Chapter Text
===> Eridan: Be surprised.
Whatever instinct you have is enough to propel you to return to the bowels of your ship nearly everyday. It doesn’t matter that you know the eggs you hid there won’t hatch, just like last time and the time before that. You have to check on them anyway. There’s a cruel, vain hope in the back of your pan that tells you maybe this time it will different, maybe they’ll live and- god you want to crush it under something heavy and final, but you can’t resist what it seduces you with. So you venture down at the start of each night and gently nudge them, turning each to incubate evenly despite how heavy it makes you feel.
Nothing will come of it. Whatever fluke of biology made you capable of conceiving your own offspring without the use of drones, or buckets, or mothergrubs had the foresight to make sure none of the little blighters got to see the light of day. It’s an inconvenience at best. At worst it’s... this. A slow, agonizing descent into misery because your body and brain are hard wired to care for the stupid, useless things. You endure it, and wonder when you’ll eventually go mad.
That’s why it comes as such a shock weeks later. You go down one evening to find a sight that almost kills you. One of the eggs has a tear right down the middle, opening outward like something was trying to get free. That fucking useless hope bursts and blooms in your chest, choking off your air supply. As you stare in disbelief, there’s movement, a subtle little wiggle and muffled chirp from within it. It’s alive- your grub is alive, and trying to hatch, and-
Another plaintive chirp spurs you into action, and you dash across the sand to drop to your knees and gather the egg into your arms.
“Shoosh, shhh shhh baby, I’ve got you,” you soothe gently, settling your little ball of wonder into your lap. It gives a mighty little heave at the sound of your voice, opening the crack just hair wider. Still not enough to free itself. It makes an awful, desperate noise and you find yourself cooing in answer, something much deeper. You realize the grub needs your help, but you don’t want to open the egg before it’s ready. The struggle for freedom will strengthen it, and it needs to be strong. It needs to live this time, you can’t bear-
With bloodpusher pounding in your throat, you gently work a claw under one edge and tug at the corner of the crack. It gives easily to you, widening the opening a good inch. That’s enough to let the two halves move more easily, but the grub will still have to do most of the work to wiggle free. You settle in to watch and wait, giving it encouragement in both thoughts and words.
Even with helping things along, it makes agonizingly slow progress. You keep having to remind yourself that you can’t rush it, the grub will do things on it’s own time when it’s ready. Between bouts of pushing and wiggling for freedom, it goes still to rest, and the cycle does things to your blood pressure that leave you breathless and dizzy. It makes all sort of little chirps and cries though, as if to reassure you that yes, it’s still here, still alive, and very much intending to stay that way. You answer every time: yes, I know, I’m waiting. I’m here too.
Finally, after what feels like hours, it forces the crack wide enough for you to peek in and see it. All at once your heart drops out of your chest and shatters. It's strong, and healthy, and alive, and also colored so brightly red it might as well be a signal flare for culling drones. You take a long, shuddering breath, trying not to cry, and feel the tears start tracing down your cheek anyway. The first grub you’ve had survive and it’s an off-spectrum mutant, just like its sire. The other two eggs have done nothing while you’ve camped in this spot waiting for this grub to be born. That damnable little voice in the back of your head whispers, tells you they may yet have a chance. If this one lived, then maybe...
You know better, of course. You know exactly what you’ll find if you open those eggs, the same thing as all the other ones before; half-formed and lifeless little bodies that simply stopped at some point in development. Your living grub squeaks, pushes it’s head against the crack then withdraws blinking, unused to the light and air outside of its cozy home. You still purr encouragement, urge it to make the last efforts for the world beyond its shell.
“Come on, little one, come out an’ see me. I’m right here.” It seems to listen, though probably just responding to your tone, not the words. It tries again, pushing with all its might until the shell around it fractures and tears.
You start to carefully pluck pieces away from its face and hair as it kicks and writhes free from the other half of shell. It’s sticky and sodden, tiny enough to cradle in your hands, and extremely vocal. It won’t stop chattering and squeaking, either announcing it’s triumph or complaining about its new environment, you can’t tell. Certainly another thing it has in common with it’s sire. Your windchute constricts. Now you really can’t stop the tears, so you just snuffle, and cough, and coo at the little creature while you clean it.
Like an idiot, you never fetched a towel or anything for it, so instead you take off your cape and start wiping your protesting grub down with that. Egg-goo matted hair fluffs up once it’s more dry and the image is complete save for the horns. Those the lucky little bastard managed to grow out a bit more. Kar’s gonna be jealous.
You haven’t even told him. Everything has been so awkward between you since that night. You used to chat nearly every day, but now you’ve hardly spoken more than a few sentences between you both for more than a perigee. You never bothered telling him about the eggs because you didn’t think they would hatch. None of the ones before did, so why would they now? Except apparently he’s got whatever key you’re missing, and with it you created an actual life. Part of you wonders if you should break that silence now. Maybe it would be easier on everyone if you culled the grub yourself now, quick and painless so it wouldn’t have to feel the pain or fear of being an outcast, and Karkat would never have to know.
Your head and your heart both hurt too much to think about this right now. Your grub has started restlessly chewing at your fingers and the cloth of your cape in what you assume are hunger signals, so you gather it to your chest and start to make the slow ascent to the main part of your hive. Whatever decision you need to make can wait. For now you just want to wallow in your bittersweet success.