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Crack.
That is the third whip, and you can feel your back opening up, air carrying the sting of the wound and dispersing it through your whole upper body.
Crack.
It doesn’t get easier as it progresses; as laceration intersects with laceration, it only makes it worse.
Crack.
You suppose it’s nice that the heat of the welts is offset by how cold your blood is, running in rhythmic time down your back and pooling around your knees.
Crack.
You’re in the perfect position for divinity, but you don’t have anybody to pray to.
Crack.
Is justice really supposed to hurt so bad? You know that you have hurt others in the name of justice, taken their lives, but some people deserve to die. That is an indisputable fact. You can’t really seem to justify in your head why the legislator must take the punishment; the only solution left is that you are the criminal. But then you can’t comprehend what crime you’ve committed. There are too many to nail one down.
Crack.
You are beyond a murderer. Beyond a serial killer. You have been responsible in one way or another for death on par with a government. Even if it wasn’t by your hands that hundreds, thousands, possibly millions died, it was by your own ineptitude that those realities were able to progress. You know that any sane legislation would have you carry the weight of those. Whip the girl a thousand times. But you also know that will not bring anybody back.
Crack.
You bear through the pain with the knowledge that you deserve something a lot worse than what you are getting.
Crack.
You would like to see yourself burnt at the stake, to scream loud enough that all of those ghosts left in your wake could hear it and know they had been avenged by Justice. At the same time, you would like to be the one who ties Terezi to the stake and sets the fire ablaze. And at the same time, you would like to be the one who sits and watches, or the one who is avenged. But you haven’t been wronged, have you?
Crack.
No. You are not a victim, and until you’ve cleansed yourself of your crimes, you never will be.
Somebody hands you a piece of paper, and congratulates you, and you know exactly what it is.
-----
“Calling Ms. Terezi Pyrope, certified in level Fuschia, to the stand.”
You smooth down the collars of your suit before you take your stand, roll your shoulders back and keep your toes pointed forward towards the wall. Despite how many times you’ve done this, each case is just as nerve wracking as the last. There is a nagging voice that tells you that this will be the time you lose, and subsequently the time you lose your head.
You know that isn’t true, but the voice doesn’t.
“Calling the defendant to the stand.”
The court guards shuffle in somebody, scrawny arms stuffed into the pockets of her prison suit. They take a seat in front of the court, and frown as an effect of chewing the inside of their own cheek.
You would recognize her face anywhere, really, and given the look of contempt, she recognizes you as well. Anybody could wear cerulean, really (although none could do it as well as she does). After the haircut, the weight loss, the chipped horns, the time, it’s the venom in her eyes that you recognize instantly. They are beautiful, striking, and they see right through your fancy suit and high-level certification, and suddenly you are just a little girl again, watching your partner in crime toss bodies over the ledge of her mother’s cave.
“Ms. Serket, on trial for three suspected counts of murder and one count of high treason against the Empress.”
She’s not listening as she stares at you, nose twitching in disgust at your honour. It’s okay, you’re not listening either.
When she looks at you, you hear what she’s saying.
“You are guilty too.”
And you know that you are. You have known this for as long as you’ve lived. But you hate the way she tells you by sneering at you from the stand. You know she hates the formality of this process. If she had the room to say it, she would say something like “just kill me and get it oooooooover with for god’s sake.” You wonder, if the court allowed it, if she would actually say anything in her own defence. You have a hard time believing she would, mostly because there’s no defence left for her.
Vriska is irrevocably guilty.
“Would the defence like to speak?”
The measly little lawyer sitting across the aisle shakes his head as he stacks papers on top of each other. An honest defence is rare around these courts, considering how trying the punishment for being innocent is. Most people know that it’s easier to just claim guilt, and take the easy way out. You know when Vriska allows the defence to pass on her, it is not her defaulting out of the worst-case scenario.
“Alright then. Would the prosecution like to state their piece?”
You clear your throat, finally breaking the merciless stare of the defendant. Your standoff ended up taking the place of any readings that would be critical to the case, so you’re grateful that nobody has chosen to defend Vriska today.
“Well, if we take the defence’s silence as any comment on the guilt of our defendant, then… well, I don’t have to say much, do I?”
While the judge nods, you quickly scan over your notes on the desk, reading them aloud as if the charges could stand as evidence on their own.
