Chapter Text
She dumped you.
She threw you out like a three year old with a stuffed animal and an open car window. She tossed you aside like an early 2000's Razor scooter during spring cleaning. She left you in the cold like you were a piece of Fat Nasty Trash flapping your pathetic plastic bag arms under the bridge.
In short, you're upset, dangerously sad, and have been lying face down on your couch for so long you're fairly certain the waffle-iron pattern is now permanently emblazoned on your pudgy cheeks. Waffles, man. Jade LOVED waffles. You know what she doesn't love? You. It's you, buddy. You winner of hearts, you Casanova, you sun-glassed ass.
You feel like you've got mere pennies, no, like, anti-pennies to your name without her, and it's only been five hours. You look at the metaphorical road to breakup recovery ahead of you and that slope is a fucking mountain. You're going to be hiking up that cliff, vertically, for months. Years, even. You might as well wallow at the bottom for as long as you can.
You do, in fact, need a shit ton of rations to prepare you for the long road ahead. You think that maybe, maybe, Dave Strider can temporarily put on his big boy shades and go get some fucking breakup ice cream. The adult stuff. The kind that puts chest on your hair. You're talking Double Butter Triple Cream Brownie Fudge Batter Chunky Monkey with Chocolate Pieces. And maybe a nice chick flick to help you shovel that shit down your piehole. Yeah, like Garfield: A Tail of Two Kitties. That'll sure get the tears flowing so you don't have to spend them on Jade. Holy shit, tonight is going to be so awesome.
As long as you don't think about her.
You can't even start to get yourself motivated to get up, you need like, at least sixteen different iterations of Chicken Soup for the Soul to get you off this couch. Reading about five year olds with cancer will probably make you feel even worse about yourself, transforming your breakup depression into a viscous cycle, eating itself and turning you back into ol' reliable and ever-peppy DStrides. Ah, yes, you remember that one chapter about sixteen orphans dying of tooth cancer in Chicken Soup for the Sixth Grade Teachers, that really gets the blood pumping with recycled joy.
You visualize the route you're going to take to the bathroom, just to get your mind off of shitty books of short stories commonly found rotting in neglect at the Dentist's office. You're going to stand up from the couch, take a look around at the pathetic squalor Jade left you in (piles of laundry between the couch and the TV, replica katanas scattered everywhere, kitchen visibly dank through the window provided by the small buffet counter), and move through the carpeted hallway next to the kitchen. You're going to take the door on the left, and open it to the worst bathroom in existence, a bathroom whose only window opens on the concrete side of the next building three feet away from you. You're pretty sure that violates some city ordinance or another, but at least no one can watch you take a shit there.
Okay, when you start thinking about fucking poop, it's probably time to hoist yourself out of this damned sand pit.
You peel yourself off the couch, turn on the lights in your nasty apartment, check the time (almost midnight, wonder what she's-- nope, stop right there Dave Strider, no riding down that train of thought), and wander into the bathroom. You look in the mirror. You could probably play fucking checkers on your face, there's at least 64 squares just on your forehead. You run some water through your hair to try and prevent it from being plastered to your skull with the sweat of self-pity, but that shit just doesn't want to cooperate. You start to pap the waffle iron pattern off your face. You give up after a whole three seconds. You are fairly certain the shitty gas station you'll be purchasing high quality lactose from will not care how baby soft your cheeks are.
You shove your shitty, leathery wallet that looks like it was robbed from the grave of a noir cop into your pocket and stumble feet first out of your apartment. You make sure to lock the door behind you (she gave her key back to you, right? Don't want any exes sneaking in and wantonly stealing your shit, right? Don't want her to just, randomly show up in your apartment, right?).
You make your way through the dimly lit halls, walk down a flight of stairs so shitty that even the concrete is trying to run away from it, and exit the building. Your car, way in the back of the lot, blinks at you with its one working headlight when you click your keys. You named it Putt-Putt. Because it's purple, gigantic, and runs on Windows 95, despite being a car.
You should really get that headlight fixed at some point though, but it's more entertaining when drivers think it's a motorcycle approaching them when it's actually a fucking Lincoln Town Car (where did Jade take her motorcycle anyway? Did she start the drive back home?). It's like, surprise! You thought it would be cool but it's actually the shittiest car imaginable. That's Dave Strider's car, right there.
You stumble in to the roomiest front seat that has ever existed, turn the radio to the "mid-2000s rap" station, and vacantly drive to the gas station. You're glad there weren't any like, fucking cats in the road or some other ungainly animal because you probably would not be paying enough attention to give the thing a wide birth. Not like you could miss it anyway, even if you were trying. This car is like the "broad side of a barn" expression but in reverse.
