End of chapter 7. If you have not read the previous updates/only read on AO3 you’re gonna be really confused. Complete chapter on AO3
for those who prefer to read on Dreamwidth : 106 - 107 - 108 - 109.
and for those who prefer to read on here:
JH: sir? hope i’m not disturbing you. do you have some free time for a meeting? like, face to face.
JH: karkat wants to talk.
HS: Most frabjous!
HS: Right on schedule. :B
JH: uh. schedule?
HS: Good job my boy.
— Hass Harley [HS] signed off! —
JH: i suddenly understand twice as much nothing.
—
John sighed as he dragged his feet through the plushest carpet ever, and let himself flop on the couch. There was a lot of space for it; the thing took up half of the length of the room with its fake-Louis Somenumberorother glory, and it wasn’t a small room.
"Welcome to Hawaii," he told Karkat, who arched an eyebrow back at him and gingerly took a seat at the end of the couch. “I’d tell you how pretty it all is out here, but it would be kind of mean considering we’re never going to see any of it."
The suite’s half-inch-thick hurricane shutters were down and locked from a remote location; the antechamber was full of Noir’s people, the rest of the hotel full of other agencies’ people, Karkat had a locator band around his ankle, and John could hear the choppers circling from here. They were nicely boxed in. Then again it wasn’t that much worse than the trip itself had been; they’d basically been locked up in the back of a troop carrier truck and carried across the ocean cradled in the hands of Roxy’s Molotov, and then driven the rest of the short way to the hotel’s underground parking lot.
Apart from the takeoff and landing — some shaking — it had been the most boring two hours of John’s life. Karkat wasn’t in an interacting mood, and John… well for once John was pretty sure it was not a good plan to disturb him. He wasn’t brooding, anyway, or at least not unproductive, mopey brooding — okay, yes, he was totally brooding, but it didn’t seem the kind that would benefit from an interruption, and — argh. Well.
John was pretty much along as a companion, to keep Karkat from … he wasn’t sure, trying to dig a way out through the stone wall, maybe, or tearing off all his clothes and doing some kind of alien “come and pick me up" dance. Though later on John would also get to be of use as an automated translator! Yayyy.
"Zhann," Karkat said with a sigh.
"What?"
Karkat stared at him, crossed his arms high on his chest, and let himself ooze down the couch, lower lip jutting out sulkily. John straightened up and glared at him.
"Oh, shut up," he grumbled.
"No, you shut up."
"No, you shut up first."
Karkat sat himself back up properly, leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees. “Zhann, you —" he said, more serious, a little subdued. “I need…"
John sighed, but nodded. “Yeah? Tell me what you need."
"You."
"Hm?"
Karkat looked away, like he was embarrassed, stared away at a bit of carpet pattern. “I need stupid idiot you. You… no, bad — fl’ths arrheke—"
"Okay, I understood none of the thing at the end," John said, and managed a charming grin. He stretched out across the couch — and shuffled his butt a little — to punch him gently in the shoulder. “I get you. I’ll be here. No worries."
"No worries," Karkat repeated, tone cynical, and rolled his eyes. “No worries yes, no kill… ing?"
"Who cares about grammar right now — argh, okay, yes, that was good, no killing. I don’t think the old dudes out here will try to kill you. And if they did I’d headbutt them in the walker anyway."
Karkat probably didn’t get two thirds of the words, and those he got were in all likelihood the least meaningful ones, but the tone, he got; he rolled his eyes again, allowed his mouth to crook up at the corner. John grinned back, wide and bright.
Of course he knew Karkat liked him (that was the problem, most of the time, when he was telepathically made aware of the fact.) But it was tons of nice to hear it without shame and regret, to see him smile that little amused (trusting) smile. Karkat seemed sharper, anyway, since that short discussion with the General the other day — but not in a bad, mean way, just in a… more awake one?
It was nerve-wracking, okay. But also… It was an adventure! And they’d been so bored.
"Head-butt is?"
John mimed it on the air.
"N’eh butt is…"
"Butt is a nicer, softer word for ass, yep. Ass is a little bit bad." He gave a thoughtful hum. “I think they’re related like…"
Of course John’s dad walked in just as John was demonstrating a hip check before his alien bropalbuddy.
Rolling his eyes at John discreetly, Karkat got up to face John’s dad — he always did that, as long they weren’t sitting at the dinner table, because Dad didn’t want them to interrupt their meals and shooed him back down, but the thing where he stood up if one of the adults came in and he thought they might be looking for him, yeah. Like he thought he needed to be at attention, almost, except he didn’t know the right way to salute, or if that was entirely appropriate.
"Sir."
"Hey, Dad."
"Karkat, John." His father nodded at the both of them as a soldier with a big gun closed and locked the door behind him. Dad was dragging along a big suitcase, which he hauled up onto a table and popped open. “You’ve got one hour left, I thought we should get you dressed."
