turntechgodedge-blog

[turntechgodedge-blog]

Date: May, 18th, 2011, 3:00 AM

 been a hot while since i posted anything been busy with real life circumstances so im sure all you fine folks wont begrudge the radio silence

sometimes a proper dj has to know when to step down from the booth and hang up his headphones 

got to kick back and relax sometimes

keeping up with a heavy internet social life is just one of those things that falls by the wayside when it comes to catching some self time 

but hey dont look down upon me im posting some old but good choice jams just for you guys

aint i the nicest thing

==>

The plaintive strains of piano music hang in the air along with the melancholy voice of Jackson Browne.  It reminds you of John, and that one time when you were younger and he sent you a recording of him playing the piano.  You'd mixed it together, added your own touch, and sent it back.  He'd been thrilled stupid.

The apartment is dark but for the sulfurous glow of city ambiance and the bright white-blue of your computer screen.  Even as you make the blog post you know the likelihood of anyone noticing it is pretty low, but you are sleepless and you need something to keep you busy.  In your hand you flick the top of a zippo lighter emblazoned with the image of a red crocodile--you have no idea why you had to have it--open and closed.  The withdrawl is starting to get to you.

You haven't smoked a cigarette in exactly three days, eight hours, five minutes, and fifty seconds.  

John Egbert, your best friend who was out of your life for years and returned like a thousand care bears and hugs has been dead for exactly three days nine hours, six minutes, and thirty seconds.

When the song stops, it immediately starts again.  You have been listening to it on repeat for exactly three hours, fifty two minutes, and fifteen seconds.  In your hand the lighter goes snap when it closes and snick when it opens.  Your shades rest on your forehead, spiking your hair up above them.

You jiggle your knee and stare at the clock on the computer counting away the hours and minutes. It's off by six seconds.

In the corner of your screen pesterchum lingers like a reminder, one message window is open and minimized.

You know that all it says is:

TG: you said we wouldnt split up again  TG: be the bestest of pals for the rest of forever and ever i felt like i was on day time television it was a beautiful moment TG: real tear jerker i mightve cried legitimate tears TG: really funny prank TG: hahaha 

You haven't been to work for a few days, called in, called off, no fucks were given.  The fuck pile is at an all time economic low and the fuck businesses are being bought up by larger conglomerates.  Maybe tomorrow you'll dig out your camera and go out and take snapshots of a city that doesn't care.

Maybe you can capture that and make it a little bit yours, make it part of you, make it a little true.

At the very least it'll use up some of the restless energy singing in your veins and burn away at the remaining sniffles clogging your sinuses.  

It'll get you out of this apartment with John's things.

[turntechgodedge-blog]

hey kip were all just here to say

[turntechgodedge-blog]

gardengnosticism:

xenogeneticist:

THIS IS WEIRD, I’M GETTING THIS FEELING LIKE I WANT TO KISS YOU AND PUNCH YOU AT THE SAME TIME.

CAN YOU PUNCH SOMEONE WITH YOUR LIPS?

I THINK I’M GOING TO FIND A WAY.

okay youre right that is weird! really weird!!

dave does this guy always say stuff like this to you??? :0

good luck with that vantas with your superior intellect im sure youll have no problems divining a way to work it

and im sure you wont look absolutely ridiculous while youre at it

dont worry your head over it harley hes just being a gentleman and whispering sweet nothings to me across the internet

perfectly normal day in the life

[turntechgodedge-blog]

gardengnosticism:

turntechgodedge:

gardengnosticism:

damn that actually sounds really good!!

okay dave lets go into business together

ill do the science and you do the marketing and with any luck we will strike it big!!! :P

sounds like a plan ill use my turn tables to spin us up a jingle and everything

well corner the candy market in three easy steps

well be wonka and charlie charlie and wonka

pave the roads in space cocoa and deep fried sugar sunbursts created in your super secret gumball gamma ray laboratory

now all we need is a logo and a mascot!

hmmmmmmm…………

i vote for a puppy!! it can be a star travelling dog that seeks only the best in interstellar confections! :D

why am i not surprised

you can have your starbright the space corgi so long as we dont give it a catchphrase

i dont want no tony the tiger shit up in here

[turntechgodedge-blog]

gardengnosticism:

turntechgodedge:

gardengnosticism:

turntechgodedge:

gardengnosticism:

this one reminds me of someone somehow :o

it looks like one of those watermelon candies exploded all over it

you know the ones with the deep green outer coating and the red juicy interior

pretty sure they have watermelon gushers like that maybe thats what this is

the watermelon gusher nebula LOL :P

and in its fruity cloud of gas new candies are born…

you should take that shit to marketing

harley candy corporation

who needs to taste the rainbow when you can taste the stars with our new nebula numnums a fruity burst of flavor thats like a supernova on your tongue with every bite

damn that actually sounds really good!!