You drive into the gas station lot, get out, pull enough mental capacity out of your ass to lock your car, and wander through the front door. You head straight for the frozen goods section, and scan the rows for the one true love of your life (Jade isn't in the ice cream area, she'd be waiting in the-- no, stop it Dave, turn that train around. You're acting like an inept blond woman in a romcom).
They're out of your flavor.
Dammit.
Cookie dough is good enough, although infinitely inferior to the glory that is the "8000 calories in one bite" ice cream you had selected for yourself, so you pluck the faux dough from the shelf and carry it to the cash register.
You walk through the aisles, put the carton on the checkout counter, and take out your money before you notice that the cashier is...
Completely unconscious.
"Holy shit, oh, shit, dude," you're panicking, stop panicking, keep it cool. You run air through your teeth and pretend you haven't spilled all your marbles, open your eyes, and actually take a concentrated look at the situation.
The cashier looks about your age, rather dark skin, a mess of black hair you could mop the floor with, and big gauges you could probably fit your dick through. He should probably wear a life jacket with that sweatshirt on his itty bitty body, because he looks like he's... drowning in it. You brofist yourself for that one liner, that was a fucking good one liner.
He's face down on the counter, sitting in a stool with his arms drooping down. He literally looks like he just fell over and stayed done with the world. You can sympathize. You reach out a hand and lightly shake his shoulder.
"Hey, dude, wake-y wake-y eggs and bake-y." He doesn't move. Oh, fuck, is he even breathing? You really don't want to lock lips and lovingly CPR this guy. You shake a little harder. "There's no time for a nap. A man's gotta get his ice cream."
His head lolls to the side and when you see what he looks like, you can't help yourself. Your remaining marbles shoot out of that jar cracked by a broken relationship. "Oh, shit, fuck, oh god-"
This guy's eyes are half open, rolled all the way back so all you can see are the whites, or, well, what should be the pearly whites. There's this thick layer of blood seeping up from the bottom and it's gross as FUCK man. It's so gross that you're even calling yourself 'man' in your own thoughts without even flinching. It's oozing up around the edge of his orbs like almost-dried lava, and it takes a massive amount of effort to tear yourself away from the grotesque display happening in those peepers.
You forgot your phone too, it's probably sitting comfortably on your nightstand, unaware of the 911s it could be dialing, blissfully contempt at being utterly useless at this very moment. You start for the black phone behind the counter, but are interrupted by the most annoying trill of a voice you've ever heard.
"Oh, sorry about that, he does this all the time!" You glance over to your right, the gas station manager (identifiable by the giant pink button that says 'MANAG-ER 38D') is leaning against the entrance to the bathroom, mop in hand. "Just hit him with something and he'll bass-ically snap out of it."
She's serious. Oh my god. It's at times like this you wonder if ice cream is really worth all the bizarre trouble you have to go through. Not usually, but on this holy night, on this most terrible of rituals, it's totally worth it.
Maybe you should actually be calling 911, fruit-of-the-sea gas station manager be damned. Some dude's eyes filling up with blood is probably not a temporary condition, unless that temporary condition is Ebola. You watched a documentary on that and you don't want none of that shit in your pure, virginal cell walls. There's no way you're touching ebola dude. You try to tell the manager this, but she's already on her way over with a mop clenched in her surprisingly large fists. You can see the muscles try and pop out of her arms, this girl is ripped.
And she doesn't hold anything back either, she takes the handle of the mop and fucking whacks it into this guy's back, and it makes this noise like a home run. The guy shoots up like Jesus bursting out of his tomb while hacking up some nasty ass dredges of flem. He slams his hands on the counter, hoists himself up, and opens his incredibly normal brown eyes. Where the fuck did all that blood go? Did it run off and hide?
"Shit! Did I fall asleep?"
Asleep is probably the worst way to put it. The manager taps her fingers on the counter. "Yup! And remember what I said about the next time this happened?"
He sits up, rubs his head, and says like a man destined for the noose, "No."
She smiles like a Disney villain. "You're glubbin' fired, Karkat." She points at the door. "Get the shell out."
"What?" he says, looking utterly deadpan while sounding surprised. It's an unnerving contrast. "Fuck me with a toothbrush, how am I going to get home tonight?"
"I dunno, drive? Walk?" The manager stops smiling. She readies the mop like a warrior babe. "Whatever you usually do? Just get out of here."
You watch him stand up (holy shit, he's taller than you. Swear to God on high, he looked like you could break him in two when he was just lying there and all you do with your muscles is play video games and sort your underwear), crab walk around the manager without breaking eye contact, and shuffle backwards down the aisle while pointing at her.
"You're lucky--" he takes this giant breath through his nostrils. "--That I'm tired as a spent hooker. Otherwise no mere vehicular refilling station could hold my wrath, and I would be utterly unstoppable. You would beg, BEG, to have me cashing checks and sorting receipts once more." He narrows his eyes. Oh my god, he's taking himself seriously, this guy is a fucking joke.