… Yeah okay, they probably couldn’t appear before an international committee in t-shirts and jeans. (Or even in a flight suit, which was an outfit he would face anyone in with pride.) He had known that. He’d hoped anyway, though.
"John, I’ve got your dress uniform — boots in that bag — and Karkat… Ah, this is one occasion for which that latest doctor’s visit had unexpected benefits."
Uniform vest draped over his arm, John blinked at the inside of the case. There were at least two suits in there, neither of which were his father’s.
"They should be roughly the right size…" the man was humming as he pulled everything out and draped them over convenient pieces of furniture. “Of course nothing replaces a proper fitting, but we’ll make do. Now, the pure gray or the slate? Or I was thinking the taupe, as it would compliment your eyes and horns and you hardly have a skin tone to concern yourself with… Hm."
He held a vest near Karkat’s face, then another. Karkat didn’t move, brows knit in faint worry.
John sighed and went to the nearest bedroom to change.
T-shirt, tennis shoes and jeans were taken off and folded haphazardly — even if he folded them well Dad would refold them anyway — and he saw about putting on everything. Too-warm black socks, white slacks, a solid leather belt (who the heck cared about belts in this day and age), a button-up shirt… okay, was it tucked in properly? He’d have to get Dad to check that the back didn’t make a weird bump. He gave the shoes a bit of a spit-polish to get rid of mildly imaginary dust that Dad was sure to see twice as well as he did, and then put the jacket on. He didn’t button it all up yet, the collar annoyed him. And he should probably comb his hair before he tried to put on the cap… Yeah. Bluh.
It did look a lot like a Marine dress uniform, even though it wasn’t even technically a military uniform at all. The mech pilots from Skaialabs weren’t military per se, but … well, they worked pretty closely with the Space Marines. There was a time it had flattered them a lot to see the kids wearing that kind of getup for official occasions. John wondered if it’d piss them off to see him wear it right beside an alien.
Oh well, he wasn’t running to a tailor to get a brand new dress uniform now, anyway.
He came back out of the room to find Karkat in jeans and a button-up white shirt; Dad was doing up the buttons. Karkat was looking mildly embarrassed.
Oh wait, no, Dad was sewing on a button. “Claws?" John asked as he stepped in. Though really it wasn’t much of a mystery.
Karkat looked at him, blinked, and looked him over again. “Huhn. Zhann is a lot of old now."
John processed that, grinned. “Yeah, huh, I look way mature like this." He struck a straight-backed, stern-faced macho stance.
"Yes, you look." A faint smirk. "Is, no."
Thwarted by the presence of his father, John could only glare in return, eyes narrowed meanly.
He went to get the comb and started attacking his hair, checking himself over in the outrageously big gilded mirror on one of the walls. “Karkat is mean and has an ugly face," he muttered under his breath as he combed. Karkat ignored him.
"You should put on the headset before your hat, son, it’ll be better to have it on as soon as you leave this room. Possibly earlier." He looked up at Karkat’s face, then at John. “He still hasn’t told you exactly what it was he wanted to talk about, has he?"
John shrugged, went to search the suitcase for the headsets. “Still no clue, sorry."
When Karkat and Rose had made him message General Harley again, he’d thought the General would come and they would talk it out at length, and John would get to find out then!
Instead, well, the General was participating in an important international conference about the war effort, and apparently since he couldn’t leave it without being — le gasp — rude, it made a lot more sense to bring up something the old man didn’t have the first idea about right before the lot of them. Instead of… maybe… waiting.
So… Here John was, with his alien, crashing the conference. Woohoo.
Even though he was the main interface Karkat had with the world John had apparently totally missed something that was enough for the crazy family politicians to gamble on. It had better be worth it, was all he thought about the topic.
Maybe Grandpa Harley should go back to Black Ops, if he was missing adrenaline that much, for serious. John finished setting the headset in place and combed his hair back down around it, so it would still look professional.
(It was still hot pink. Oh, whatever.)
Dad finished sewing the button back on and buttoned Karkat up, tugged the cloth into place, then stepped back.
John smiled. “Not a bad look!" It made look his shoulders look more solid, and they already looked wider than John’s, a bit. “Did you decide on the rest yet?"
"The pure gray is out," his father answered absently. “It makes him look much too eerie. The taupe really does complement him well, but is not a color with quite as much authority… What do you think, Karkat, do you want to seem friendly or serious?"
Karkat blinked at him. “What?"
John picked up the gray-blue vest, held it before his chest, straightened up and gave him a stern look, then switched it for the brownish-gray one and loosened his frame, smiled. “This one or that one? For you."
Karkat selected the gray-blue one, though with a doubtful, hesitant moue. Dad nodded firmly and picked up a navy tie to put around his neck.
"It’s a leash," John said, casual and entirely seriously. Dad huffed at him.
"Don’t you start joking about that sort of thing now, young man. It’s just a fashion accessory, Karkat, please don’t listen to him."
"What, leash?" Karkat asked, blinking doubtfully at the knot forming at his throat.
