Chapter Text
Your name is Karkat Vantas and you really fucking hate driving.
In your eight sweeps you have driven hovercraft, you have driven gliders, you have driven transport craft, and you have driven escape pods. In the three and a half perigees you've spent on Earth, you have had your ass handed to you by Tholluckth repeatedly while you flailed and struggled and cursed at Grand Theft Auto 3 until you threw the controller across the room in disgust. You have learned the particular rage that occurs while taking driver's tests, only to discover that annoyance was nothing compared to sitting through Arlington's rush hour traffic with a broken air conditioner in the middle of July.
There is something about trying to control a recalcitrant vehicle that drives you absolutely bugshit insane. Screaming at the machinery never helps, though this hardly stops you. It feels too physical, too weird, having to control something from the inside. You hate having to depend on a device that may glitch or short circuit or blow a tire or overheat at any given moment.
Or explode. When you learned that most earth vehicles were powered by fucking petroleum, you lost your shit then and there and it had taken nearly a week of Strider's goading to get you to approach one again.
The thought still scares the shit out of you.
None of this, however, compares to the special terror of driving Strider's hand-me-down wood paneled mustard yellow station wagon through the worst fucking storm you've ever seen in your life.
It is Sollux's fault, of course.
Your moirail has spent the last week in one of his psycho manic moods while he absorbs himself in code. Were you not there to drag him away to eat, sleep, and bathe every once and awhile, you're pretty sure you'd have to surgically remove his twitching husk of a body from his computer chair and scrape him into a specimen jar.
However, today he is finally close to finished. Soon the two of you can find other ways to burn off his manic phase that didn't involve you staring at the back of his unmoving head and trying to make conversation while the six different keyboards clack endlessly around you.
Then there was a brief mishap where Sollux ran out of DVD-RWs and sent you out to get some.
And now you're in the middle of a motherfucking hail storm.
This is completely terrifying.
You are no stranger to violent weather. On Alternia there were extratropical storms that left entire coastlines devastated. There were wind storms and thunderstorms and forest fires. You even sat through a sandstorm once that lasted for almost three days.
However—unlike on Earth, where the weather suffers from almost as many mood swings as your moirail—Alternia had two seasons, dark and dim. Storms were mostly predictable and most disasters were certainly preventable.
What you are currently driving through feels like every storm you've ever encountered or imagined rolled up into one. The air is thick with humidity and electric and the sky is fucking green and the clouds have opened up and sent a downpour of blood warm rain slamming down to earth, which soaked you to the skin in seconds while you were on the way to your car with your purchase.
You quickly realize that putting up with the utter incompetence most drivers showed during rush hour traffic is nothing compared to being stuck on a highway full of frantic, frightened humans cutting each other off and fishtailing and skidding and sliding. It is all you can do to weave your way through it all, cursing at the top of your voice until it cracks, all while the sky throbs with muted flashes of lightning and churns like some unholy plague shitting vortex from hell.
It wouldn't have surprised you one little bit to see horrorterrors crawling out of that fucker.
You are fifteen minutes from home when the hail starts. The sound startles you at first; for a second you think a small rock hit your windshield, but then it happens again and again and all at once there are little white pellets pounding your already dented second hand vehicle, and by the time you make it back to the hive they have gone from almost invisible to the size of chickpeas. The sound is so deafening that you can no longer hear your own hoarse screaming.
Finally, you wrestle the car into your narrow parking lot. For a moment or two you sit there and try to gather your thoughts amid the cacophony of hail. You hesitate. You think maybe it's best to wait until the storm calms down at least fractionally, but your moirail is in there all alone, and you can bet that he's never experienced anything like this before either.
Then something thunks against the roof that sounds significantly heavier than all the other plinks and thwaps and pings flooding your ears, and that cinches it for you. Going inside: definitely a better idea.
