this is a sequel i wrote up one night. it's pretty bad and you probably shouldn't read it - i really tried to improve but i'm not doing so well, eheheheh. i don't know! just review it, even if you hate it.

also it's the weird format again and i don't like it.

A loud voice is stretching down into the deep hole he's in, reaching for him, staring down him from the motherfucking hole in the motherfucking ceiling. Even though he is certain there is no longer a motherfucking hole now, the voice keeps persisting and meddling. (are you okay, gamzee? are you all right? wake up wake up oh god oh god OH GOD OH GOD) The more he ignored it the louder and more defined it got. The more he thrashed in order to shake it off the longer it clung to his thick grey hide like wet cloth.

(WAKE UP WAKE UP, OPEN YOUR STUPID STAINED SIGHT HOLES YOU INSUFFERABLE FAILU-)

The moment his orange eyes open is the exact moment his ears are greeted by the thick silence the walls are offering to him. The moment he props himself up with his hands is the moment he realizes that he is completely and utterly alone - never before has he felt so relieved. Ears, previously pressed flat to the side of his skull, go back to their original position. The coiling mass of fear in his stomach tightens as his vision fluctuates.

Everything in his hive is crawling; the posters on the wall, the colorful empty bottles, even the green slime that once soothed his aching think-pan is sprouting legs and inching towards him and hissing. Gamzee does the logical thing and hisses back, baring pointed fangs at the slime which glows faintly. It's late in the night, and it is only then that the indigo blood realizes that he has almost slept the night away. Again.

Awareness is something he isn't used to experiencing. For once in his life he is able to separate dream from reality and conclude that Tavros isn't dead - at least, not yet, or by his own hands.

He begins to stir from his sitting position, rising woozily to his feet and taking a step forward.

(honk) His calloused foot squeezes the air from the rubber covering, air rushing and bringing back that godawful sound. That godawful sound from his -barrels in your mouth, shreds your tongue, everybody jumps to the juggalo sound- nightmares and recurring daytime horrors. Just a sharp movement away-

(HONK)

And he jumps back, overcome by the reaching talons nearly the size of his torso, even though a little voice is screaming that it's not real, he's just hallucinating and being stupid. But the hands, they are connected to an even larger body. A body that frightens him and it reeks of disloyalty and the salty smell of sea water, or blood.

(come here)

"Heh, go away." He pins on a nervous chuckle to the front of his denial. Mirth is the best defense when you are scared and alone and have nowhere to run.

Mirth is the best defense.

(AT LEAST YOU'VE MANAGED TO REMEMBER THAT, YOU DISGUSTING BULGELICKER. YOU DISGUSTING PILE OF FUCKING FILTH, SCUM OF THE SUBJUGGULATORS-)

Gamzee's eyes widen and his pupils dilate as he scans each darkened corner of his recuperacoon before stepping towards one of them. He pushes himself far down, curling in on himself as his back and right thigh touch the walls. He shivers and touches his forehead to his knees because what else is there to do besides wait this out? What else is there to do besides wait this out? What else is there to do besides wait this out?

And the same voice is repeating the same thing over and over and over and over and ove-

(you don't pity the shitblood do you?)

"Leave me alone." he whispers, expecting at any moment to be grabbed and throttled for whatever he's done that's wrong.

For the longest time he sits in that corner.

Waiting.

Watching.

And thinking.

God, that troll thought up a motherfucking storm as the voices taunted him and made him tear out tufts of his own hair in frustration. As they made him claw at his own throat and accidentally rip holes in his own shirt because his think-pan started to hurt so motherfucking bad.

For a long time he just sat there.

(how long do you plan to wait)

He didn't know.

(i know what you're thinking. you're thinking this is another nightmare. you're thinking you'll wake up again and you'll be sleeping in poison.)

Yes but that poison relieved all his stress, all his worries. It made him forget about everything. And everything was horrible. Everything was a motherfucking roller coaster of violence and a healthy dollop of hate and ass-whoopin'.

When he does fall asleep, it's very quickly, and much too scary for him to even comprehend.

The piercing pain in his chest, and then the sudden falling motion does not jar him awake, only sickens him so that - in his dream - he vomits; blood and hard metal and bits of flesh. He chokes, but whatever is piercing through him has pinned him. He isn't sure what he's feeling, or seeing.

His primitive instincts have only made him more alert to the fact that it is going to happen if he isn't careful. It won't happen to him, but to his hearts, every single one of them. He needs to be careful.

That he needs to be careful.

(don't trip don't push don't fall)

Gamzee sits in that corner until he wakes up again. Strange objects and strange trolls and strange liquid running through his fingers - a different kind of buzz reverberating off of his skull, a kind he doesn't care for.

(don't breathe don't speak don't move)

(don't move)

Gamzee Makara falls asleep one more time as his lungs heave and his sunken chest gains a breaking amount of pressure.

(don't move.)