Chapter Text
Millennia ago, before the First Conquest of Alternia shackled them to their fates as caretakers of the next generation, even before the Grand Unification that saw the warring nation-states of trollkind unite under one government, the lusus naturae had their own ways of life. Simple, yes; tribal, yes; shamanistic, yes. But before the myriad species of lusii were subjugated and forced into symbiosis with their conquerors, they told their own tales.
Perhaps none were quite so relevant to this story as the legends passed down by the lusus carcinus.
“Behold! For he descends from the heavens even now; the Great Unifier, Cancer’s Right Hand. A youngling shall emerge from the caverns and his appearance shall challenge the blistering heat of the sun itself. Remain ever-vigilant, my children, for he is our last and greatest hope.”
-roughly translated excerpt of Biblios Carcinus, “Canto of the Champion,” verse 10:25
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The rock fell from the sky in the early morning, awakening the creature as it screamed through the atmosphere. It’s the only one of its kind who makes its living in this relatively remote location, so it makes ready (somewhat begrudgingly, having been awoken so rudely) to arrive at the site of the impact.
It is not prepared to discover what awaits it, because this defies all logic.
In the exact center of the crater, lying atop the broken stone fragments but clearly very much alive, lays a troll youngling (wriggler, the creature’s mind corrects). Was it here before the impact and somehow miraculously survived? But it’s so far away from the brooding caverns. No, that can’t be it, but the alternative (that it somehow arrived via the meteor) is insane.
In any case, the creature now has a duty to attend to. It approaches the little one, scoops it up in shelled claws and takes it back to the nesting grounds.
(A lusus will do what is best for its charge.)
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"SO LONG, YOU LITTLE SHIT. I HOPE YOU DON’T FUCK UP AS HARD AS I DID."
The wriggler has no idea what the tall one meant by these words, or even that he’s talking to him. All he is certain of is that soon after, his surroundings have drastically changed. Gone are the others he played with briefly (he hopes he will see them again soon); all that remains is the sound of surf crashing against the beach behind him and the echo of the meteorite’s crash ringing in his auditory channels.
Before he drifts off to sleep (because, between crawling around the ectobiology lab and his latest adventure, he is rather tired), he notices a large, clawed figure approaching. The wriggler gives only the quietest of protests as it lifts him off the cooling stone. Its hard, smooth, slightly damp carapace is comforting, and he is asleep before too much time passes.
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He is four sweeps old, and he thinks he knows why he and his lusus live so far away from other trolls now.
The lessons have taught him that his race’s society is founded on a hierarchy, determined by the color of one’s blood. Purplebloods sit at the top, the ruling class, and the Empress bleeds brightest purple of all. Below them lies the blue aristocracy, and below them the green middle class. Lower than that are the yellow, rust and maroon.
But, he does not meet any of these distinctions. He’s not royalty; his blood is too red. He’s not a commoner; his blood is too bright. He’s an aberration, an affront to the hemospectrum, a fluke in the genetic code. He must have been sent to live away from troll society, so as not to taint it.
(In the back of his mind, he knows this is a capital offense, and tries not to think about meeting his end at the hands of the cull squads.)
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He is seven sweeps old, and he knows he must take action if he is to survive long enough to be eight.
Staying on Alternia is not an option; when the recruitment ships come, they are very thorough. No troll escapes their sight, and refusal to enlist is as worthy of culling as treason in the Empire’s eyes. But, going willingly will simply reveal his secret (the color of this slop that runs through my veins) and end with the same result.
His research on the Alternet turns up an experimental chemical cocktail, mostly peddled by the shadiest of dealers with the illest of repute. It goes by many names; Hemoshift, Chromomine, Sanguitussin, Chameleodose; mostly used by lowbloods aiming for higher stations in life than they were ever meant to achieve. A months’ supply of the raw materials needed to synthesize it costs half his month’s scarab allowance.
But it’s either this, or death before his time.
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He is eight sweeps old, and the recruitment ships have come planetside for their annual rounds. Sooner than he had hoped, in fact, because he is unsure the drug has had time to affect him.
He approaches them willingly. He has not met many trolls in person, and never has he seen so many in one place. A few of them he recognizes (his best friend, Casparr, among them).
One, he does not recognize, but wishes he did as he finds himself staring at her. Slender frame, shoulder-length hair, her pearl-white smile and striking red glasses…
“She’s beautiful,” he whispers to himself.
“Eh, what’s that? Speak up son, I can’t hear you over all this commotion.”
He snaps to attention and realizes he’s finally at the front of the sign-in line. The recruiter asks him again. “Your name, son. What’s your name?”
“Oh, sorry. Karkinos Histrellin.”
The recruiter taps the name into the husktop. “That’s strange, we don’t have you on file.” Oh, right, the whole raised-apart-from-society-because-you’re-a-blight-on-it thing, of course he wouldn’t be on file.
“Any chance my information was lost?”
“Ha! Wouldn’t be the first time. Fucking bureaucracy, how does it even work? Alright, let me get you set up. How old are you, Histrellin?”
“Eight sweeps, as of three days ago.”
“Alright, you’re in. What are you training for?”
“Threshecutioners, sir.”
“Blueblood, then?”
“…Green, sir.”
“Ha! You’re the first greenblood in ages to sign up for the Threshecutioners. Usually it’s the bluebloods who get into that, but you wouldn’t be the first green. They’ll give you hell for it but eh, I figure you kick everyone’s ass hard enough and they’ll stop giving you shit about it. Okay, just need you to take this pen and sign here, then take this pin and print here.”
He signs his name on the line, and can barely stand to look as he jabs the needle into his finger and presses it against the paper.
He mentally sighs in relief when he pulls his finger away to reveal a partial lime green fingerprint.
“Heh, that’s an interesting shade. You don’t see a lot of limebloods anymore these days. But you’re all signed up now, take your stuff and go here.” The recruiter hands him a keycard and directions on how to get to his bunk, then extends his hand. “Welcome to the Threshecutioners. Glory to Alternia.”
Karkinos shakes the recruiter’s hand. “Glory to Alternia.”
He looks around. The girl from before is nowhere to be seen.
(Well, shit.)