okay dave lets go into business together

ill do the science and you do the marketing and with any luck we will strike it big!!! :P

sounds like a plan ill use my turn tables to spin us up a jingle and everything

well corner the candy market in three easy steps

well be wonka and charlie charlie and wonka

pave the roads in space cocoa and deep fried sugar sunbursts created in your super secret gumball gamma ray laboratory

[turntechgodedge-blog]

xenogeneticist:

turntechgodedge:

xenogeneticist:

gardengnosticism:

xenogeneticist:

HEY FLOWER CHICK

IS THIS YOU?

what? am i flower chick now????

if you ask me i think it looks a little bit more like you!! :P

OH YEAH YOU’RE RIGHT, MY BAD.

SPACE IS THE SHIT, WE ARE ALL MADE OF STARS, HIPSTER BULLSHIT, ETC. ETC. ETC.

except you crabcakes

youre just made of shit right

WOAH THERE, STRETCH, HOLD BACK ON THE FLIRTING THERE.

THIS IS A PUBLIC BLOG, YOU KNOW. WE CAN’T HAVE YOU SPILLING YOUR DEEPEST PASSIONS OUT TO ME HERE, THERE ARE LADIES PRESENT.

well i do declare mister vantas

ive got a case of the vapors just looking at those accusations im going to have to sit down on my swooning couch and clutch my pearls after all this

i mean here i am keeping myself right proper and not even showing a flash of an ankle and you act like im some ballroom darling near to flashing her cleavage at proper folk

[turntechgodedge-blog]

gardengnosticism:

turntechgodedge:

gardengnosticism:

this one reminds me of someone somehow :o

it looks like one of those watermelon candies exploded all over it

you know the ones with the deep green outer coating and the red juicy interior

pretty sure they have watermelon gushers like that maybe thats what this is

the watermelon gusher nebula LOL :P

and in its fruity cloud of gas new candies are born…

you should take that shit to marketing

harley candy corporation

who needs to taste the rainbow when you can taste the stars with our new nebula numnums a fruity burst of flavor thats like a supernova on your tongue with every bite

[turntechgodedge-blog]

xenogeneticist:

gardengnosticism:

xenogeneticist:

HEY FLOWER CHICK

IS THIS YOU?

what? am i flower chick now????

if you ask me i think it looks a little bit more like you!! :P

OH YEAH YOU’RE RIGHT, MY BAD.

SPACE IS THE SHIT, WE ARE ALL MADE OF STARS, HIPSTER BULLSHIT, ETC. ETC. ETC.

except you crabcakes

youre just made of shit right

[turntechgodedge-blog]

gardengnosticism:

this one reminds me of someone somehow :o

it looks like one of those watermelon candies exploded all over it

you know the ones with the deep green outer coating and the red juicy interior

pretty sure they have watermelon gushers like that maybe thats what this is

[turntechgodedge-blog]

gravamencrafter:

xenogeneticist:

You stroke Teresa’s hair soothingly as you listen to her talk, each softly spoken word punctuated by the tap-tap-tap of Dave’s thumbs as they slide across the keyboard of his phone with purpose. The text-to-talk program reads aloud and you listen to that too, an expression of bemusement masking your features as his speech dives completely left field in a barely tangential analogy.

Irritation burns at the back of your eyes and you want to interrupt, but the machine would not heed your words, so you lift your head to look at Dave instead. He’s unreadable above the neck but you note the stiffness in his shoulders and the way he slumps against the counter, the near imperceptible way his body shakes, almost hidden under the flickering light of the flames in front of him.

He types again and the words that come out of the phone are accusatory in spite of their blandness. Your heart beats harder the longer you stare at him, the blood rushing in your temples. He’s right, of course. You’re not okay. You’re pretty much a minute away from total meltdown, stressed from the lack of sleep, from the murders, from the distress of your friends, and the knowledge that death follows you around like a lost dog.

That comparison settles like a weight on your mind and for a moment you’re not standing in Dave’s kitchen anymore, but somewhere grey and cold and you’re staring into the murderous white eyes of a metal black wolf.

The terror shocks through you like lightning and you stumble, looking around the kitchen with wide eyes. Just before you were looking at Dave, but now — he’s on the floor now. You didn’t even see him move.

Oh god. You just fell asleep on your feet, slipping seamlessly from the waking world into a dream. This sort of thing only happens to you when you’ve been awake for something like a week. When was the last time you actually slept? You can’t remember. It could have been yesterday, it could have been days ago. You swallow. This is probably what happened to you in the bathroom, now that you think of it. Your nightmares are chasing you relentlessly and you’re losing the strength to fight them off.

Maybe this entire day has been nothing but a nightmare.

I want to wake up.

