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interrogatormentors · 1 month

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INTERLUDE 2: a king, a lord (an emperor, a god)

Sometimes, Eridan would lay in his cupe and he'd stare at the ceiling. He'd think about the things he'd been pushing away for so long.

He'd think about late morning chats with Karkat. He'd think about orphaner duties with Feferi. He'd think about his occasional lamentations with Kanaya (and the fact that he kept losing her name in the haze was both terrifying and comforting).

He'd think about his archives back on Alternia. He'd think about his hive, his lusus.

He wondered if the old skyhorse had moved on, already. If the ruins of his hive were repurposed. If the books had been pilfered. He wondered if the new inheritor cared as much as he once had about the knowledge he'd so carefully cultivated.

He wished, in a small way, that he was back there. Back then. When times were simpler, when his mind actually worked, when things made sense. He kept losing time. He kept losing himself.

But really, who was he anymore? Was he really anything before Her? His beloved Mistress. His reason to keep going. She was everything.

Thinking about this was always the worst. He shuffled out of his cupe, sighing as he went to shower instead. Once appropriately and impeccably groomed to the nines as was expected of him he made his way out of his blocks, taking his time to walk through the halls.

The lights, the sights, the stars, they never ceased to dazzle, nowadays.

Eridan felt like he was the center of the universe, for all intents and purposes. It made him feel warm and fuzzy in ways that he couldn't begin to describe, the things he had deserved all his life finally being given to him as he justly deserved.

He was a fucking marvel, a gift to the Empire.

(She laughed more genuinely, She smiled more pleasantly when he wasn't sober, so he'd do whatever it took to keep Her happy. That was all he was worth, after all.)

He fished out his flask again. He took a long swig from it and then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, letting the sting of the alcohol on the back of his tongue ground him. A notification pinged on his palmhusk and he pulled that out from his pocket, brows rising as he saw the notification. His presence was required on the HBC Condescension, with the DC Reichenbach having already been given instructions to land in the docking bay.

He approached the massive pressurized doors in the loading bay, tapping his feet impatiently.

"Dock," he snapped out, eye twitching with the pang in his temple. God damn it. Not now.

"Dooooock? What's the magic word, Amps?"

"Shakes, none'a this runt grub nonsense outta you. I got summons. Dock." At least this request wasn't horribly fraught with time sensitivity. He hammered at the button nonetheless, annoyed.

"Ughhhhhhh you're no fun anymore. Fine. I'm docking, dude, just chill." The snotty fucking helmsman devolved into grumbling that Eridan couldn't possibly retain care less about retaining. There was more important information he needed to keep track of.

"I don't need to be fun, I need to be good at my job, maybe you should try it one night," Eridan snapped back. He ignored the mock offended gasp from Shakes as he stepped out of the ship, staring up at the docking bay of the HBC Condescension . It was a familiar sight at this point, almost comforting even if it felt too big to fit sometimes.

He slowed as he saw another figure coming straight towards him. He recognized the outfit, decorated with Head Admin certification badges as well as medals and pins that spoke of countless experience and demanded respect. The figure was a seadweller, significantly older than him with age-darkened skin, grey hair and a sharp-cut beard, so he reflexively saluted. It was still strange to receive the respectful gesture in return, but it was slowly becoming less jarring and more expected of his station.

"Head Admin Ashvar Zysgin," Eridan greeted coolly.

"Head Admin Eridan Ampora," Ashvar replied in an equal formal tone, looking down his nose at the smaller seadweller. "The Empress filed for your temporary transfer to assist in Head Admin duties for the next two perigees."

"My what?"

Eridan stared blankly at Ashvar, as if expecting to be hearing things. He was clearly not, though, as the silence stretched on before Ashvar clucked his tongue in annoyance.

"You were supposed to be sent notice." The tone of voice was distasteful, and it made Eridan's blood boil. True to his conditioning education under the Empress, Eridan didn't respond aside from straightening his back, annoyance clear on his face. No stress. No panic. He had to be better. Do not let emotions rule your head. Turn it off.

"I was only sent notice of summons," Eridan said slowly. "It seems a miscommunication occurred."

Ashvar's lip curled. "Clearly." He turned his nose up, clearly annoyed. "Can't trust shitbloods to do anything these nights."

"Clearly," Eridan agreed simply, keeping it short and concise. This one seemed to be far more old fashioned.