John snickered, and mimed holding one. “It’s that thing Jade puts around Bec’s neck to tell him to stay close and not run."
Karkat threw him a flat, disdainful glare. “Zhann you no have leash."
John tugged on the unbuttoned collar of his uniform. “Yeah, because—"
"Because you need ten leash, have one neck. Sad."
Dad chuckled. “I’m afraid even ten leashes wouldn’t be sufficient."
"Wow, harsh."
"Shush, John. Karkat, you’re getting good at English very fast. I’m impressed."
John grimaced at the both of them. “He learns fast just so he can be mean to me."
"Well, one ought to find motivation where one can," his father retorted calmly, and gave a mock-philosophical nod.
"Daaad!"
His father laughed quietly; Karkat ducked his head to hide a little smile from him. Okay, fine, it was kind of cute that they were getting along, John supposed. Maybe. Sort of. At least there was one adult Karkat wasn’t quite so twitchy around anymore. Which was good because they were about to see a crapton of them in forty-five minutes.
"Alright, you should go to the bedroom and change your pants, son," Dad said, and handed Karkat the blue-gray pants and started nudging him toward the door John had used earlier. John snickered, grabbed Karkat’s arm.
"I, uh, think he should use the bathroom," he told his father. “C’mon, Karkat, this way."
"What? Zhann—"
“Never mind, just get changed." John shoved him in the (huge, gilded, spa-furnished) bathroom and closed the door. “Pants, Karkat!"
He leaned against the door, hands tucked behind his back. The corridor was full of fancy wall lights and little wooden curlicues at the edges of the paneling; the main room gleamed with light scattering off each golden whatever or crystal whateverelse. Too bad they weren’t allowed to see actual sunlight.
His father was on the phone, talking with someone in a low voice. As John watched, he started frowning deeper. Uh oh. He ended the call and turned to John. “I have to go. Take care of getting Karkat ready, please."
"Uh, okay, but what—"
"It shouldn’t take me long," he said even as he walked toward the door and disappeared from John’s view. The door opened, then closed; John sighed. Hard to admit it, but it helped keep him calm, having Dad around to joke with. Seeing him leave like something was a little wrong out here did not fill him with confidence.
Couldn’t allow Karkat to get fretty and nervous before his big conference, either way.
The door he was leaning on opened, and he almost fell back on Karkat. He caught himself on the doorjamb, looked at him. “Yeah, buddy?"
"Uh — Dad… sir?" Karkat paused, wrinkled his nose. “Hrn no. Mist-uh Eg — argh! He, where?"
"Someone called him," John replied blithely, and tugged Karkat closer by the belt loops. “He’ll come back soon."
"Ghhk — Zhann!”
The slacks fit pretty well, at least, no weird pockets of cloth anywhere, no strained seams, and the ankle locator was flat enough not to make a weird bump. John started tucking the bottom of his button-up shirt in. Karkat growled quietly, clicking in his throat in that way he did when he was irritated, but John only had to bat his hands away a couple of times before he stopped trying to take over.
Karkat resisted a little when John turned him around to tuck in the shirt on Karkat’s back side, but in the end he gave in with a sigh and a long muttered ramble.
(Pff, backside.)
(Karkat’s slacks were pretty shiny. Must be brand new.)
He finished tucking in Karkat’s shirt, freed his fingers of the waistband, and stepped back. If this were Dave or Jake it would be a pretty choice time for a wedgie, but somehow right now it did not seem appropriate.
Possibly because Karkat might squeak, but after that he would probably try to maul John. He was pretty well maul-equipped. John considered his hands, loosely fisted so the murderclaws weren’t visible. They’d considered asking Karkat to trim them short, before coming here.
So far outside of training he’d used them mostly to climb walls in improbable fashions to avoid his butt being chewed on by grumpy dogs, and he might possibly need them as a last resort thing in case of… last resort needs, so he got to keep them.
"—Okay! Sorry, I zoned out. Stay here, I’m getting the rest of your stuff."
He zoomed off, came back with an armful of socks and shoes and jacket. Karkat had both hands on the sink counter and was staring at himself in the mirror. Maybe it was the tie and shirt, but he looked broody.
"Socks! For your feet. Sit on the counter, I’ll help."
"No," Karkat replied, and snatched them from his hand, looking tired.
He figured out which side was for the heel in two seconds and pulled them on, grimacing faintly. He had trimmed his toes (using Bec’s claw-trimmer, because the humans’ nail cutters weren’t wide enough to fit over the whole width) so they didn’t pop through the end of the socks, which… was something, John guessed. John handed him the shoes and watched him push his feet in, make a face.
"Yeah, they’re going to be a bit too tight for a while, sorry. Tell me if it starts to hurt, okay?"
Karkat grunted, dismissive, without looking up to meet John’s eyes; John sighed. Yeah, there was just about no chance he would, if they started hurting while he stood before all the people he wanted to meet. He’d just suffer in silence. Bluh.