Maybe your entire life has been nothing but a nightmare.

I need to wake up.

Maybe that’s why nothing changes, but nothing ever seems the same.

Wake up. Wake up. WAKE UP.

“This headache is going to kill me,” you mutter, dropping the comb on the counter and peeling off the gloves. The dye needs to set before you can wash it out. You scrub your face with your hands, trying to soothe away the pain. Is that only your blood beating in your ears? The sound could fill an auditorium.

You can’t even hear the crackle of the fire. You look into the wastebin. What’s inside looks pretty well burnt. “We should probably put this out now,” you say to no one in particular, then turn your gaze on Teresa. “Unless you want to roast marshmallows first.”

You’re really tuned out and you would feel bad but to be honest you don’t give a flying fuck. You didn’t hear anything anyone said, focusing on Karkat stroking your hair instead. He’s a good guy, like a brother to you, and you’re kind of glad for it. It helps, at least.

When he says something about marshmallows, you shake your head. “No. Put it out and dump it or whatever it is you need to do.” You sigh and shake your head, hating the slightly drippy feeling of the dye. “I’m just gonna sit here for twenty minutes or however long this shit takes.”

Your body aches as you force yourself to your feet, and there's a pang of guilt in the general vicinity of your chest. You figure it probably shares an area code with the anger and the gut clenching sickness that has little to do with the flu burning at you with fever hotness.  Your skin is clammy, and you're hot and cold by turns.  Half of you wants to take a nose dive into the fire just to chase away the chill in you, while the other wants to get away, maybe shove your head in a freezer.  It changes, coursing over you in waves and leaving your skin prickling.  

As you stagger toward the cabinet you stop beside Karkat, just long enough to rest a hand on his shoulder.  Half of it is to keep yourself upright, mouth breather that you are right now, and half of it is to give his shoulder a squeeze.  You dig your thumb into the muscle there, for just a moment, as you pocket your phone.  You move on, leaning down with one hand braced on the counter to grab the fire extinguisher from under it.  Nausea swells deep in your stomach, rising like a coastal tide.

A part of you is just thinking: what if i just puked on it would that put it out

The fire goes down without much of a fight, and you know your body is heading the same direction.  Your ears are ringing again, your vision is turning black around the edges, and it feels like the clock on the wall is ticking right into your head.  The extinguisher hits the floor with a too loud clang that sounds watery, muted.

You make a vague motion toward Karkat and Teresa, trying to convey that you are going to go lay down before i end up eating tile this ships deck is rocking like we just hit an iceburg sound the alarm first mate the ship is going down and the captain with it

You make it all of three steps before your knees hit the floor and the rest of you follows after.

You don't even remember hitting the floor though there's something snide in the back of your mind that says shit thats going to hurt tomorrow nice going asshole

==>

[turntechgodedge-blog]

gravamencrafter:

xenogeneticist:

>Karkat: Put this asshole in his place.

Your brows slam together like a vice and words come rushing out of your mouth before you have time to examine them. “I may not be your mother but I sure as fuck don’t like your attitude,” you snap at him, your voice pitched low with barely suppressed rage. “Of all the times you could have chosen to be an uppity bitch and it had to be just moments after you set a fucking fire in your motherfucking kitchen.”

Your breath comes out hot and heavy through your nose as you shut your eyes and grind your teeth, holding back on the rest of your tirade. You glance back at Teresa, sitting in her chair with dye dripping through her hair, staining the bright colour grey. You look at your hands, which you are holding threateningly in front of your chest, a gesture halfway between reasonable discourse and strangling your boyfriend.

“You’re not well,” you tell Dave, lowering your hands and clutching them at your sides, “none of us are — but I swear to god if something happens to you that I could have prevented, I will die. I will fucking die, Strider. I won’t just give up the ghost, I will fucking banish it, forcefully expel it from my being with the sheer force of the disappointment I will have in myself, for the utter failure I’ve become, I—” You break off, suddenly unsure where you’re going with this rant. The anger is draining away from your body already, though the anxiety remains all the same.

You turn away and return to Teresa, picking up the brush again and trying to pick up where you left off. “Let’s all burn together, then,” you mutter, focusing on her head. “Let’s all go out with smoke under our wings.”

You can hear Karkat’s angry red spiking towards Dave’s ticking turning gears, and it’s a little odd to you. It makes your head feel weird as the jarring grey voice of Dave’s phone cuts through, and hearing that is weird when you think about those red gears again. But whatever. You can taste smoke, dark grey and thick and oily, and it’s clouding your mind a little. You don’t much mind, to be honest.

When you feel Karkat’s hands near your hair again, you sigh a little. “My hair smells like charcoal, Karkat,” you tell him, voice brittle. “Charcoal and a different life and it’s wrong. Why did you get this colour? It’s all different and I’m not the right colour and my eyes aren’t the same as they were and I don’t even have Pyralspite with me.”