“Murder of three high ranking officials in Alternian rule, and an attempt on the Empress…” You turn your attention back to the judge, and try to ignore Vriska when she scoffs at you. “Whatever the motivation behind this heinous crime, I think we can all agree that we want to keep psychotics like this off of our streets, and behind bars. Think of all the young trolls who might grow up thinking that treason, and in a wider sense, disobedience against the Alternian rule is acceptable. What Ms. Serket has left is a trail of harm that we can work to clean up, but letting her remain a free woman will make that trail endless.”
“You make an excellent case Ms. Pyrope.”
You didn’t, really, but luckily the courts (and the juries) are desperate to watch people die, so they will find guilt in anything if they need to.
“This is bullshit.”
The whole courtroom freezes after whipping their heads around to stare down the defendant. She’s unphased, arms crossed as she glares at you.
“Beg your pardon, Ms. Serket?” You try your best to keep your composure and choke back the heart that’s clawing up your throat.
“I said this is bullshit. And you really don’t have to pretend like we’re not acquainted, Tez.”
Now the heads are on you as you adjust your glasses. “That kind of language is highly inappropriate for the setting, Ms. Serket, and I’ll have to ask that you respect our proper titles in court.”
“Your honour-” She turns to her side, taking a conversational tone with the judge. “Me and Terezi go way back with each other, I hardly think you can count this trial as fair.”
The judge doesn’t seem entertained. “I assure you we have no concerns with what you think is fair.”
“Oh yeah, no doy, but you see, our lovely lawyer lady has real good incentive to make me look guilty, whether I am or not.”
“Your honour, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” You interject, but the judge dismisses you with a wave.
“Continue, Ms. Serket.”
“Terezi and I were best friends back in the day, and what she won’t tell you is that there was a lot more than three counts of murder, and that I wasn’t the only one responsible for thooooooose… ugly truth, I guess. But I think that she’s got good reason to put me away before I can say anything considering that little Ms. Pyrope is a murderer too.”
She turns to address you finally, as you white knuckle the edge of your desk. “Was that appropriate enough? Or should I try again?”
“Pyrope. Is this true?”
You might be a murderer, and you might be a shit lawyer, but you’re not going to go down for treason… you guess. “No, your honour.”
“You have a personal affiliation with the defendant?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m sure you’d like the pressure of being her executioner after that kind of slander.”
Both you and Vriska stop, stunned into silence by the proposition.
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Well, Ms. Serket was essentially pre-sentenced to death. But after the revelations here today, I think the right to her death should be granted to you, since it seems most of the wronging has come back to your plate.”
“I…”
“Unless you are too attached to the defendant? Do you side with criminals, Ms. Pyrope?”
“No, never.”
“Then you will kill her, one way or another. You understand?”
You can’t bring yourself to look at her. “Yes, your honour.”
When you look up after, you see that she doesn’t want to look at you now either. You can’t tell if she’s betrayed or penitent.
“Ms. Serket, please make yourself available on the courtroom floor.”
Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, but Vriska seems to understand something that you don’t, pushing up onto her feet and solemnly walking herself down to the front of the stand. She doesn’t look up at the faces around her as she does so. You didn’t expect that she would want to be so private in her final moments. You imagined that she would’ve wanted to kick up the biggest performance of an execution she could have managed. But she doesn’t resist, she doesn’t protest, she just walks herself down in front of a thousand prying eyes and pretends they aren’t there.
Once she’s made her way out into the open, she finally looks up at you; bares her throat, but in a way that reminds you that she holds control over this moment. If she does, if you kill her, it will be because she allowed it to happen. That’s fine with you. You’ve never liked to make decisions anyways.
“Ms. Pyrope, the means of execution are your choice.”
Your hand goes to hover over your cane, but you think twice of it. The thought of blue blood painting the stand and dripping down your face is too unbearable for you.
Vriska looks at you expectantly, waiting for your call, but you look at her equally expectant, waiting for some guidance. She shrugs, and mouths something to you; “your call”.
Fuck.
At least the options are limited; you rule out anything involving your sword, so that just leaves a blunt force hands on beat down, or a strangulation. You don’t trust that you could end Vriska just by beating the shit out of her, and you also don’t want to see her face become unrecognizable, so then there’s just strangulation left.