"Jacket." John handed him the jacket, waited as he put it on, and then stepped in to fix his sleeves. “There should be a half-inch of shirtsleeve showing at the end, but just a half," he explained quietly, mostly so he didn’t have to think too much about his hands on Karkat’s wrist, and then by his chest as he did up the jacket buttons in turn and smoothed his tie back in.
He took a step back, looked him over from toes to head, laughed a little. “Whoa, weird."
Karkat’s lips twisted in a disgruntled grimace, turned away to stare at himself in the mirror. He did not seem impressed, red eyes traveling all over what he could see of himself with his eyebrows furrowing a little deeper with each second.
"Aw, don’t fret, you look nice. Come on, the mirror over there is bigger."
Karkat followed with a short but deep sigh. Once he was before the bigger mirror in the other room he just… stopped and stared, touched his chest gingerly, looking more and more troubled. He turned around to look at himself from the back, frowned deeper, stared at John.
"Uhn. Zhann?"
"What’s wrong?"
Karkat opened his mouth, and closed it, like he didn’t know where to start. “A thing is no… here?"
"Something is missing?" John blinked, turned to check the suitcase. “Oh, hey, you get a pocket handkerchief thinger. Right, don’t move."
Dad had taught him everything he knew about suits, and he knew a ton. John had promptly forgotten almost all of it; he had to think a little before he remembered the proper way to fold it. He tucked the white silk handkerchief in Karkat’s breast pocket, grinned. “There! Super classy, Karkat."
"Rhsst." Karkat started massaging the base of his horn, eyes closed in exasperation. “No! Not that thing! Shitdumb, you." He tapped the middle of his chest with emphasis. “Here."
John didn’t get it until he was done drawing the round, squishy lines of the slime ghost logo.
"… Pfff."
Karkat threw his hands in the air and glared at the ceiling like he was asking the tiles for patience. "What!”
"Why would a suit have that thing on it, Karkat, you’re so weird! It would look so silly, wow. Okay, maybe kind of cool and hilarious and something I would totally wear, but I don’t think politicians or stuffy old Army dudes would enjoy it much."
Karkat was staring at him. Like, really hard. Like John had done something especially impossible and-or especially stupid.
"Uh. Yeah, what?"
"That thing. You have that thing in — on shirt and shirt and shirt and shirt."
“Every shirt. Yeah! It’s funny. But it’s just something I saw on TV and liked. And then Dave tried to make it a joke by putting it everywhere, but then I liked it and I kept them. Why?"
Karkat stared another second, and then he started muttering under his breath once again.
"On TV," he muttered darkly. "TV. Okay, no. What that thing mean. Hn?"
"Nothing! It’s what I’m trying to tell you. What did you think it was? The Skaialabs logo is totally different, buddy—"
“AUUUGSH!”
John stood there dumbly and blinked a lot as Karkat raked both hands through his hair and yanked, snarling. The gold part of his eyes had gone a little orangey. He yelled something at the ceiling, stomped his way to a wall, and kicked it hard enough to crease his brand-new leather shoe.
"Karkat? What—"
"Shitfuckstupidhell! Aie’ttserne rhess — rauugh!" Another kick. The mirror shook on the wall. Um.
Someone knocked hard at the door. Ummm. "Egbert?! What’s going on?!”
"Nothing, it’s fine, stay out! Karkat, what the hell?!"
Karkat was now pacing around the room, swearing and hissing, though at least he’d stopped yelling. He was still raking his hands through his hair, which had been enough of a royal mess to start with, and then ruffling it hard, scratching. He was going to hurt himself at this rate.
J.Noir: what the fuck is going on in there. can you even tell me that.
JH: uh no, i can’t, i’ve got no idea either. :/
JH: he looks more frustrated than violent, though, hasn’t even broken anything. prolly just blowing off stress. i’ve got it.
“Zhann."
Karkat stopped before him, pretty much backing him against the table, and stared hard at him. Since he was more or less trapped, John sat on the table casually and tried to look earnest and listening. “Yeah?"
"I ask white shirt, no…" He quickly drew the slime ghost’s lines, flicked his fingers as if to sweep it away. “I get?"
"Uh — yeah, of course! Man, you should have told me earlier you hated it that much, I’d have asked Jake or Dave to trade."
Karkat closed his eyes, face pinched as if praying for patience.
"And we would definitely have gotten Dad to buy you your own shirts way faster!" John assured him, wincing a little. “I just … didn’t know you minded that much?"
Karkat let out a long, hissing breath, and grabbed the suitcase, searched it quickly, pushed it away along the table. He stalked off and started pulling open drawers next, quickly touring the room and checking every single piece of furniture the room contained.
"Uh. What are you looking for?"
Karkat came back out of a little cupboard with a pencil, stomped back to the table, tried it on a flyer with his eyes narrowed grimly. He pulled out his chest-pocket handkerchief thing next, tested the pencil on the back in a corner. Silk and graphite didn’t mix super well, but eventually he flipped the handkerchief over to the side that would show.