"In any case, there is no sense in dallying. I was informed that my duties for the night were to get you caught up. The crew of the Reichenbach will supplement the crew of the Condescension for the next incursion; it's a colony expansion. Captain Nekara will manage orders ship-side, to ensure our magnificent Empress can focus on her glorious conquest as necessary. Consider it an honor, Consort, that she is putting her trust in your capabilities."

He was quite proud of himself for maintaining the calm, casual air that he was meant to carry, even as he preened at the attention and the reverential title of Consort. "Understood, sir. Ever may She reign."

Some of the tension eased as Ashvar clearly approved of the appropriate deference. Good. One step done correctly.

—

Managing a ship as massive as the Condescension was one that took several admins, Ashvar explained as they walked. Eridan kept his eyes focused out as he listened to the senior Admin, taking stock of the surroundings. The interior arrangement of the ship always made it felt more like a mobile city than a ship, in his opinion, but it was fascinating to see. The changes made throughout trollkind history were obvious. Despite having been in the ship multiple times, it never ceased to enthrall him.

Now a bit of that wonder was occupied fiercely by the route memorization he was fiercely committed to as it was explained to him. The maintenance sector was manned by Sector Admin Talawa —and wow, Sector Admin! A whole subset of admins for each corner of the gargantuan ship! It wasn't something taught in schoolfeeding, that's for sure— while the sector by that was engine technology, under Sector Admin Elagya. The culinary sector, responsible for maintaining the meal hall and providing for the fleet, was overseen by Sector Admin Uareon, and the armory was manned by Sector Admin Julien. The mediculling unit was managed by Sector Admin Isopre, and Sector Admin Daunus was in charge of personnel.

He was glad he was recording all the discussions dutifully. He'd upload them to his pandrive later.

"I've called for all the sector admins to meet," Ashvar droned on, gesturing grandiosely, "so they can meet with you and understand that you'll be filling in with... who was the junior admin on your ship again?"

"Ysseol Holkaf," replied Eridan. Ashvar seemed to take Eridan's presence in stride, and there was actual hope that maybe Eridan would find himself fitting in here, better than the rapidly alienating presence he held on the Reichenbach.

Meeting the sector admins unfortunately coincided perfectly with running into someone else. Someone rather unexpected that would blow all those hopes out of the water.

The admins that had gathered were all stiff at attention, and even Ashvar was taken aback at the towering presence of the Empress where She sat, waiting for them all in the meeting block. Her massive mane of hair easily took up a huge portion of the block, let alone Her horns. She smiled coolly, eyes narrowing in amusement.

Eridan stepped forward immediately as She stood.

"Mistress," he breathed out, taking a knee and bowing deeply, hand over his pusher and other tucked behind his back. Perfectly executed, as She'd taught him. He opened his eyes after waiting the requisite three seconds to see that She had closed the gap, holding Her hand out with Her wrist facing him.

Oh, truly, what an honor. He leaned in and pressed his lips reverently to Her pulse, and he relaxed as he felt Her claws curl around his jaw.

"Stand, guppy," She said coolly, and he did so at Her command, hands now tucked behind his back. "Good buoy. You're in charge."

Eridan froze. Ashvar followed suit. "...My Empress?" Ashvar asked, dimly confused. The other admins, loathing the risk of being singled out, all stayed eerily quiet in the block as it seemed to instantly grow more suffocating.

"Did I stutter, Head Admin?" She asked, coldly. "He's shrimpressed me. You whale do as he says. He has no otter will than mine . For this incursion, I trust no otter."

Eridan bowed his head numbly, eyes shut in reverence to Her judgment. He felt fit to explode.

"And, Eridan," he stopped breathing as he heard his name on Her lips, looking up in wonder at his dear, beloved Empress, "you'll come to my personal blocks after shift's end. Understood?"

"Yes, Mistress," he murmured, awestruck. "Glory be. May your reign be eternal."

There was a playful spark to Her eyes that hid vicious satisfaction, cruel amusement that he wanted to see more of. So caught up was he, that he missed the reviled rage thinly hidden behind Ashvar's eyes.

As She took Her leave, he watched Her go, taken by Her presence as he always was. He was rudely shocked back to himself with a firm, sharp clearing of the throat. Turning on his heel, he saw Ashvar, looking less calm and collected than he had been prior.

"I will not fail," Eridan said firmly, straightening his back. "Introductions, then. If we're goin' to be workin' together for the next incursion, we ought to know each other. Head Admin of the DC Reichenbach, Imperial Consort to the Empress, Eridan Ampora."