A large hailstone connects with your right horn the second you exit the car. You blurt a yelp and clap a hand to your forehead, staggering, and for a split second it's all encompassing and you are reeling too much at the sharp pain in that horn dulling down to a throb and pooling in your thinkpan to notice that you're being pelted with small, stinging pellets from head to toe.
“Motherfuck--”
Fortunately, the distance from your car to your hive is mercifully short. You wrench the door open and slam it closed behind you.
The entire hive is pitch dark save for some very troubling blue and red flashes visible at the end of the hallway.
“FUCK. FUUUUUCK. OH MY FUCKING SHIT I CAN'T FUCKING BELIEVE THITH NO. NO NO NO NO NO--”
The hive feels like it might shake itself apart and you realize it's not just because of the storm outside, but because Sollux has lost four straight days and nights of coding in one fell swoop and now everything in his room is likely spinning and crashing as he completely flies off the handle.
You creep down the hallway and peer inside and oh holy fucking god it's worse than you thought.
There is your best friend, all sharp angles, jagged teeth and blazing mismatched eyes, hovering in mid-air and crackling. His work area is a sparking, smoking mess and mingled with the ozone smell of his psionics is the unmistakable odor of smoke and burnt plastic and oh shit is his computer on fire?
You don't think, you just move, dodging a thoughtlessly flung power strip that just barely misses your head. You don't try to talk him down, you just put your arms around him and shout his name until it penetrates his thinkpan and he's clinging to you and screaming his rage into your chest.
After a moment or two, the writhing wisps of blue and red energy coiling around him fade and everything hovering in mid-air abruptly drops. The room goes dark. Sollux's hands are still fisted in your shirt as if he's unsure whether to throttle you or throw his arms around you.
With dawning horror, you note his furious, mindless screeching has changed; now he's convulsing with thin, miserable sobs.
You pull him away, take him by both shoulders, and turn him around. Wordlessly, you guide the snuffling, hiccuping troll down the hall, through the kitchen, and down the stairs.
Your basement is pitch dark and humid and contains one garment laundering device, one drying unit, a table for folding clothes, and one tattered, vomit colored recliner that came with the hive. There is also a bathroom the approximate size of a closet.
Sollux has his face buried in his hands and keeps moaning over and over again about how it's gone, he lost it all. Feeling your chest go tight, you walk him over to the chair and stand him next to it, but he doesn't sit. He just wipes his face and trembles and looks at you and you put your arms around him without really thinking too much about it.
He doesn't return it. He just leans into you, skinny arms dangling, and hiccups. “God, KK--”
You sigh. “Hey. We'll fix it. We'll fix it.”
“No we won't, it'th fucking fried--”
“We'll find a way. C'mon. I know it sucks—” You wince as he heaves another sob at those words, your voice turning brittle with panic. “–but don't think about it for right now, okay? Not with the world coming to a fucking end outside. Sit.”
There is a draft coming from somewhere and you are shivering. You give his shoulder an awkward pat before drawing back and giving him a nudge toward the chair. This time he sits.
You rummage for something dry to wear. There are some soiled clothes in the hamper, but you don't want to think about what bacterial colonies might be thriving in them. You open the drying unit and breathe a relieved sigh as you discover the slightly wrinkly clothes you left there the day before.
“I'll be right back.”
You change in the bathroom. Peeling the soaked clothes off you feels disgusting, especially your jeans. After some squirming, you manage to get the dry clothes on and poke your head back out to check on Sollux. He is where you left him, huddled into the recliner and staring blankly into space, his eyes a million miles away as he wallows in whatever self pity torture party he has going on in his thinkpan.
You sigh and toss the damp clothes in the hamper before wiggling in to sit beside him. He moves only enough to accommodate you. It's not exactly comfortable, but you are feeling too wrung out to care.
Outside, the storm rages on.
Sollux is silent. You can only imagine what's going through the poor fuck's head. After all, you've watched him code until his hands trembled with fatigue and he was flinching at phantom noises and invisible bugs. You've seen him chug thick black coffee and Mountain Dew and all manner of disgusting energy drinks until his respiteblock was littered with cans and you half thought he was going to shake himself to pieces. You've watched him write and rewrite and rewrite the same bits of code again and again because it was never fucking good enough.