You’re not sure who Pyralspite could really be—you only remember a toy from your childhood, a stuffed animal you loved best. A white stuffed dragon, and it wasn’t very girly but you’d loved it the moment you saw it in the store and just had to have it for Christmas, that and a book on mythology and that law textbook from the bookstore that sold used (loved and shared) books. Your parents (no, not even that, your guardians, your foster parents, whatever the right word for them was) got it and you loved the fuck out of it and hugged it and took it on all your adventures. But then his eyes fell off and you pulled two bright red buttons from some old jacket your guardians were taking to a thrift store anyway and sewed them on and tried not to bleed teal (no, that’s not right, you bleed red) onto him as you did. And then he was perfect. Pyralspite was right.

But you feel like that’s not the right Pyralspite. A substitute at best, an imitation of something much better, much grander. You remember bright red eyes to match your own and pretty teal blood like yours and justice to the deserving and a noose, always a noose. You had too many dreams that ended that way, and it was unnerving at times.

But none of that mattered. “It tastes like charcoal,” you mutter, reiterating. Not that Karkat knows or cares. “It’s gross and I don’t like it. Why can’t I have butter-hair like it naturally is? Or even honey-hair. I don’t like the way black tastes… But it’s better than black licorice, by a little bit. But… I still don’t like it.”

"Is there a better time?" And fuck this program can't properly convey the fine trembling of anger lacing your veins.  You can feel it in you like a shudder, like a sigh though you keep it held back.  There's something refreshing about the way it burns through you, like spicy food clearing your sinuses.  "I mean, hey, my best friend just died tonight.  No big deal.  So small a deal that a chain store would give it a pass, send me along.  This shit ain't big enough for an outlet mall, got to see if a mom and pop or a dime store in a downtown strip is willing to give it the time of day."

You could probably be done there, but you're not.  

"You can hardly talk, Vantas.  Not after that little episode.  The levels of not well going around this place is enough to put a blimp in the air and then bring it crashing down from sheer weight."

And you hate how your words are toneless and even because you can't speak them.  You hate how you can't put the right rhythm into them, or the right tempo.  There's no quick-trip speed and it doesn't match the fury of your internal metronome the way it should.  It occurs to you that you're both worried.  About each other, about yourselves, about the fall out and the consequences, but right now you're so twisted up and such a mess that you can't even begin to give a shit.

You're jumped off a bridge and hit free fall and the ground disappeared and you're never going to stop.  Unless it rears up out of nowhere and you smash into it at a million miles an hour.

You have no idea where this whirling train of thought is taking you, but it's pretty clear it's heading for the station and the brakes aren't just gone they've disintegrated and taken all hope with them.

Another wave of dizziness drives through you at warp speed and you slide down your cupboards to rest on the floor, long legs bent at the knees.  It's the only concession you're willing to give.

There's a part of you that suddenly wishes Teresa hadn't gotten to this guy first or had gotten hold of you before, like that time when that Fucker kill Him and She was talking to you and For Some Reason there was nothing but justice in your veins and head but you couldn't do that because no thats stupid what am i saying

You haven't the fuckingest clue what you're thinking right now either, and it keeps slipping through your fingers like water or sand or wind.

==>

[turntechgodedge-blog]

xenogeneticist:

gravamencrafter:

“Right, of course.” You nod vaguely, not even wincing when his fingers catch in your hair. “I doubt they’ll show me a picture, though.” You let out a weak laugh at that one—it’s a bad joke, but true nonetheless. “Damn my leg,” you murmur, giggling almost deliriously at your stupid reference to that BBC miniseries you love so much. “But I should be fine on that one.”

You sniff a little, and you can smell smoke in the air. It’s weird, oily and thick and clogging your mind up. You don’t like that at all, and it really is kind of annoying. But it’s important, too, just like the charcoal hair dye and the shower and everything else. You wish it weren’t, wish John were here with you and you were all laughing and happy and having a great time, but he’s dead and you’re just so sad you could fucking die too. Which is pathetic, and you know it.

“Well, just in case, you know the drill. God help me if I get myself this involved in the cover up and have you blow it the instant someone comes asking questions.” You snort, dipping the the brush in the acrid smelling dye. “I swear if I end up spending even one night in jail I will flip my shit so hard I’ll be able to use it drill my way the fuck out of there.”

Even as you should be concentrating on brushing the dye into her hair evenly, you can’t help up but look up and watch the flames leaping out of the trash can. The smell is awful, but you can’t say it’s the worst thing you’ve smelt burning. Dave attracts your gaze then, wobbling on his feet and eyes sliding in and out of focus. He really looks the worse for the wear, and you suddenly don’t feel comfortable with him near fire.