He even backs out the door, and you watch him trip over something on the concrete before the door shuts. The manager sighs. "I'm sorry about that, sir, I'll pay for your ice cream." She pauses, taps her finger against her chin. "Okay, paid. You're free to go."
You say thank you and goodnight (did she just steal that ice cream for you?) and try to get the hell out of here with your goods and dignity still remotely intact.
It's dark, the night smells like the summer pollution of the city outskirts, and the only streetlamp in this shitty gas station is flickering ominously. You don't see the guy that left anywhere. Feeling like a lamb lost from the flock in a forest known for its wolves, you shuffle-walk-run to your car, clutching your ice cream like the holy grail it is: A big ol' gold cup of cookie dough.
You glance behind you at the comforting light of the store (what are you anyway? Some kind of pansy apparently), but realize that was a terrible mistake when you walk into somebody.
Walk is too polite a word for what you do, you pretty much slam into him, and your reflexes don't react fast enough so you're still trying to take another step into a facefull of sweat-shirted chest when you get it together enough to hop backwards. You catch his smell, which is probably the most homoerotic thing you've done all night, and he stinks like dirty pennies and death. It's the worst.
You manage not to drop your ice cream in your leap to safety, which you're honestly pretty proud of. Life achievements for Dave Strider, five points.
"Holy shit, man," you say. It's the guy from the gas station, oh Jesus, what if he mugs you? "Where the fuck did you come from?"
He looks at you, opens his mouth, and wheezes, clutching his chest and bending at the waist. If this guy keels over you are NOT taking him to the hospital, you are just leaving his rotting corpse in the dust and going home. He clears his throat, straightens up. "Not important." he says. "Look, you wouldn't happen to have a fresh cut or anything? Or, hell, I'd take a scabbed over one. Bleeding from your ears or any other orifice? Don't even care which one it is right now. Old band-aid?"
You seriously consider turning around and having the manager call the cops.
"Okay, uh, fuck, look can you just, offer me something? Preferably physical. Like a kiss." he pauses, takes one look at your face, and keeps talking. "Okay, not a kiss. You have any money? Silver, gold, whatever? I'd take a fucking paperclip if you had one jammed in those pockets."
This is totally a roundabout way to mug you. Might as well bluff your way out of it. "I have fifty cents."
"Good enough."
He holds his hand out and you dig in your pockets and get two quarters, which you deposit in his palm. You can't believe this guy is stealing fifty cents from you, what a fucking loser. You almost feel good about yourself looking at this wannabe-punk neckbeard, and you're the one with sweaty hair and hints of couch squares patterned into your face. "Uh, here you go."
He shivers like he just got cold water dumped on him after a sauna, closes his palm, and says, "That's the fucking stuff right there. Thanks." He wanders away, hands in his pockets, and you watch him get on the sidewalk and turn the corner. Where to? Headed straight towards batshitville, apparently.
You get to your indescribably spacious town car, get in, and start the short drive back to your apartment. You are unbelievably content to go back to the couch, lie down, and watch your personal Garfield movie collection while eating the whole ice cream carton. God, you're fucking trash. The ice cream is probably pretty melted by now and you're STILL going to eat that shit. Jesus fucking Christ. No wonder she dumped you. You're just going to shove your head into that barrel of liquid cream and slurp it all up like it was a feeding trough.
You remember, somewhere in your brain clouded by post-breakup depression, that you should probably be checking the road for obstacles or asshole drivers tailgating you. Defensively driving and all that. You glance in your rear-view mirror, and see all 16 miles through the back of your incredibly large car the distinct lights of a cop.
Oh shit, how long were they following you? How long were their sirens on? This is probably the worst night of your life.
You pull over to the shoulder, slicking your hair back in the mirror and doing your best "confused little boy" impression. The cop is probably going to ticket you for the broken lights on your car, it's past due for you to pay some exorbitant fees for irrelevant reasons. Because safety is incredibly irrelevant.
The cop pulling you over gets off their motorbike, no, wait, is that a police vespa? What the shit. And you watch her, yeah, probably a her, walk towards your car window with some kind of notepad in hand. You dig out your wallet to present your drivers license.
She comes up to your window and taps on it. She's got flippy blonde hair with black roots like an unfashionable stay-at-home mom, red nails that say she could kill a man if she wanted to, and very dark skin with a clear tan line around her neck. She's wearing shades at midnight, like you, which is awesome, but they look red matte and you wonder how the fuck she's seeing out of those things. She's popping gum and between each chew it looks like her teeth are artificially sharpened. Oh my god, you are FUCKED if you've done anything wrong, she'll bite your balls off.