He learned more than a few names in the brief meeting that followed. The spindly, long-haired cerulean that looked down his glasses at Eridan with derision was Quetus Isopre, and the stocky, burly purple that stood by his side was Baldur Daunus, his brow set in a wrinkled scowl. Fidice Julien was a buff butch blueblood with a sharp military haircut, a gnarly scar over the right side of her face that took her eye with it, a broad chest and a mean grin that didn't reach her eyes. Vigare Uareon was another seadweller, not as old as Ashvar but not the youngest of the group, hair tied back in a clean ponytail. Asavra Elagya was a tealblood, the lowest blood of the admins and the shortest with a bush of hair and large, thick rimmed glasses, while Toptan Talawa was another purple with subjugglator-style face paint, and seemed the youngest of them all. He'd have to pull their files to know for certain.

Another thing that Eridan learned, with a sinking feeling he carefully hid, was that none of them were particularly excited at the sudden shift in power.

—

When Eridan reported to the Condesce's private blocks as instructed, he expected everything to go as it always did when She summoned him to Her chambers. Casual chatting about the state of the Empire, some quips thrown in by Psii, Her best alcohol with that horrible powder served in his glass, and everything to go hazy and foggy as She did whatever She so pleased took care of him in a way he'd likely never truly earn the right to claim. He certainly wasn't about to question anything She did to him so graciously gave him in the way of attention.

And that it was. He would never deny how much he adored these quiet moments that only he was so blessed to be privy to. Even if remembering everything that happened wasn't exactly an option...

As usual, Eridan came back to himself tucked away in the Empress's embrace, feeling sore all over and finding it hard to breathe, everything between his knees and stomach feeling raw. He blinked slowly, tucking himself up against Her as She played with his hair, claws curling around his horns. They ached as She did this, but he couldn't react, he'd learned. He needed Her touch more than he needed air.

"One night, if you keep up your current performance," She murmured into the skin of his neck like a kiss, cool, plump lips skimming over tattered gills, "this will be yours. Zysgin's on in his sweeps. I won't have need of him soon enough. A lame troll is of no use to me."

He swallowed. "Such faith in my ability, I could never ask for more, Mistress," he replied hoarsely. His throat ached. He wondered if She'd had him screaming. He didn't really need to know.

"I know you'll be a wonderful extension of my will, guppy," She crooned.

He let out a happy little hum, curling further against Her, simply basking in the attention and the affection, listening to Her breathe. He didn't say a word as Her hand began to wander over his skin again. It didn't matter what he wanted, after all.

He just did as She wanted.

—

The next evening began bright and early. He woke up alone in Her chambers, unsurprising but still disappointing. His pan pounded as usual, displeased with him for falling asleep without being in sopor. Unfortunately, he always fell asleep like this after late mornings spent in Her chambers, and so it was a reality he'd just have to deal with.

Arming himself with his flask, taking a quick shower before dressing himself up as normal, he took his leave from the blocks.

His first stop... personnel. That'd be the biggest doozie, considering how he was certain the sector admin had to speak to each of the division heads on board for morale, health and livelihood reports. It was guaranteed to be the biggest headache possible. Laughsassins, threshecutioners, cavalreapers, ruffiannihilators, interrogatormentors (he shuddered, bile in the back of his throat), subjugglators—well, they all had force deployments here on the HBC Condescension. This was the forward ship for all military campaigns, after all, the stuff of legends. He was excited to read into the stuff.

He was less than enthused when he arrived to see no sign of Baldur. He frowned. The purple should be here somewhere. Where the fuck was he? Something itched in his pan; he sought another swig from his flask.

Wasting too much time trying to find him, at least Eridan actually found him. He saw the jackass brawling with the head of the ruffianihilator squad, which most certainly wasn't part of his duties.

"Admin Daunus!" Eridan barked, bewildered and taken aback. "Where's your report?"

"Somewhere else, shortstack," Baldur snarled in reply, "don't fucking interrupt me."

"The— this is your fucking job!" he snapped, completely blindsided by the sheer disrespect. The other ruffiannihilators all laughed, and Eridan burned in a rage, lip curling as he sneered down the whole lot of them.

"Just like your ancestor, aren't you? Complete stick in the mud. That can get your pail kicked, chumbucket," a purple ruffiannihilator called out. Eridan's eyes narrowed, incensed by the sheer disrespect he was being afforded.

"Show some fuckin' respect, you're talkin' to the acting head admin of the HBC Condescension on Her Imperious Condescension's illustrious order, cannon fodder."

The expression on her face fell into severe unease at this revelation. A subtle glance she gave to Baldur was all Eridan needed to know; the other admin had rigged this interaction.