And now, all of that was gone. Not just the work, but his entire workstation. Everything he had ever written or planned to write, all of his backups, all of the backups of the backups. You have the fleeting thought that it's a shame much of what he writes is too heavy for anything but the most private of storage methods, or he might be able to keep his shit holed up online somewhere.
Perhaps just as devastating is the sickening realization that Sollux has absolutely nothing to do now.
You have seen him during those fucking awful weeks where he was convinced that there was no point in staying awake or bathing or eating or moving. You would much rather spend all day interrupting him at random intervals to remind him to fucking eat something you unbelievable workaholic dipshit than spend hours conducting one-sided arguments, griping and mocking and threatening and begging him until he finally, finally caves.
In a way, this is worse than simply having nothing to do—Sollux had something to do. He told you at one point he felt useful and productive for the first time in months, and there were fleeting moments when he was actually visibly happy with himself that made your heart crack a little to see.
When you left for the electronics store, Sollux was on the brink of finishing.
And now here he sits, empty-handed, useless.
He is being too quiet. You know from experience that this isn't good.
“We might be able to salvage something.”
The silence stretches and Sollux sighs. You wonder if he's growing exasperated with you or if he simply doesn't have the words to respond.
“Once this shit calms down and we're not in danger of having a fucking tree fly through our hive, we can crack your computer open and see if the hard drive's still good. Neither of us got a good look at it in there. It could still be fine.”
His shoulder moves. You're not sure if that was a shrug or just him shifting.
“No, really. Look—hey. Look at me. Remember when Aradia's computer burst and you showed up like a big hero and rescued her giant stash of Troll Indiana Jones jpegs or whatever the hell she had on there?”
“Why are you even trying, KK.”
Your upper lip curls. “Oh, fuck me, then. I beg your pardon. Clearly you're in complete possession of your mental capacities. Surely you know what's best. I only had to tell you five fucking times to put on clean clothes today.” You hold up a hand to cut him off. “Don't start this shit. Just don't. I've heard it all before. Woe is you, you're fucking useless, why do I put up with you, you're a horrible person—any of this sound familiar, fuckass? Because I'm sick to death of it.
“I am trying because I'm your goddamned moirail and apparently it's my lot in life to drag your sorry ass out of whatever pity party oubliette you've thrown yourself down.” You glare at him. “And you know I will, because I always do. So let's skip all that bullshit for once in our lives and give me your fucking phone.”
This is enough to bring him out of his stupor a little. Brows furrowing, he digs into a pocket and pulls it out. “Why?”
“Because, in case you haven't noticed, the power is out, and I have a thermal hull full of extremely perishable food that I bought to feed your manic ass. It's going to be in the high 90s tomorrow, Captor, and I have this sinking feeling the power isn't going to come back if even we waggle our asses and pray. Do you want to know what happens to a thermal hull full of food in that heat? I didn't fucking think so.” You pluck it from his fingers and scan the contact list. “Let's see if Strider made it through this okay.”
By now, the storm outside has quieted. A glance out the window reveals that the sky lightened during your little rant and lost its green tinge. The hail also ceased, with only harsh gusts of hard rain pelting the hive at random intervals now.
To your surprise, you're able to establish a connection. You position the phone in such a way that Sollux can read along with you:
carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling turntechGodhead [TG]
CG: STRIDER.
turntechGodhead: [Auto-Away message] I am not here right now.
CG: GET ON YOUR FUCKING LAPTOP, ASSHOLE.
CG: WHY IS YOUR PLANET TRYING TO KILL US, STRIDER.
TG: oh hey
TG: dont ask me
TG: tornado missed my place by miles man
TG: whatd you do to piss off gaia karkles
TG: havent you been recycling
You remember the piles of Red Bull and Monster cans in Sollux's room and turn to arch a brow at him mock-suspiciously. You're surprised to see the barest hint of an almost-smile there.