It certainly isn’t desirable, even if it’s the only option. Your only peace of mind is that you didn’t make this decision yourself.
“Can you lie down?”
Vriska raises an eyebrow.
“What?”
“Lie down. On the floor.”
“Um, okay…”
She lowers herself to the floor, all the while keeping eye contact. It doesn’t seem like she knows what you’re doing yet, and that makes it feel all the worse when she lies herself down on her back, rolling her head over to your side.
You approach on your own time, trying to shake the feeling of everybody watching, anticipating, predicting, judging you. Making their own assessments of your guilt and your innocence. You hope that they will learn to see you as innocent, but it would be some kind of lie. It can’t quite be reiterated enough just how guilty you are, although right now you’re struggling to figure out what exactly it is you carry so much remorse for. For all the wrong you’ve done, you think it might just be the simple act of abandoning a friend.
Your friend is back now, and you are standing over her while your hands tremble on your legs. You watch something register in her mind, and she realizes. But most importantly, she sees the turmoil inside of you, and recedes into the way she used to soothe you, back when you woke up in cold sweats and told stories of ghost kids coming to get you.
Her hand comes up over yours once you’ve seated yourself over her, and her thumb circles around your knuckles in figure eights, the rhythm inducing enough of a trance for you to easily dissociate out of this room, into a void that is just you and her.
You’ve been in this void before, but it has always been darker than you could handle. Right now though, light emanates from where she touches you, and you see that right here, just for this moment, your void is safe.
“You good, Tez?”
You nod, out of instinct. You are not good though. Vriska nods at your legs straddling her.
“At least buy me dinner first.”
You laugh; if you weren’t here with her, you wouldn’t laugh, because you would be too worried about what a jury might think about a lawyer who can laugh while executing her ex-best friend, now-defendant. But you are with her, so you laugh, and it feels really good to have that moment.
Knowing it is going to be one of the last makes it distinctly less good.
“I think part of you really wants to kill me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh, it definitely is. You’re batshit, Terezi, you know that?” She smiles at you, and her eyes beg for you to smile back at her.
You do, you crack a little grin that only she can see. “I’ve missed you.”
“I missed you too, crazy lady.” Her hand squeezes yours. “But hey, we’re back together now, aren’t we? Isn’t that nice? Scourge Sisters reunited at last.”
“It’s been a really long time.”
“I hope you didn’t forget me.”
“I could never forget you.”
“Good.”
Her other hand reaches up for your face, brushing the hair out of your eyes. “Take off those glasses, Terezi. Let me see you.”
You don’t stop her when she slides the shades off of your face, cool air hitting your eyes as she lays them next to her. You don’t know what she sees in your eyes that makes her stare into them like she’s searching, especially since you’ve never really been able to hide anything from her. What answer does she want right now? More importantly, what question is she asking?
You can’t get a read on her. She doesn’t seem scared, or even upset anymore. The only thing you can tell is that she’s trying to comfort you. You don’t know whether that’s a roundabout way of comforting herself or not.
“Are you ready to do it?”
You shake your head. You are not ready, and you refuse to ever be ready.
“Well, there’s a lotta people waiting on you right now. I think it might be a good idea to just get it done.”
“But… I’ll miss you.”
“Yeah, you’ve missed me for a long time, you can do it for a bit more.”
“No, I can’t.”
“You have to.”
You don’t respond, you just hang your head.
“There isn’t a last minute way to get out of this one. All of these people are watching for your next move. There’s only one right answer.”
“I know.”
She takes your hands in hers, and pulls them up to her mouth, giving a little kiss into the palm of your hands. Then, she closes your hands into fists with her own, and pats them. “You keep those safe for me, okay? Put 'em somewhere that nobody will get them.”
Your lip trembles, but you refuse to cry in your courtroom.
“I hate it when you get all stoic.” Still, you pocket the kisses into the satin of your blazer.
She opens her hands again. “Give me your hands, Terezi.”
You do it without any hesitation, craving the feeling of her calloused skin on yours, and she smiles at the sign of trust. After everything, you do still trust her somehow. Maybe there isn’t another option.
But she takes your hands, and she puts them on her own throat, giving you permission. Her voice is below a whisper, keeping her final words a secret between you two.
“Do it.”