He turned his ire on the larger purple. "Report, sector admin. That's an order and I am done tolerating your disrespect."

The dry amusement drained off Baldur's face, leaving only annoyance behind as he flipped the ruffiannihilator he was sparring over. "Left it with the threshecutioners, Head Admin," he drawled, and the title felt like an insult.

He bared his teeth and turned off. The report he ultimately found was dismal; damaged and barebones, barely legible and an insult to administrative work as Eridan prided himself on conducting. God. Fucking. Damn it.

—

Next admin... okay. Surely, it couldn't go as bad as Baldur's sector. He hated the smell of antiseptic, of course, and he'd been in this area more times than he'd like (the sight of his horn being removed, the tendrils in his pan crawled and writhed and hurt and hurt and hurt and—) but reports were reports and things needed done. The rota needed to be established, and Eridan was hopeful that Quetus would keep notes as diligently as he appeared to from a glance.

Instead, Quetus was doing something completely unrelated. No reports were prepared for him. After stocking something that most certainly was not his job, he looked over slowly, taking his sweet time to acknowledge Eridan who had been standing there for the past ten minutes.

"Do you know about Orphaner Dualscar?"

Eridan blinked. He glanced over, confused at the line of questioning. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Quetus looked over to him, eyes crinkling in vicious amusement. "Did you know he died a disgrace? Pathetic and washed out, culled by the Grand Highblood?"

His mouth went dry. His eyes narrowed. "Hell are you implyin', Admin Isopre?"

"Watch your step, pupa," Quetus merely said, turning off. Eridan struggled to comprehend what the hell that was supposed to mean, insulted at the way his rank was so casually disregarded .

"Oi!" he called out, frustrated and annoyed. "Where the fuck's your report!?"

"The table," came the infuriatingly vague reply. The way the docterrors and assistants all looked at him, knowing full well who he was and what procedure had been done to him in this very hall incensed him more, and he frustratedly scoured the goddamn block until he found the stupid fucking manila folder. Much like Baldur's report, he realized in quiet dismay, it wasn't worth jack shit. But he was now running late and low on time. He couldn't afford to redo this shit. He needed to keep going.

—

Once was strange. Twice was a trend, and Eridan wished it wasn't so. Because the third time was simply enough to piss him off, which sustained as he merely continued floundering about, unable to get a purchase with any of the sector admins.

He couldn't get a single goddamn report delivered correctly. Each sector was either missing its admin, or experienced its admin doing things they had no business doing. Fidice was outright neglecting the job to drink and play poker with the guards! Come on! She didn't even need soporifics to keep functioning!

The packet that he ultimately ended up with was disgraceful, a great lump of barely legible shit that didn't get any of the required details a report should have.

He was losing his mind. And by the end of the night, he was summoned by his Mistress. He arrived at Her throne, lowering himself in a prostrate bow and horrified at the fact that he had nothing to show but substandard, cobbled together reports.

He was incensed to see Ashvar showing up with a much nicer looking report folder. He realized at that moment that he'd been duped . And as Ashvar handed off the report to his Mistress, Her expression held only disapproval that cut him far more to the core than anything else She could have possibly done in that moment.

"Oh, guppy," She said softly, disappointed, "I'm gonna have to prawnish you today."

Eridan's shoulders stiffened, panic flickering over his face. "Mistress, I, I swear I—"

"Shhhh. No excuses, buoy. You're bein' two shrimpulsive. What are you?"

Eridan felt humiliated, for Her to bring this up now while the saboteur responsible for this daymare was in the same fucking block? "P-please, Mistress—"

Her tone grew colder. "What are you?"

Eridan squeezed his eyes shut, shame rising up. Don't cry. She would hate that more than anything in the world, at this moment. "...a failure."

"Good buoy. To my private blocks."

The taste in the back of Eridan's mouth was sour as he looked down at his feet. "Yes, Mistress," he croaked quietly. He could feel smugness radiating off that grandiose piece of shit, but he couldn't afford to feel rage in that moment. He wouldn't give the fucker the satisfaction.

He had to accept his punishment.

—

His throat was sore the next evening. Everything hurt, bruises covering him under his uniform as a reminder of his incompetence. Moving was a misery in and of itself, but he knew he'd deserved it. It wasn't like he could say anything against Her, after all (the heretical audacity of the mere thought gave him anxiety), so he simply sucked it up, showered, and with a thundering pan, he went off to start his rota for the night.

"Hey, Amps!"

He snarled in annoyance, pinching his brow as he turned his attention to the usual troublemakers from his crew. "What?" he asked, sharply, "I'm busy."