CG: FUCK YOU VERY MUCH.
TG: your power out then
CG: YEAH.
TG: okay well the tv says its passing over you now
TG: just sit tight and chill
TG: maybe take a little nap
TG: and if you wake up in a magical land full of little people and witches and yellow brick roads dont be afraid
TG: theyll love you karkles
TG: theyll probably make you their fussy mayor
You stare at the little phone, grimacing, only to blink in surprise as Sollux snorts. You scowl.
CG: JEGUS FUCK, STRIDER, COULD WE STAY ON TOPIC PLEASE.
CG: WE NEED A PLACE TO STAY UNTIL OUR POWER RETURNS.
TG: yeah i bet ta is already going through withdrawal
TG: dont worry bro
TG: strider will hook you up
TG: just tell him to bring
TG: like
TG: a notebook or something small
TG: not the giant hal 9000 thing in his room
You are not quite successful in hiding a wince. Without looking at Sollux, you determine a good time to arrive and establish that there is indeed room for most of their perishables in his basement.
The drive to Strider's is roughly three and a half hours. You are chilled, exhausted, and you're starting to get a headache from when mother nature personally clouted one of your horns earlier.
You don't even want to think about the state your car is in.
Finally, you hand the phone back. By now, it's mostly quiet outside. Miraculously, the sun is peeking through the clouds and the horizon is nothing but rosy colors and dark, swollen clouds. For a second or two you almost find it pretty.
You turn back to your moirail, who is watching you from the recliner. He digs his nails into the arm and glances down at them nervously.
“Could you go in with me?”
You weren't planning on leaving Sollux alone anyway, but you don't mention this and merely nod.
Sollux is grim as the two of you make your way up the stairs, pick your way through the kitchen, and approach his dim, silent respiteblock. It smells even worse than it did when you entered it less than an hour before, and part of you wearily bids farewell to your security deposit.
The thin, watery light peeking through Sollux's blinds is just enough to illuminate just how much of an unholy mess it is in here. Holy fuck. You linger at the door, lifting your chin to see. Sollux drops to his knees. For a second you think it's to find the tower and crack it open, but his knees hit the floor and you get your first clear look at his work station and find that not only is the hard drive impossible to save at this point, but the entire computer is a giant molten pile of cooling, foul smelling slag.
Sollux makes a choking sound and buries his face in his hands. You cross the room and join him there on the filthy floor and hug him gruffly to you. He locks his arms around you and fists his hands in your shirt and you let him cry himself out, and he doesn't draw away when you tentatively cup the back of his head.
Eventually he quiets and part of you is a bit disappointed when his arms loosen and he draws away. This feeling is promptly forgotten once you note your freshly laundered shirt is now smeared with yellow. You manage not to make a face when he looks at you dully, and you see a familiar question in his face, a profoundly weary sort of look that says, are you finally going leave me alone this time, KK?
“Get to the ablution chamber and clean yourself up, then meet me in the kitchen.” you say quietly.
The look you give him leaves no room for argument. He straightens, and watching him stand hurts. Sollux moves as though an indescribable pressure was bearing down on him from all sides, as if his arms and legs were impossibly heavy, as if his neck barely had the strength to lift his head. A long, haggard sigh flows out of him, but he does as you ask.
You are setting bowls and spoons onto the kitchen table when he enters. Between the two of you are two cartons of ice cream--fudge brownie for you, rainbow sorbet for him--plus a box of mini ice cream sandwiches.
Frowning at how the spoon bends under your hand, you scoop out ice cream into the bowls. Yours is freezer burned a little, but you don't care. He just stares at you as you wordlessly hand him a spoon.
After a moment, Sollux sits. He handles the utensil as if it were strangely heavy, taking the tiniest of spoonfuls.
The ice cream has already begun to melt a little. The two of you have a lot of work ahead of you.