You lean forward slowly, watching the way her chin tucks in under the pressure that’s being steadily applied to her neck. She keeps smiling at you, keeps her hands on yours, and you’re so grateful that she’s decided to be strong through this, because you know you can’t. Her thumb continues to stroke your hands as your fingers curl around the side of her neck.
You used to watch her as she hauled bodies over into her mother’s gaping maw and wonder how she did it. As she looks into you, the certainty in her eyes beginning to waver a bit, you realize that she never knew what she was doing. She was just doing it. You guess that’s a skill you have to develop in the face of necessity, or at least in the absence of morality, and you know that there’s no room for morals in law.
So this is just a thing you have to do.
Just as Vriska seems to change her mind, you push all your weight into your hands, and they stop shaking now that they have something solid to clutch onto. The hand that’s soothing you falters, now trying gently to push you off of her. But now this is just a thing you have to do, until the faceless watchers are all satiated with your work.
She opens her mouth to say something, but opening her airway just pushes out the last little bit of breath she had left inside of her with an ugly croaking noise, and you feel her airways starting to cave in under your weight. The constriction would make anybody panic, so you don’t blame Vriska when she grabs your wrists harder, tugging them away from her to try and catch a breath. She’s still trying to say something to you, but she can’t close her mouth now. It flaps open and close, leaving her like a fish out of water.
Or maybe a spider out of her web.
She starts slapping at your hands, as if she can tap out, but you’ve set yourself in the killing position, and now all you have to do is stay still. That’s barely a decision. You are not deciding to kill her, you are just letting things stay the way that they are. You’re not really deciding anything.
You see her mouthing your name weakly, face starting to turn dark blue as the air in the room eludes her. She doesn’t cry, she doesn’t speak, but she still finds a way to plead with you. Maybe it’s in the way she looks at you, maybe it’s in the way her legs uselessly kick at you. Honestly, you don’t know how she’s doing it. But you know that she can no longer help you, and that you are truly on your own.
She reaches up to your face, trying to push you away from her, trying to dig her fingernails into your eyes or your nose or your mouth. But it doesn’t work. You keep your stance as the courtroom statue, crushing the life out of your best friend.
Her claws sink into your cheek, and she tries fruitlessly to let out a scream, but the noise is mangled and inhuman. The noise reverberates against your hand, and you can feel the life draining out of her, watch the way the colour in her face starts to turn grey, not in the way it should be though. Pale, unsaturated, void of anything.
You’ve never seen her panic before, and it makes it easier to kill her. It makes it easier to convince yourself that this is not your Vriska. It makes it easier to convince yourself that this is a Vriska that deserves to die like this.
Her desperate grappling begins to lose its power, and you wish you could weep for her. You wish you could feel the peace of death on her behalf, knowing that her passing will only be imbued with fear. It’s unbefitting for Vriska, quite likely the bravest girl on Alternia, to die so lonely and afraid. But it’s out of your control. You are the courtroom statue, just a decoration, and it is not your place to move when the jury demands a death.
She stops fighting you, finally, but her eyes still plead with you. She begs you for just a single 8reath, she just needs to catch her 8reath and then you can keep going. But it is also not your place to spare a single breath, so you keep your position.
Her whole body goes slack underneath you, and her eyes no longer fight you. They don’t even see you; she looks right through you, straight into heaven, and hopes in her last moments that this will earn her some kind of divine forgiveness.
You wonder if that means her holy grievance will be transferred onto you.
You wonder what that means for your own forgiveness.
Finally, her eyes shut, the venom neutralized, and her head lolls to the side. Well, as much as it can while it is still pinned forward by your hands gripping her.
Even in death, Vriska looks mean, and it hides the emotion that overcame her as she died. You’re glad it does, because you know she would’ve hated to be buried as a coward. You don’t think being afraid makes her a coward. You think it makes you evil, actually.
Finally, the courtroom statue, the courtroom gargoyle, stands herself up, fighting the urge to take her friend by the hand and pull her up onto her feet. You know she’s dead now, and you won’t waste your time on pointless theatrics, which is to say you will not waste your time on grieving.
You don’t hope that she will get up, or twitch, or open her eyes, because you are grateful that this is over.
The silence of the crowd sounds like applause, but you don’t know if you’ve won.