Shakes squinted at him and let out a low whistle. "Jeez. What crawled up your nook and died?"

The acrid glare that Shakes got in return had him holding up his hands. "Okay, okay, bad line of convo. Something up, dude?"

"Head Admin Ampora, and no, I'm—I'm fine. Just. Just stop distractin' me, I have reports to get!"

He turned off, paying no further mind to his ship's helmsman. He didn't even pause to wonder why the guy was out and about, considering how outright hostile a lot of people on the HBC Condescension were to lowbloods and, in particular, mobile helmsmen. Traditionalist fucknuts, the whole lot of them.

It's not like it mattered to him, anyways. He had more pressing matters to attend to.

Any hopes he'd had of the first night being a fluke were firmly dashed. The second night went just as poorly, this time overrun by the fact that he tried to do all their reports for them. This took too much time for one troll to do, for the ship was simply so massive that it was impossible to get the work done in a single night. He showed up that night with half the packet clearly done by him alone, and the other half still the same, low tier work. Ashvar, again, showed up with a comprehensive report.

Eridan was once again ordered for punishment.

The punishment that morning was immediately soured by Ashvar intercepting him after they were both dismissed, as Eridan was making his way to Her chambers. The other seadweller had simply smiled, a hand placing on his shoulder, claws threateningly tight against his uniform;

"You know, it's not as if this is unexpected," Ashvar said. "Your ancestor was a disgrace to the empire as well. Vying for something he had no business vying for. You could simply admit to the Empress that you're not cut out for this work, pupa, surely she would allow you to take second position."

Eridan yanked his arm away from Ashvar, not deigning to give him a response. "I have my orders," he simply said, making his way to her blocks again.

How the fuck did this spawn of a bitch know anything about Dualscar?

—

Night three didn't go any better. Supplementing the holes in their shit reports rather than rewriting the shit from scratch didn't work when Elagya simply lied on her report, coming up with bullshit that didn't match the report she'd given to Ashvar. Collapsing on the job didn't help matters, either.

This time he remembered screaming until his throat gave out. Forget it forget it cast it aside. Don't think about it. Just shut down. Keep going. You have to keep going.

God, he was so tired. And, of course, because he was actively being punished, his pathetic plea to see Psii for a moment of relief was immediately and firmly denied.

"You need to do betta for that, guppy," She'd told him.

God, he wanted to cry.

Turn off. Turn it all off. Focus on the work.

—

Alright. No more relying on their reports. He just had to get up earlier. He just had to work harder. He just...

...who was he kidding? Another night, another sinking feeling that he wasn't going to survive to the end of the week. Three nights of failure leading into three days of consecutive punishment and sopor denial was starting to wreak havoc on him. He couldn't afford the time needed to cover up the deep, heavy bags under his eyes, punched in with restless, worthless sleep. He should honestly have just worked through the day, once She was done with him.

Even still, he got up early. He showed up to personnel before Baldur was even conscious, ignoring the annoyance at the troop heads at being bothered before the shift alarm had even gone off, and got the data he needed. He had mediculling's reports written up as well and was walking and sorting through his list of what needed getting, pan going a mile a minute to meticulously micromanage his timing when something changed in his fortunes.

Eridan groaned, scrubbing at his temples, but took pause as he saw a figure approach. Teal on her uniform, expression carefully controlled, he recognized her, first by the shift in her gender-presenting pheromones.

"Admin Holkaf," he said slowly, tucking the still burning anger and betrayal (and hurt so much hurt what had he done to deserve her betrayal, he tried so hard to be an admin worth respecting on that thankless ship) deep in his pusher until he never had to think about it again. Ysseol saluted, and he noticed something in her hands.

"...reports I gathered, sir," she said quietly. "From the armory and culinary sectors."

His brows shot up, genuinely taken aback for a moment. He slowly took the folder and opened it.

He recognized this handwriting. This wasn't Ysseol's, but he wasn't about to bring it up. The second report, of course, had her neat handwriting in it, but the first one... well, that was Spoons.

What the fuck was a helming tech that had no reason to like him anymore doing, preparing a report? But as he read it over, it was a breath of fresh air that twinged his sore, aching lungs. This was comprehensive. This was excellent work. If her blood had been a couple shades higher, he'd always thought, she'd make an excellent admin. Now he was wondering if that long-standing rule should be twisted for her, but... well. By now, he knows her. She would hate the kind of work that came with administrative tiers. She liked working with her hands, staying busy—

— Why did any of this matter, guppy?

