Because of course I did.
Rochen’s skates tracked a rainbow across the floor. Deep, mahogany of a troll who couldn’t stop arguing with the Referreaper, and dark rusty red of a dead girl. There was a touch of purple, an unfortunate teammate, a thick streak of jade as proof of her own struggles, and the sweet azure of the troll she hated more than any other. The blood was stark against the white rock of her foyer, still trickling down from her soaked hair and clothing and skin. She smelled of blood, cloying and heavy and so perfumed with the water inside that Rochen almost wanted to leave it.
She couldn’t, of course, as her lusus’ disapproving glare reminded her. Rochen sighed and paused at the edge of her oasis to dip her wheels in the waters. The blood would drip down after a while, painting her skates again, but this would handle it until she could reach her ablution trap to clean up. It was almost sad, watching the colors dilute. There went her pride. An hour of striving, of sweaty effort and struggling and tears, and it all washed away so fast!
It had been a good match, as these things went. 17-11, which would be shameful under most circumstances, but they’d lost a Pivoterrorist in the last match, and the new one was still rather inexperienced. Nevertheless, she’d managed to survive the course and the opposing team, which was as good a first game as one could hope for. She was hooked, now. There was no going back.
Rochen let her clothing fall wherever it liked… her lusus would pick it up later, and as long as her skates stayed in place by the edge of her ablution trap, it didn’t really matter. She stood in place a moment, watching the colors drip down her calves.
She’d killed a troll that day.
It was part of the game. You avoided it, when you could… there weren’t so many players that it was easy to replace a slain skater, but… she’d been small but crackling with psionic energy. Rust red, vicious, fast. Every time she got close to passing her, she could feel a psychic force wrapping around her neck, trying to force her into one of the obstacles in the rink. When she’d dropped her guard, Rochen had to take the opportunity. She darted forward, her head down. There was a crack, and then hot blood splattering her, soaking into her hair and staining her red.
It’d been a good kill. Her teammates had cheered. The way her kismesis had looked at her after it made her feel black as pitch. The hot water from her ablution trap was rusty as it cascaded over her head.
Fresh wounds stung, but she ignored them, watching the colors swirl about the drain.
Rochen’s eyes trailed up her body. Her hips were bigger once again. The shorts that had been baggy a few months ago were tight now. Her shirt was oversized still, but she didn’t know how much time those extra inches in hem and sleeve would buy her. Rochen was 7, but she couldn’t think of herself as a child anymore.
Not for the first time, she turned her thoughts to her blood.
Jade.
Of every color in the spectrum, she’d been born with that so-rare hue. Just a shade bluer, just a tiny tic more yellow, and she would be fine. She could throw herself into Troller Derby with all her heart, focus on skating and fighting and killing. But Rochen was Jade.
In a few sweeps, she would be contacted by an adolescent Jadeblood for schoolfeeding. She’d have to say goodbye to her friends, to her lovers. She would meet a Mother Grub for the first time. It would be the end of any illusion of freedom in her life. Others could talk about what they wanted to be, could dream of positions in the army, or glamorous entertainment jobs, or even boring bureaucratic roles. They had the option. They could be good at something and pursue it.
Rochen could tend to a mother grub.
The colored water blurred before her eyes, and Rochen realized she was tearing up.
It made her shudder, bury her face in her hands and take heaving breathes until her bloodpusher slowed to it’s normal pace. It took a few minutes for her to stop shaking enough to focus on soaping up.
Rochen was growing too fast, and there was nothing she could do.