"Um. Karkat?"
Karkat hesitated, pencil poised over the cloth. "… No. Hrrn. No that. I want — rgh."
"I don’t think we have any pens here, I didn’t think to bring any. Dad would have some in his pockets, but…" John looked around, a little lost. “Do you want me to call him to ask?"
"No," Karkat replied, and stomped his way to the door to the antechamber. He yanked it open before John could tell him not to. The men packed outside went tense really fast; John hurried to his side so he could grab him if he tried to get out, but Karkat stayed on the threshold on his own.
"The fuck does he want?" Jack Noir asked with that eternal bitter and displeased look on his face. Karkat turned to him.
"That." He showed him the pencil. “I want not that, I want — f’gh." He pointed at his eye next, stared at the man.
"You want a red pen," Noir said slowly.
“Yes."
"Why?"
Shoulders squared, feet set, Karkat bared his teeth. “Because fuck you, why."
John and several of the men cringed; Noir stared at Karkat for another very long five seconds, and then snorted in (oh lord how) amusement.
"Bannister, you heard the alien, go ask a manager for a fucking red pen. Wouldn’t want to be called inhospitable, right."
One of the men in body armor slipped out of the suite and hurried down the corridor. Karkat crossed his arms in a grimly satisfied way and waited.
"Dude, you’ll crease your suit—"
"Fuck you Zhann."
"I really need to teach you more insults, bro. Come on, let’s go back inside, they’ll tell us when they have the pen."
Karkat stared at him with suspiciously narrowed eyes as John took him by the elbow and guided him back in, but he allowed it. John went to pick up the brush and pointed it at Karkat’s hair.
"Tame that thing before the guy comes back, you look like a bush in the dark. Or maybe like a wild bear. An angora bear. I can’t even see your horns anymore, dude!"
"Fuck your shitface mouth," Karkat groused as he snatched the brush from his hand; but he didn’t throw it at anything breakable and even actually used it, which was not something John had hoped for very much. “Stupid, stupid, bad, stupid."
"You or me?"
"You and me!"
John snickered. “Oh, well, in that case."
His hands itched with the need to smooth down that epic cowlick at the back of Karkat’s head, even more vigorous than his own, but he had a feeling the alien would not appreciate John’s hand on his hair right now. Or anywhere else on him, actually. He sat on the table again, tucked his hands under his thighs, feet swinging, and worked very hard at not saying anything.
Noir’s man eventually came back with a handful of pens; Karkat stalked his way back to the door and had snatched them from his hand before he could offer them. Karkat then visibly made himself pause and say a grudging “Thank you," before closing the door neatly in his face.
He went back to the handkerchief and spread his assortment of pens on the table; John leaned in to watch. One was a hot pink highlighter, which was dismissed with an irritated little sniff; the rest were a ball point pen, a crayon, and two felt-tip pens, all of which he all tested on the back seams of the handkerchief before deciding on the thicker felt-tip.
He put the folded handkerchief back in his pocket, marked the line where it emerged with a finger, pulled it out and flattened it on the table again, and then he drew two swift curves on the cloth.
John leaned over his shoulder, frowning a little, wondering if they would be the two back-to-back longbows of his Empress, but instead they were more like horizontal parentheses, the top one with a circle attached on the left end and the lower one with a circle on the right.
It sort of looked like a somewhat elongated 69 on its side, only with smaller circles. Huh.
Karkat settled the handkerchief back in, straightened the folds, checked himself in the mirror. John looked with him.
The little symbol wasn’t even as long as his index finger, but bold red on white, it showed well enough, he supposed.
The biggest change was the way Karkat stood.
Feet apart, back and shoulders held straight, stare direct — not defensive anymore, not tense, just ready. A weird shock ran down John’s spine. It was like — like something significant had happened, he knew that much, he just couldn’t understand what.
"You good now?" he asked, just a little hesitant. Still peering at himself, Karkat nodded firmly.
"Yes."
"Well. Uh. Good."
Karkat spent the remaining fifteen minutes sitting on the table, staring at the door. John spent them on the couch, trying to sprawl without creasing the hell out of his stupid uniform.
Knock at the door. “Egbert! Time." Dad still wasn’t back.
JH: dad?
PL: Will join you shortly. Advise you follow Mr. Noir.
JH: ok. :/
Wow. Terse. Must be busy.
PL: You’ll be fine.
JH: heh. wasn’t worried.
John got up, smoothed down his uniform. Karkat had already slipped off the table and was staring at him with burning eyes. He had his headset on, half-hidden under the mess of his own hair. He’d tamed it some, John could see, but no one who didn’t know him would be able to realize it usually was worse. Oh, whatever.
John clicked his headset on. Showtime.
Karkat didn’t respond in words, just in feelings — battle-nerves, battle-eagerness, and a burst of shame and guilt that he quickly pushed underneath before John could grab it and look it over more closely. (No time for that, back off, John.)