The thought, sounding eerily like Her voice, shook him out of his mystified reverie. He took a slow breath.

"Good work."

Ysseol tilted her head back subtly. He ignored the look on her face. "Of course, sir," she said quietly. "Do you still have additional sectors needing to be gathered?"

Eridan felt a sting in his thoracic cavity; doubt, anxiety. What if she was plotting against him too? The admin crew of the HBC Condescension saw no desire to step back and let him have an easier time of things by any means. She'd already betrayed him, once. Spoons had all the more reason to see him burn, after what he'd done to Bricks he didn't remember he didn't remember why didn't he remember? Wouldn't he have remembered? Wouldn't he—

He took in a slow breath. "No," he lied, and he turned away.

Despite the hustle and the tireless struggle, he ultimately managed to get the rest of the reports. He felt a mix of annoyance and gratefulness when he saw a familiar teal-written folder waiting for him at the entrance of the engine technology sector that he viciously smothered, knowing full-well that he needed a better poker-face. He took the report anyways. He'd arrange for Ysseol to have a night off when the DC Reichenbach was on its merry way, after this horrid shit-show was said and done.

Night four was the first night that ended in his position as acting Head Admin where he didn't get pushed by Her. Ashvar looked fit to spit nails. Eridan did not give him the satisfaction of a response as he was pulled into Her lap and postured like a lap-fitted woofbeast spoiled rotten as his station deserved.

He simply stared, blankly, turning his mind off and letting Her do as She pleased.

As he was made to do.

—

It came to a head when, by the end of the week, Eridan was run ragged and exhausted, beyond annoyed. Ysseol and Spoons continued to pitch in when they can (he ignored the report that looked like Bricks's handwriting, pushed that far back in his pan until he'd forgotten who that handwriting belonged to) and his workload became slightly easier. But it wasn't ever supposed to be like this.

He would never complain about his crew on the Reichenbach again, he swore, because if this was how his beloved Mistress's people ran her ship, he felt so, so sorry for Her. Never before had he understood Her troubles more than in this moment, with sheer incompetents sullying Her illustrious name with their panrotted drivel.

His mind made up, he called a meeting to discuss the problems he was seeing. He arrived at the room with the pathetic excuses of reports he'd had to hand the Empress sorted (because yes, he'd been told that he had to keep them, read them over, and solve the issue, of course he had).

He also came with a lighter.

So he waited, there, for the meeting to start. This would hopefully clear the air between them. Just a proper meeting, where he set the groundwork for how their relationship was going to be from here on out.

.....a meeting where no one fucking showed up.

Eridan took a deep breath. He let the breath out. Turn them off. Turn your emotions off. Do not let your emotions rule your head.

"...Psii," Eridan said, lowly, hands splayed across the table, the results of the disastrous week scattered across as much as they well deserved. "You're not too busy at the moment, are you? Could you do me a favour?"

"You know the answer to that question, but I can multitask for you. State your request."

Eridan closed his eyes, breathing again. Slow. Measured.

"The sector admins have elected to not show themselves at a meeting I specifically called. Nor has your head admin. Find them."

Not even a second passed before the Helmsman was rattling off locations. "Admin Daunus is napping. Admin Isopre has invented a maintenance request and is currently meandering through a supply closet. Said supply closet is on deck seven. Admin Fidice is carving the ice for her soporific. Admin Elagya is in a tepid excuse of a hot tub with Admin Talawa and Admin Uareon. Head Admin Zysgin is finalizing routes through the next system. All alerts for the meeting have been snoozed manually in their systems and thus I had no authority to reinstate them nor alert you."

Eridan closed his eyes. "In my position as acting Head Admin of the HBC Condescension, and as the Imperial Consort of the Empress, this is my order. Make them come."

"Would you prefer promptly, or humbled?" There was something like amusement on the edge of the Helmsman's voice, despite the deadpan death-rattle he always spoke with over intercoms.

Eridan smiled slowly, each tooth bared straight to the gum. "Humble them, my dearest diamond. Show them what happens when they disrespect the will of our Mistress."

"Understood. The query was a formality. Your poker face still needs work, Eridan. This request has been deleted from the Imperial Network and shall commence shortly."

Eridan let out a mirthless laugh. "Let me have my fun, snowflake. For now, I'll wait."

There was a scratchy exhale that had an echo of a laugh to it that trailed into a cough, and then the intercom went silent.