“Christ, go lay down before you fall in and burn your face off,” you tell him, stepping around the chair and shooing him with a flick of your gloved hand. You almost kick the kitten as you approach. Was that thing always there? “And get your cat out of here, fucking animals don’t know what not to stick their nose in — go, I’ll make sure the fire doesn’t get out of control.”

You brace your palms against the counter top behind you, rest your weight on it, and angle your gaze at Karkat.  Your first thought is to snap back an inevitable reply, despite something under your skin that whispers for you to calm the fuck down, that's not you anymore.  Hush now rest peaceful now.  But the ticking in your head is unstoppable, inevitable, and so are you.

The frustrating part is that you can't just fire off a reply automatically, and you have no idea why this frustrates you so much.  It shouldn't.  By rights it should be normal, it should--

You get your phone up and tap up a response, fingers moving quick and you don't let any glimmer of your frustration to the surface.  You keep it knotted up and swallow it back, face as impassive as ever.  "Christ on a merry-go-ground, Vantas.  Who do you think you are?  Mommy dearest? Mary Poppins?  Let me tell you that medicine don't go down with a spoonful of sugar.  I tried it once. There was sticky cherry replacement residue all over the wall and ceiling."

Besides, you are fine standing here holding up the counter--there's no way you're admitting it's holding you up.  It's silly it's childish but, suddenly everything in you wants none of it.

If you start to pass out again you'll just sit his ass down on the tiles like you belong there.

==>

[turntechgodedge-blog]

xenogeneticist:

gravamencrafter:

You sigh quietly when Karkat squeezes your shoulder, waiting for him to start on your hair. You really don’t want to get rid of your cotton-candy hair, because it reminds you of John, but… It needs gone. Fuck, you’re being so repetitive and you can’t seem to stop doing that. Fuck fuck fuck.

You’re not sure what to do, so you murmur mostly to yourself. “Karkat, what should we do about the body? It’s pretty mangled and won’t be the easiest to identify. I didn’t leave fingerprints and I didn’t leave evidence. I don’t know what to do… I think it’ll be fine? They should find him in the morning, because nobody was around. It was a lot of red everywhere though…” It’s nonsense at this point, and you’re not sure what you’re saying. But talking is better than horrid silence.

“It’s better if you don’t go back,” you tell her, running your fingers through her hair to straighten out the tangles. “You wouldn’t even begin to know where to start looking, first of all, and if the cops catch you looking there’s no way that won’t get you in trouble. Keep your head low and your mouth shut and remember that you don’t know who he is, where he was, or why he died. They show you a picture, you say you don’t recognize him, okay?”

You look up to see Dave climbing up to tape up the smoke detector and make a “mmm” noise in approval. You’d forgotten about that detail. It’s a good thing you don’t have to take care of this yourself.

You wonder what would have happened if you weren’t here to help out, though. God, your timing is almost too good. You furrow your brow as you get to step one of the instructions, which is mixing the dye. Why are there two bottles…? Fuck it, don’t question it.

You force yourself to your feet after a couple seconds longer and make your way over to the kitchen window.  It's unlocked, always is, but it sticks a little when you try to open it.  Soon enough it's open though, and you're moving off to drag a fan in from the living room and to open up the rest of the windows in the apartment.  You just have to hope that no one notices the smoke billowing out.

Worst case scenario you lie like a champ and tell them your dumbass roommate burned the pizza to cinders again.

It wouldn't even be the first time it happened.

But you're not going to think about that time you and John got so busy playing Smash Bro's and trying to one up each other that you forgot you were making pizza.  Or the way you both tried to eat it afterward anyway, and John spat it out on the floor in an epic, hilarious way.

Your reunion was too short, and now he's dead.  You're just going to shelve that thought for later.  Just like you shelved the thoughts for--

Back in the kitchen you dig out the lighter fluid and thoroughly dose the clothes.  You even go so far as to get a shitty pair of tongs out of a drawer and turn them over so they're thoroughly soaked.

Those go in a garbage bag to be thrown right out with everything else.

A box of matches is your next goal, and it takes two goes to strike one.  You drop it in, and watch it smolder against the fabric.  Some waste paper goes in on top just to add fuel, and by this time you're swaying a bit on your feet from fatigue.

You should probably go sit down.  You stay where you are watching as shit starts catching flame like it's the forth of July and fireworks just landed in someone's ancient barn.  The fire glow off of metal reminds you of someth--

Hot gears under your feet and lava glow off the I-beams and T-beams and cross beams and metal floors.  Everything sings the song of a giant fucking clock, and ain't that just irony of ironies.  It's a city made of clock work click clang bang click clang bang.  Seconds Minutes Hours Seconds Minutes Hours. Cling Clang Bang.

