one who's intimidated now.