Eridan sat and waited, patiently. He flicked the lid of the lighter on and off, feet kicked up on the table. He would outlast them, after everything they'd put him through. It took half an hour before the scumfuckers finally showed up, all of them irritated and annoyed and clearly displeased at the methods visited upon them. He would have to ask Psii for recordings of the merriment later, if only to observe the best ways to get under these dipshits skins.

"How highly immature of you," Ashvar sniffed indignantly. "You would set the Helmsman, an important tool to the Empress, on us? And for what? Because you're unhappy?"

"Object lesson, Ashvar," Eridan said slowly, flicking the lighter on. He stood slowly, eyes flicking slowly, purposely down to the meeting table. "This is the work you all presented me in this past week."

He touched the lighter to the surface of the table. The table which had been cleanly drenched with ignition fluid, and thus lit up like a trash fire. Which, truly, it was.

"I am disgusted with your conduct," he said, calmly, in the midst of their shouts of alarm. "You hem and haw about immaturity, and yet in your illustrious tenure, you present me with trash. I would expect this out of wigglers. I would expect this out of unorganized rebel scum." His eyes glared into each of the admins eyes, all of them appalled at the way the table between them all burned. "Is this how you respect our wonderful, radiant Empress? Undermining the sanctity of Her well oiled machine, when we're gearin' up for a new colony?"

"You set a fucking meeting block on fire! Are you fucking insane?!" Vigare yelled, eyes wide. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Eridan placed his hand on the table. The flames licked around his fingers, around his rings, and they all stared, put into an immediate hush. "What's wrong with me? Me? My problem is that I'm surrounded by incompetent fools who have grown complacent and resistant to change. There's a new Head Admin in the picture at a critical juncture, one who holds the Empress's confidence more than any of you remora ever fuckin' have." He pulled his hand slowly back, wiggling his fingers. He could barely feel the angry blistering of his hand where the rings grew hot. He'd had worse.

"Do you think I'm some sort of yellow-bellied weaklin'? That I wouldn't catch on to your game? 'Cause I was on it from night one. Your Head Admin, I'm afraid, is not subtle in the slightest. So if you think I'm stupid, naive, well, you are sadly fuckin' mistaken."

He rounded the table and approached them, nose turned up in the air, eyes narrowed to slits. "You know, I know intimately well how to dismember corpses. I was an Orphaner in my youth, much like a certain undeservin' whisper of an alleged ancestor you shitpans keep tryin' to foist on my person. So it should come as no surprise to hear when I tell you that once you have a skeleton, yer wretched meatsack follows a pattern. Doesn' matter if you're a troll, or a lusus. You've got joints. Those can be broken, easy. Claws? Those can peel off much easier than you'd think. Muscle fibers need the right angle, but they'll tear, even with a blunt instrument. With the right technique, nothin' lasts."

There was a sharp sound, and Eridan reeled for a moment, blinking slowly as he felt dull pain spread through his face. He looked slowly to see Ashvar, violet in the face and enraged, his teeth pulled back in a snarl.

"How dare you," the other Head Admin snarled. "You miserable little brat. Barely out of your fresh molt, and an accident has convinced you you're worth something? When such a critically important assignment looms over us as a guillotine? You should have accepted your failure on that first night and conceded that you were ill-equipped to handle this task."

"You raised your hand to the Imperial Consort," Eridan commented, eyes dragging up to the intercoms. The casual threat only incensed the usually composed seadweller.

"You're nothing," Ashvar roared, grabbing Eridan by the lapels, the fuchsia of his consort cape bunched under his undeserving grubby claws. "Nothing but a little runt clawing at the worthless legacy of a disgraced Orphaner who died in pathetic misery! Even she thinks you're nothing, she tore your ear off, left you mutilated— marked you a wretched little slave! I owned dozens of you in the prime of the Empire, hundreds of sweeps before you were even spat out of the mother grub's brooding sphincter!"

Eridan snarled. He lashed out, but without claws to dig in, he could only grab Ashvar's throat and squeeze. The man threw him aside, laughing, and he slammed into the wall. He collected himself quickly, pushing himself up to his feet as he glared over furiously, eyes narrowed to slits. "You're a declawed, defanged little plaything pacified by a crippling dependence on soporifics that she's winding up to watch break! You–" Eridan was kicked in the side with a sharp bite of pain that he dared not voice, "–are–" another kick, another bloom of pain, more unvoiced rage, "–nothing!"

The admins laughed in amusement. The laughter circled in his aching, roaring pan, twisting the band of sanity tauter and tauter until it finally snapped in a moment of pain, humiliation, and cold, nauseating fury.

The red overcame him.