Your consorts are a dumb bunch, but that's fine it just makes some of your tasks easier.  Got to full the little bastards, watch them nak-nak-nak away with the click-clang-bang.

You blink, and you find your cat right at your feet, eerie stare direct up at you. You jerk back in surprise, your back bumping against the counter.  You'd have thought to damn thing teleported just like Lil Ca--

You're sick, and clearly delusional.  You have a feeling you're going to need to get off your feet soon, but for now you stay where you are.  Watching flames get bigger, and the smell of burning fabric grows strong enough you can catch a whiff through the snot clogging up your sinuses.

==>

[turntechgodedge-blog]

xenogeneticist:

gravamencrafter:

“Sounds fine,” you murmur, letting him lead you into the kitchen. You sit in the chair and shrug a little. You’re not really sure how to dye your hair or any of that, but it can’t be that hard, can it?

“I’ve never dyed my own hair.” You blush a little, uncertain. “Kanya always did it for me.” You shrug again, hands brushing against the towels uncertainly. You’ve never had black hair, either. You’re not keen on the charcoal smell of the box but it doesn’t really matter still. You need it to be something unnoticeable. Normal. Not-blue.

There are plastic gloves and other implements in the box, which you take out one by one as you learn their purpose, reading the instruction sheet. It has helpful little diagrams and bold print and that’s good. Now all you need is a small blurb about how to comfort someone who just committed murder.

Kind of a difficult thing to do, even given the nature of your upbringing.

You squeeze her shoulder briefly before you slip the gloves on and — oh yeah, before you forget — “Dave!” you call into the other room, “I left a pair of gloves and some bags in the living room with the lighter fluid. We’ll need those.”

You don't respond, of course you don't.  Some snide little voice in the back of your mind does think: yeah thanks youre a day late and a dollar short good thing im smarter than the average bear.

Before you make for the bags you head over to your computer desk.  There's a sleek, medium sized trash can there, all shiny metal that was meant for aesthetics.  You don't remember anymore, but it serves your purposes.  You pick it up and dump the contents on the floor carelessly.  You can pick the mess up later and mix it in with whatever remains of Teresa's clothes.

suck on that douchebags rub yourselves all over my germy leavings

You dump Teresa's clothes in it and grab the bags Karkat brought.  You suppose the gloves will come in handy for scrubbing the bathroom down later.   As you step into the kitchen your illness makes another clawing grab at you, but you ignore the heavy drag on your limbs in favor of dropping the trash can in the middle of the kitchen.  You'll be getting rid of that too.  Less ways they can find residue the better right?  Get that sucker out to the dump.  You deposit the bags on the counter next to a now, almost eerily, silent kitten.

You'd swear he was tracking you with his eyes constantly, but he's just a cat.

You're about to dig into the bags and retrieve the lighter fluid when you stop.  A little voice, that deep, eerily familiar yet totally unknown one whispers at the back of your mind again: Don't forget about the smoke detector champ.  Shit's always going off when you do the stupidest thing.  A bro can't burn a pizza within three miles of the fuckers.

You look up, and there it is.  Sitting innocuous and haphazard near the ceiling.

Don't want to chance the landlord getting pissy so we got to get creative, lil bro. Watch and learn.

The memory guides you to dig in one of the cupboards, retrieve a box of shrink wrap and tape then haul yourself up onto one of the counters so you can reach it.  Soon enough you've got the sensors taped off well and good.

He'd be proud, you can't help but think.

You're not even sure who 'He' is.

Once you're done you take a moment to just sit there, long lanky legs nearly touching the floor anyway, and catch your breath while you wait for your head to stop swimming.  You feel miserably like you're standing on the deck of a boat that's listing and taking on water.

going down with the ship is the captains duty keep that band a-playin homies

==>

[turntechgodedge-blog]

gravamencrafter:

xenogeneticist:

Dave’s phone expresses his worry over your health and you grunt. “I’ll be fine. Worry about yourself,” you tell him, focusing on Teresa. All the energy seems to have drained away from her body, freed from the manic state that came with the execution of justice — she would never shy away from murder as a punishment to the crime, which is why you had to stand between her and Gam —

You temple throbs with an oncoming headache, and you close your eyes for second, trying to center yourself in the moment. For some reason you feel worried for Mada. Why?

You reach out and pat Teresa on the shoulder. “Of course I’ll help you. I’m here to help you with anything you need, just tell me.” You look back at Dave, sitting stiffly in his chair — did he just say something about sacrificing a goat in the apartment back there? — and ask him, “Do you have a good place to burn her things? I’d go with a metal trash can if we can find one, but the oven will do…”

You nod again, head hurting as you smell the black coming from the box. It smells like charcoal, and leaves an ashy taste in your mouth. But it’ll do. It’s more important to disguise yourself, hide away for a while.