They came out into the antechamber and Noir handed John handcuffs. Which hand do you want free? he asked as he turned to Karkat. They were both right-handed.
Left’s fine, I’m used to it/you’re not.
John closed the handcuffs around his left wrist and Karkat’s right, let Noir tug on them to check, and then they stepped out. Men fanned out before and after them, blocking some corridors entirely.
Other men beyond (loudheavy thuds, big boots metal shellarmor.) Who?
Other groups/security not Noir’s, allies. (They don’t know you not used to you might be twitchy.)
"Tch." We’ll give them no excuses.
John borrowed Karkat’s horn sense to try to feel the men moving overhead and underneath and behind the corners. They must be really heavy for him to feel them from that far, with how small his horns’ radius was. (Fuck you so much, you hornless freak.) And there really were a lot of cables running in the walls — huh.
Bzzt. Bzzt. What’s that?
Ankle beacon.
Oh. Wow, so regular and sharp, it made for a startling feeling every time. Doesn’t it get on your nerves?
(Not any more than your flat-toothed face.) Shh. Showtime.
They walked down a wide, winding staircase and reached a set of fire doors. Noir stopped there.
"Egbert. And you."
"Hm?"
The man stared at them in turn for a couple of seconds.
"… Don’t make me regret not shooting you earlier. Too much fucking paperwork if I have to do it in here."
"Yes sir," Karkat said, entirely serious. “No paperwork." Then he flicked him an actual smile.
Okay no, John said as he pushed the fire door open to let Karkat in and get away from Noir and his weird amused/offended/gonna-stab-this expression. This is bad wrong he’s an enemy you remember?
Pfft yes I do but not a real one. Won’t attack/kill with no warning. (You/we are important to Mr. Strider he might not like it but a little important to him too.)
Last door. Fuck, he could almost feel the weight of the attention of the people behind. But he hates him!
No duh that’s exactly why. Let’s go.
John curled the fingers of his free hand like he was preparing for takeoff and stepped into the conference room.
Amphitheater style; three half-circles of seats. Only the middle and last one were occupied; the second with fifteen to twenty older men and women, the third with armed security. They had come in on the front dais, on the lowest level.
Some of them looked like they were wearing actual power armor, metal and servos that could help the man inside lift up or punch through a car. John had seen schematics; Karkat had seen the real deal, once, during his stint in the infirmary. (If you tore through the weaker parts on the lower back you could cut the power on half of the body at the low cost of a few really painful but not debilitating electric burns on your arm.) (Huh, I could have done it even easier through that area.) (Stop looking at my state secrets, bud, shoo!)
A half-dozen of Noir’s men spread out before the first rank of desks, crouched there so they wouldn’t block anyone’s view. John and Karkat scanned the room, nodded briefly at General Harley, who was seated toward one of the ends of the half-circle, and who smiled genially back. He nodded them back at the security person lifting a chain from under the little desk thing they were standing by and holding it for Karkat to put his free wrist in.
John expected it to make Karkat nervous — chained to the podium he would be even more powerless than merely chained to John — but Karkat was glad instead; alone and not tall and low-caste and they were still taking him that seriously, it was good. Felt good.
Luckily John’s dad came in before the silence got too oppressive in the room. Dad was perfectly put together but his mouth was pinched, displeased.
Someone tried to make him late, Karkat thought, and nudged John to look at the representatives, wondering if there was one who looked disappointed. John didn’t notice anything weird, though.
General Harley stood. “The Committee of the International Committee for Ethics Oversight and the Allied Military of the United Nations of Earth calls Mr. Paul Egbert of the Skaialabs Board of Directors to the podium."
"Thank you, General." Dad moved behind the podium, turned to face the crowd. “I present Karkat and John Egbert, his translator, to the committee."
Harley said, “The Committee acknowledges Karkat and his translator, John Egbert," and sat back down with great formality. (John wasn’t sure how you could sit down in a formal way but Grandpa Hass managed it somehow.)
Couldn’t Harley have introduced us straight on, Karkat was thinking. Nice and obscurely formal just like home. John tried not to smile.
Okay, we’re up.
He felt Karkat rifle quickly through his mind, find nothing more useful (damn it!) than “Stand at attention, be respectful." Well; they’d just have to wing it.
Dad stepped aside; Karkat stepped up, and John followed him.
For a second they both drew a complete blank.
"Mech Warhammer pilot, John Egbert," John said, and turned to introduce Karkat.
Who lifted his chin in an oddly non-challenging way and said, over-enunciating the vowels because humans were deaf, so deaf, “Karkat Vantas."
… You have a last name? Second name? Holy crap your name is not just Karkat? My mind is blown wow.
Yours is Egbert I thought that was Dad?? No wait explain later shut up.
"Letting me speak," Karkat said, “thank you."
