#latulore

[p4ulbl4rt-blog]

==> Latula: What got you here?

Beforus, an interesting, odd planet. 

You had to choose your job after your final molt. After the testing, you got placed into legislaceration, but on Beforus, the emphasis was more on the legis part. You were damn good at it though, winning cases left and right. Not that it mattered though, the usual sentence was fines or community service. Occasionally the punishment for someone losing a case was culling or military deployment, and that was for the really bad ones. That usually drummed up some excitement, media attention.

But it was boring, dull. You weren’t meant to work out of a briefcase. You’d much rather be doing something exciting, like skateboarding or playing videogames. The ennui is demoralizing, or is that your pre-existing depression?

You’ve been seeing a docterror for awhile, ever since your primary molt for the depression. Therapy, pills, the works. The fellow tealblood being a welcome face for your vulnerability. Little did you know, after your adult molt the pills were just sugar. 

You started losing cases. You were rigged to fail. Or maybe you did know this, but you know you can’t articulate it. You don’t enjoy life. You can’t even find the time to skate anymore because you’re bogged down with work, but you don’t have the energy to enjoy your free time.

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“Yourr Doctorr Couldn’t be in Today. You Will See Someone Else.” The receptionist doesn’t look up from her computer. 

The person in the exam room doesn’t look like a doctor. An indigo bloodded woman with a militant posture. You go through the normal smalltalk when she suddenly shifts the mood.

“Tula, sweeeetheart...Maybe you are not cut out for this. If you do not start getttting better...we may have to recommmmend you for culllling.”

Culling. Where they kill your lusus and put you with a highblood for constant monitoring. A house pet, practically, for the highblood to use to flaunt how generous and kind they are. A fate worse than death, in your opinion.

“You know, it sounds like you neeeed a change of pace. You have been talking about how you have littttle lust for life, yes? Have you considered military?”

Military. Often considered a punishment for those too dangerous to stay on the planet. It’s uncommon for a troll to enlist on their own. Your “Docterror” knows this. She knows you know this.

“Think on it a bit. I would hate to seeee your talents go to waste. A lot of trolllls find it very freeeeing. I have seeeen what you do outside of the offffice. You are so quick on your feeeet. Gooood coooordination.”

The woman writes your prescription and sends you on your way.

You know exactly what they’re trying to do. You’re trapped.

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Your losing streak wanes a bit. You’ve won a few cases again. But they get harder. You’re assigned the cases where trolls go violent and get sentenced to military service. They look relieved. Someone’s trying to make a point. You just grin and bear it. 

You’re kept up later into the morning hours as you try to get these cases worked on. When you go to the recuperacoon, you can’t sleep, even with fresh, warm slime.

You turn to the bottle, a glass of wine, two glasses of wine, continuing to add on. You wake up feeling worse and worse.

The little things start to annoy you more. BUOYs that might bump you, or interrupt you. They’re not familiar. You know they’re planted. They carry themselves differently. You cannot say anything, because they’ll call you crazy and cull you on the spot. Then the CIPs start to act more demanding towards you, they need those papers NOW, they need a drink, they treat you like an administrative assistant. 

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It happened during a court session. Your client was a stuck up seadweller who no matter what you said, he wouldn’t listen. He would say things you told him not to say, he would disregard every word that came out of your mouth. Then he interrupts the judge.

“Your honor, I ^would^ like to ^know^ ^why^ my legislacerator is so..incompetent. Surely my ^wealth^ ^would^ get me a better one?”

It’s all. So. Cliche. And yet, this is the one you fell for.

You slowly close your briefcase, the clicks echoing through the dead silent room. Then you swing. The court erupts in horrified gasps and screams as the briefcase connects with his skull, a sickening crack of a horn breaking off. The troll gets beaten mercilessly as you scream, until the front of your briefcase falls open, papers spilling onto the body and soaking in the blood. An ocher blooded guard charges at you, but a well placed letter opener in his throat stops him very quickly. After breaking another troll’s nose, you’re standing, eyes red and face bright teal, panting in the middle of the court room. It all happened so quickly. 

Your indigo “Docterror” quickly escorts you away to pack your things.

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