It hurts to stand up, and you feel heavy and tired. You’re still not wearing pants and your head is aching even more as you think of how justice can be so energizing and taxing at the same time. It makes you think of a quest for justice and revenge (almost the same thing, right?) against a spidery bitch of a girl before you realize that that’s just a dream and some far-away alien imaginary bullshit.

So you shake that thought away, then look to Karkat’s vaguely cherry-coffee-red shape. “Do we want to handle the clothes or my hair first?”

You propel yourself smoothly to your feet, shoulders raising and lowering in a dismissive shrug.  "Got more important things to worry about than a few sniffles. I'll take care of the clothes you deal with the dye job."  You don't wait for a response, just head down the hall, and fuck you're dizzy.  You manage to make it to the bathroom without staggering into any walls or anything so you count it as a victory.  

Gathering up Teresa's clothes is a little harder, and halfway through the effort white noise starts to sing through your ears, and everything goes black.  You're blind as well as mute now, and with the tiny scream of white noise in your ears you might as well be deaf.  You fumble over to the toilet and, after making sure the seat is down, sit your ass down.

You breathe through your mouth and wait for it to pass.  When it does you stay seated and scoop of Teresa's clothes from there in the hopes it will keep you from nearly passing out again.  You're careful to pick them up by spots that aren't blood soaked, to wad them up to keep it off of you as well.

The tiles are smeared with glossy, bright red.

That will need to be cleaned up too.

A voice somewhere in the back of your mind says: Use some pine-sol on that shit, it'll stink to high heaven.

It's an eerily familiar voice, though you can't fathom why it's familiar.  It doesn't sound like anyone you remember.

Teresa's clothes in hand, you use the sink to get yourself back to your feet and head back out to the living room.

==>

[turntechgodedge-blog]

gravamencrafter:

xenogeneticist:

The door opens finally and Dave is standing in front of you, gaping like a fish and looking like he just fell face first off the front porch into Not-Kansas-Anymore.

He finally gets his phone out and you roll your eyes at what he says. “Fuck you, I’m more than capable of handling a car right now — what, were you going to do it?”

Without waiting for a response, you push past him and make your way over to the couch. You kneel in front of Teresa and pull out the box of dye, holding it up to her face close enough so she could see it. “Beautiful in Black for the lady,” you announce, then pull out the lighter fluid. “And something for the hot mess that is her wardrobe.”

It’s bad humour, dark humour, but it’s better than the alternative, which is a stupid amount of grief over someone you didn’t know and never cared about about ever. The feelings that clench in your gut when you think about it is just a side effect of watching them lose their friend, that’s all.

You really hope Mada gets here soon.

“Fuck,” you mutter. You forgot. “Dave, I told Gamada to come up to Houston. You don’t have to let him in your apartment if you don’t want, I just need to talk to someone who isn’t going batshit up the belfry right now.” Kind of like you are. Just a little bit. Visions of bloody walls shudder through your mind, and you clamp down on it. Nope. You need to stay strong right now, for their sake. You can break down later.

The creamy-rusty orange of Dave’s cat plays over your mind like an orange creamsicle, and it would be soothing and delicious if you wren’t still freaking out. So now you’re lying down on the couch, and Dave’s moved to answer the door with a grey phone-voice and the cat is brushing against your hand quietly.

Suddenly, there’s cherry-coffee in your face and also a box. You can see some smiling woman with black hair, and then Karkat’s talking to you. “Sounds fine,” you murmur, shrugging a little as your cheek smooshes against the leather couch. “The clothes are in the bathroom.” Shoving yourself up a little, you give your old friend a wan smile. “You gonna help me with the hair?”

Frustration hits you immediately.  You want to be able to fire back a retort straight off, but you can't.  You have to take the time to type it in.  Not like before when the two of you traded insults like gunfire in the middle of a full on firefight. But that doesn't make sense, and you're fast at this anyway, but there's still a small delay.

It just annoys you.

"Probably should have, yeah.  You look like you're about to drop, three sheets to the wind and not in a drunk as a skunk kind of way."

Not that you're much better, you're breathing through parted lips because you're so snotted up and there's a thick feeling in your throat that makes you want to vomit and cough at the same time.  Overall it's pretty disgusting, and just standing here is only adding to how woozy you feel overall.

You don't mention any of this, however, just kick the door closed and move to slouch down in a nearby armchair.  It's easy to pretend you aren't halfway to passing out.  Everyone's falling apart around you, and you're not going to join them.  You can't because you've always been the cool one, slick and sleek and never breaking just like during the g--

You feel like maybe you should be annoyed right now, but you're already so angry that it doesn't really register.  There's a confused mess of thoughts at war in your head.  Some little voice, insidious beneath the constant tickticktick of your mind says: ask him why he won't talk to you.