Only he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know — fff. No. Breathe. They wanted to listen. It was good. It would be fine. They wouldn’t kill him for disrespect anyway. (For what?? Dude!) (Oh right you’re all pansies.)
"Will … Mister Vuntes take a question?" an older man in a civilian suit asked, looking sour.
Karkat looked up at the old dude, and then flicked John in the brain somehow. John blinked. Ow. “Oh — yes, he will."
"You appear to speak English. For what purpose do you have a translator?"
"I speak bad," Karkat said, and looked at John.
"Karkat has been learning at a relatively fast rate, but he still has less than two months of exposure to the English language, sir. He doesn’t have more than basic knowledge of grammar and he still has a pretty small vocabulary." Most of which is bad words. Pff.
If you make me laugh before them I will arrange to kill you with your own dick to the bafflement of everyone in the universe.
I thought we’d agreed we don’t exist below the belt and over the knees, buddy.
PL: Explain the telepathy for the record.
Oh, right. “I will now explain the function of the headbands we use for communication for the record."
He was pretty sure everyone in here had already received a report or twenty about it, but it was probably better that they make sure everyone was clear on it. Thank fuck for Jade’s rambles, and thank fuck for the file Roxy had mailed him earlier that day, which he now just had to read out loud.
"The headbands Karkat and I are wearing contain a gel that transmits brain waves, combined with Earth-make radio transmitters. In effect, they are telepathic headsets. What’s transmitted isn’t complete thoughts, exactly, and it’s nothing like speech — it’s a mix of moods, images and notions, which the receiving person’s brain — so, mine right now — reinterprets into things the person can understand. I then put them into words."
Um. Okay. Was that clear enough or a tangled mess or too informal or what.
"That means there can be a certain amount of data loss, doesn’t it?"
John tentatively dubbed the old dude Interrupdude. “Of course, just like with pretty much any translation into a foreign language." He shrugged, and then remembered it wasn’t very classy. Bluh. “Sometimes notions that we don’t have in our culture are translated into the closest available equivalent, which means we miss nuances, or they will simply refuse to translate, in which case we’ll have to break it down until the ideas go through. Most of the time it’s fairly straightforward, though."
An old woman in a General’s tabs and uniform raised her hand. “Will Mister Ventis answer a question? Two of them, actually."
Karkat and John both arched an eyebrow. “Yes, ma’am."
"Does he have a rank comparable to what we might use on Earth?"
Huh. John had never really wondered about that.
Of course not you’re not military at all you’re a mech sports superstar. I’m —
"Ah — I would say… Corporal, ma’am." Huh. Nice.
And he didn’t want to be dragged into a conversation about how ranks were different in alien land (by which I mean really weird!)
"Your second question, ma’am?"
She gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “How long has he been enlisted?"
Bluh. Why did she even want to know that. They had actual stuff to talk about here. Well, he friggin’ hoped. Uh, Karkat?
Establishing how much of my ass I still take for a hole in the ground, of course, Karkat replied, and then they started prodding at the chunk of time Karkat had given him.
"Hm. We’ve established an approximate equation for time measurement, so it’s — a year and a half? Give or take two months either way."
Her bushy, gray eyebrow went up. “Third question, if you’ll permit."
Damn it.
"Yes, ma’am," Karkat said, face impassible and mentally kicking John in the knee.
"Do Corporal Ventis’ own people use the telepathic gel for the same ends? By which I mean communication with aliens and-or interrogation."
Oh yay, change of topic! Vaguely more relevant, that one. At least relevant to the setup of the actual, eventual discussion. John glanced at Karkat, who gave a faint nod. Yeah okay, tell her.
"No, ma’am, they have naturally telepathic people for that. And for longer distances they use technical means the same way we do. The — uh — neural fluid? — is used to synchronize with the biomech. Basically it amplifies their thoughts so they can act as the mech’s brain."
"Are they really alive?" someone John didn’t see called out from the other side of the amphitheater. He sounded grossed out.
John said, “No," just as Karkat said “Yes." They looked at each other.
"Which one is it?" the same person called again. Rude. This time Karkat saw him; a really pale-blond dude in a military uniform John didn’t recognize at a glance. Probably one of the smaller independent countries. The European Union Brigadier-General next seat over was glaring sideways at him.
"The animal used in the process of creation becomes brain dead, but the mech still, still breathes and has basic nervous activity and it’s, well, not rotting. So, technically alive? But it’s maintained that way by artificial… biomechanical pacemakers and the like."
"Do you even understand anything you tell us? Christ."
John smiled. Do you mind if I take a minute?
Karkat sighed. No, go ahead he asked for it. (Gotta make yourself respected or they’ll pounce anyway, fuck them.)
"Sir, you may not have been informed, but I’m a mech pilot. Ask me to calculate reentry trajectories or refueling timelines on the fly while handling several tons of metal at high velocities, that’s easy enough, but biology is outside of my area of expertise. I’m sure you will be able to get reports from someone who’ll be able to explain the alien neuroscience in more detail."