Last longer. Punch harder. Tear flesh and scales apart with your teeth. Be every bit the monster that people think you are. But do not let emotions rule your head.

Do not let emotions rule your head.

DO NOT LET EMOTIONS RULE Y

Eridan sucked in a slow breath as his vision cleared. He was sore. He was tired. He was panting for air, gills burning, teeth bared to the gums. The table was slammed into the wall, cracked clean in two, the charred remains of shit reports scattered uselessly and soaked in violet.

He could taste iron and flesh in his mouth, and he blinked slowly, staring blankly down at the fallen limb in front of him. He could see it was impaled in multiple parts, and he noted that tacky coldness was dripping slowly down his horns. Fingers were missing off the hand, and he saw shredded remains of them scattered around in a barbaric bloodbath.

Ashvar was down on the ground, dry-heaving from the pain. His only hand with what fingers remained clung at the jagged stump of his arm. Eridan moved forward, slowly, boots squishing on the tacky violet blood that stained the pristine floors of his Mistress's ship.

He placed his boot on the stump, and shoved the older seadweller down without remorse.

The resulting shriek made his fins ring, dimmer in the slave-cut fin. He ignored it. He only felt cold anger, slowly drenched in the arctic waters that filled his lungs.

"Crawl," Eridan said, frigid. "Crawl to the fuckin' medbay and pray to the good will of our Illustrious Empress that the Docterror on duty won't turn you away for bein' a dumb sack of shit waste of genetic material. And th' next time you think of somethin' smart, watch your tongue or I'll rip it out of your withered sack of meat, you panrotted hasbeen. I am the Imperial Consort of the Empress, executor of Her will, extension of Her radiant, everlasting splendour. I can and will always rank above you, and lip service will earn you a visit from the drones, if you're lucky enough to miss disciplinary action from the Imperial Network." His eyes rose slowly, needling each of the other admins purposefully.

No one was laughing at him anymore.

"Ashvar Zysgin is an example," he continued. The rage he felt was drained out of him entirely; only cold remained. "If any of you have any complaints, by all means, come forward. We'll settle this the old fashioned way. I don't need any'a you dead-weight swill to get this job done. I've already made that painfully clear."

None dared to move. He wondered, dimly, what he'd done to earn the looks on their faces. He decided that, having seen the aftermath, he didn't actually care.

"Good. So you understand," he said softly, "that if you ever, ever disrespect me or mention the Orphaner Dualscar to my face again, you will not survive your next breath."

Everything felt cold, so fucking cold. He didn't think he could feel cold like this. They kept shooting glances at each other, and he couldn't make out the details, the aura in his eyes unbearable. The silence burned colder in his throat.

"I expect an answer out of you, bottom-feeders. Are. We. Clear?"

Uareon stumbled forward, clearly ousted into the speaking role by her co-conspirators. She immediately shrank back, nauseated and pale as death as she looked down at the sobbing mess that was once a tenured Head Admin. "...crystal, Head Admin Ampora, sir. This will not happen again, sir. A thousand apologies for the disrespect, sir. Your will be done, sir."

He saluted automatically, demanding respect as they responded in kind with the additional deferential tilts of the head to expose their necks. He felt cold, cold, colder than ice as he turned on his heel. He saw Nekara at the door of the meeting block. He couldn't make out the expression she wore. The aura he saw was overwhelming. He needed relief a drink.

"Captain Fyrane," he said, coldly, the only acknowledgement he offered as he passed her out the door.

There was only one person he needed to respect anymore. Only one person he could trust. He'd tried, he'd tried so hard so fucking hard, but realized in futility that he would never belong anywhere. He only belonged in one place in the whole cruel, unfeeling world, and it was a place he'd never leave.

He understood now, understood why She ruled through fear, understood why none dared cross Her, and he felt pity for Her. To be so alone in the universe, with no one to understand Her... what a sad, lonely existence.

But he was there. And he would let Her do anything to him. Because he was so, so desperately flushed for Her.

And as he saw Her standing further behind the gruesome scene, simply watching, judging, and waiting, saw the vicious approval, the too wide smile, the amusement at Her toys playing approval and pity and affection on Her face, he stopped before Her.

He bowed, followed the cues he'd learned so well, and finally received the pleasure of kissing the palm of Her hand with all the tenderness he could possibly muster in the universe. Violet blood and bits of gore smeared in his wake. She smiled wider, deeply amused by his grand show.

He felt nothing at all.

(Somewhere else, choked out and unheard through a suffocating web of necrotic wire, someone sang a funeral dirge for the person he used to be.)

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