Instead the words you toss out are, "So long as there isn't another homicide you could bring a dead goat in here and sacrifice it to heathen gods."

With a yowl, your cat runs over to you and begins rubbing against your legs. Every now and then nipping and licking at the fabric.  You continue to ignore him in favor of staring down the world through your shades, fingers clenched tight on your phone and an internal battle waging quietly in your mind.

==>

[turntechgodedge-blog]

xenogeneticist:

gravamencrafter:

After a quiet moment, you move and lean on Dave. You’re quiet, uncertain of what to say. “I’m… Tired.” That’s a decent word. But it’s not as all-encompassing, all-consuming as the way you feel. You can’t think of a good word for this utter exhaustion that’s seeping into your bones, the melancholy tinting your whole world drab shades of grey. You’re lonely and sad and just so so alone in this world, worse than when you were blind and had lost all your colours. Everything feels sore and you’re just… Tired.

Absently, your hand slides into Dave’s, seeking any comforting touch as you sit in silence. He’s warm in a different way than John was, and it hurts to think about that but you don’t care enough as you rest your head on his shoulder.

You park in front of the building and reach for the door handle, but draw your hand back sharply as the metal shocks you. You curse softly. Static in your car isn’t unusual, but this had been strong enough that you could see the spark. You reach for the handle again, cautiously, and this time you’re able to open the door. You grab your purchases as get out.

The apartment is situated on high ground, so you’re able to look out over the city and see lightning arc through the distant sky. A rumble makes its way to your ears seconds later.

Good, this is good. Rain will compromise the crime scene, wherever it is, and wash away a lot of the evidence. You jog inside the building, feeling hopeful, and walk briskly by the front desk to the elevator. The desk is unmanned, which strikes you as odd, but you have no complaints. It only means you don’t have to explain where you’re going.

The elevator makes no stops on the way up, and the hallway on Dave’s floor is vacant. You rush down to his door and knock lightly. You don’t have a key so he has to let you in again.

Your head is full of cotton and there's a headache throbbing at the back.  Your sinuses feel like they're on fire, and your body aches.  In a word, you feel disgusting.  Your chest feels even worse.  You let Teresa grip your hand and give it the faintest squeeze before nudging her to settle back deeper in the couch.  You jerk your chin toward your computer.  As much as all of this sucks you have some very important people who need to hear this news.

The nasty part is that it falls to you to do it.  You extricate yourself from the couch and Teresa, despite your body's protests and head over to the computer.  It's still on, everything logged in, and it's automatic that you refresh the page for tumblr.  Seeing Jade's blog post is enough to make your chest clench and your head swim.

Somewhere between telling her you'll message her and opening a message with her a fuzzy lump of kitten propels himself into your lap.  You pet him absently, and he purrs like a rusty, nearly broken down motorboat.  You hardly notice because the clock on the wall is ticking as loudly in your ears as the clack of your keyboard.

It's irritating and it makes you slip.  Between it and the cold it feels like something in your head is trying to crack open and spill out.

When you're finished telling Jade something hot and tight sits under his breastbone.

Someone else is gone.  Someone else important just like--

You notice that Rose is online and click her message open.  As you inform her of the news your fingers trip over the keys.  That hot, tight feeling in your chest winds tighter, your jaw clenches.  In an instant you realize you're so fucking angry.

John is dead.  Your best friend is dead, just like he was.  With blood spilling out on the ground and a sword through his chest and you lost him.  There was nothing you could do and he's dead, but he's your B--

You can't grasp it.  You can't grasp who he was, and the image is there and gone as just as fast.  A knock at the door nearly drives it out of your mind completely, but it doesn't quite.  It stays there, sick and stark.  You realize you've forgotten something important.  It's as if a heavy, hazy weight has lifted off of your shoulders.

The cat on your knees is mewling at you in too loud demands for attention, the clock ticking on the wall seems to make your head throb in time to it.  You shoo the cat off and stand stiffly, then nearly trip over him when you stand as he twines anxiously around your feet.

You try to swear but nothing emerges.  A part of you thinks of course it doesn't but another half is fucking baffled as hell.

When you open the door it's to find Karkat on the other side.  It only takes a glance to see that he looks as disheveled as you feel.  The bags under his eyes are too pronounced and he looks pallid under his usual skin tone.  It strikes a chord, and all you can remember is--

jesus dicking christ he had that fit and

You open your mouth, at odds with yourself and confused as the urge to talk comes and you can't.  

For a moment you stand there confused, baffled, lost and still angry but...you slam your face back into a lack of expression.  A lifetime of habit kicks in and you fumble your phone out.

"You shouldn't have been driving."

It's stupid, but true, and you'd say you should have gone out instead, but none of you really seem too fit for this bullshit right now.

==>