"Please roll down your window, this is a matter of official United States justice!" she says. Her voice is like a soprano opera singer scratching a chalkboard, and that's just through the glass. You make a mental note to put some earplugs in your glove compartment.
You push the button and roll down your window, and reach out to her with your license. "Hey, I'm really sorry m'am, feel free to ticket me like a movie theater and I'll get this thing fixed so..."
You trail off because the cop stopped twitching. Her body is stock still, she's got this vacant expression on her face, and her nostrils are flaring at the most rapid pace you've ever seen. If she's having an attack or something...
She grabs your t-shirt collar, fucking pulls your head out of the window décolletage-first, and gets so close to your face you smell the cherry in her gum. "Where did you see him?"
This armed woman is breathing on your face and you thought this was about a goddamn headlight. Are you smuggling cocaine in your trunk or something? Did someone sneak heroin up your ass? "I... what?"
"Young, appears to be Hispanic, tattoos... probably still has fairly large earlobes for modern rebellious accessorizing." She sounds dead serious, tightens her grip on your shirt. Oh fucking hell, was that guy a drug dealer? Dammit, you gave him fifty cents. Not like fifty cents of weed would do shit, but still.
"Uh, yeah, I saw that guy. I thought he was going to mug me so I gave him two quarters to rub together. Can't believe I paid him off with fifty cents."
She stares at you (you think, seriously, those sunglasses are impenetrable) then pulls you out even further and sticks her face in your shirt.
What the fuck.
She takes this big breath through her nose, like she's trying to inhale your chest, then lets you go. The seatbelt snaps you back into place and you hit the seat with the distinct thump of terrified confusion.
"Yes, you definitely smell like him, there's no mistaking it. Although this is some very close physical contact for a simple exchange of currency! Are you sure you didn't do anything..." she lowers her sunglasses and stares you in the eye. Her eyes are a nice shade of Pantone blue-grey-teal. You don't know why you had to specifically point that out, but for some reason you expected them to be without pupils, like you expected her to be blind. Why would you ever think that, Strider, she was riding a fucking bike down the road, you can't ride a fucking bike when you're goddamn blind. "... more intimate?"
"What? No. I ran into the guy, I didn't analy sex him up."
She grins like you're the butt of some inside joke, and her teeth line up like speleothems. They are, indeed, sharpened. That must have hurt like a bitch to get that done. "Where did you see the suspect?"
He's a suspect? Fuck, you're going to jail, you're going to be dropping the soap and using washable marker as eyeliner for the rest of your 20s. "The gas station a few blocks down, I watched him get fired and then wander off to god knows where."
She taps her pen on the top of the car. "Was he out of sorts, at all? Did he seem disheveled?"
"Babe, that guy didn't even have shelves to displace." you say. Maybe you should stop calling cops 'babe,' or maybe just stop calling everyone you meet 'babe.' The cop doesn't seem to mind though, she just cackles at you.
"Great. You're taking me there."
Wait, what. "Wait, what."
She moves away from the window and you watch her actions through your rear-view mirror. She opens the back seat of your car (wait you totally locked that shit down like a prize trophy) and wanders back to her tiny cop vespa. She picks it up, hauls it to your car, and pushes it into the backseat. Curse your incredibly roomy vehicle, it's getting you an awkward ride with the police.
She shuts the door, and walks around to enter your car through the passengers side. She settles in the seat and straps herself in, pushing the ice cream aside. It sloshes when she puts it under the dashboard. No. No, not the ice cream. This cannot be happening.
"There's no way this is legal." you say.
"Of course not," she laughs. " At least not by the fickle and soft United States justice system. But I've been waiting years for a lead in this state far too hot and far too close to my ancestral residence, and I've found it with you! Besides, I'm armed, deadly, and now a renegade cop on the run. You're going to listen to me."
She's right about that. You glance down at her pistols. Jesus, what is she even talking about? Are you a hostage right now? You hope you're not a hostage, your sister is dead and your mom is in Reno so there's no one to pay your ransom. You put the car in drive to turn around. You are trying very hard to restrain all natural inclinations to piss your own jeans out of terror, and focus on the road like it's a thin path through a pool filled with deadly sharks.
"And, Mr. Strider, you're a valuable treasure to keep with me if we don't find who I'm looking for. I've known you for two minutes and I can already read you like an open book, and combining that with the clear emotional distress you're in for whatever reason... That comes in handy for certain assets needed in my search."
Being a hostage sounds more preferable than the alternative, the only alternative that is nagging at the back of your head. That last phrase confirmed it. She said it like she was sizing you up, like you were a pig hanging in the butcher's and she was a fat German housewife.
"Maneater" by Nelly Furtado comes on the radio. The cop starts singing along.
She knows every. damn. word.