J.Noir: politest fuck you i’ve heard in a while.
JH: it’s all in the suave, charming grin.
JH: karkat wants me to tell you that when we come out of the room he is going to hit me and he’ll make sure it’s not lethal enough for paperwork.
"That said, Karkat — ah, Corporal Vantas—" that wasn’t quite the right sounds, but then again neither was Karkat, and still closer to the couple of attempts they’d heard already "—would like to take some time now to discuss the topic for which he asked an audience, so if there are no more questions…"
Silence. John tried not to shiver. He was finally going to get to know!
"I understand," Karkat said in his growl-hissy alienese, and John followed, one beat behind, “that your planet has certain general standards for the treatment of prisoners of war."
Silence. Apparently that tack had surprised everyone. John a bit less; he’d been there for the conversation with Rose, after all.
"I also understand that it’s not certain that everyone will accept ‘sentient being’ as an equivalent to ‘human.’ I would like this point to be sorted out and out of the way first of all."
"Are you complaining about how you’ve been treated?" a Russian Air Force Colonel asked, scowling heavily, in the middle of sudden whispering. Karkat stared back, face blank.
"No, sir," he said by himself, in a calm, carrying voice. (Behind the calm steel was a storm of things John wasn’t allowed to get at, not yet, not yet—) “I’m not. I don’t want I give my people to you and later they’re dead."
Silence, again, breathless, poised. He had them.
He had John too. Holy shit, John sure as hell hadn’t seen that coming.
Karkat nudged him inside his head, brisk and businesslike, closed. (John wished he wasn’t, but he knew why. The vicious undertow of guilt and shame made entirely too much sense now.) Talk for me now.
"I have seen that your people have a totally different approach to — to people," John tripped a little, “to soldiers. It’s not like that with us. Every year many are born, no one but their—" friends? Lovers? It wasn’t family but — argh, he was losing the rest of the sentence. "—close friends care. If they live they can… climb in grade, if not — uh. Acceptable losses. Next year there will be more trainees. We can all die, next year there will be more."
"And it’s normal?" someone asked, aghast.
"Yes. The Empire says it’s normal. It’s — good. It’s strong. Only the strong live and pass their genes on. If you want to be strong it’s normal. If you’re weak and you cry you can go to the front lines first, you can be mocked and pushed away by your — your year mates — peers. Don’t — think about it, don’t, just do it—"
(It’s not normal here, it’s not, I want that, fuck you to the last one, it’s not fair, I want that.)
John bit his lip, shook his head. “My apologies, this is — a bit of a jumble." Shit, more than that.
A civilian raised her hand. Karkat nodded. “Yes, Ma’am."
"Are you perchance a r-strategy species? That is, a species that reproduces in great numbers, and invests comparatively little adult attention and energy in the hope that at least a few of them will attain adulthood and breed in turn?"
Karkat blinked slowly. John replied for him. “Yes, ma’am. Adults — most adults? — are not involved at all. Apart from the, uh. Conception part, I mean."
She gave him a dry look. “Yes, thank you, Warhammer, I had assumed."
John’s ears reddened and he tried not to glare. “That’s straying from the topic, though."
Karkat moved his wrist a little, tugged on John’s handcuff. … I need you not to clown around right now. (It’s not funny it’ll never be funny.)
Right, crap, I’m sorry. I just it’s such a pile of shit I can’t, my brain just—
I know. Quick sweep it under the rug whee just like it was never here. It’s how all your brain shortcuts work. I need you to stop that.
… I will. Sorry.
He firmed his stance, pulled his shoulders back a little bit.
"I know," they said together, and then John continued alone, just a voice, fitting words together from images and wordless understanding, “that you can’t make a binding decision on the personhood status of my species as a whole today, with so little warning. But I also know that my commander was given the hotshot rookies and the unpromising — rabble — with the understanding that — each and every one of our deaths was, was valuable data, and if she brought enough data back she would get to captain a new ship."
Shit, shit, shit. All those half-unseen spaceships in Karkat’s mind, a mere suggestion of something that would blot out the sky several times over. John breathed out, tried to empty his mind. Kept talking, somehow.
"She is wasting us because we don’t matter. We’re just one base-ship. We’re the test run."
Holy shit, John couldn’t help but think, no, no, if you scare them too much they’ll start to wonder why they should even bother wasting the resources to—
Shh I know. Keep talking. Karkat slipped around his mind, nudged in. It was easier like that, closer and easier, for both of them.
"What you need is time," they said. “And every minute the ship is coming toward Earth is a minute wasted. A replacement will take a while coming, you’re nowhere near far enough along your predicted timeframe for it to become necessary. Your response needs to happen now."
"Necessary?" Dad whispered beside them.
"We’re mapping your progress curve," they told him, looking over. “You’re learning fast, but you’re starting from too far behind."
People were starting to whisper and talk together in the room, outrage and fear. They turned back to look at them. The woman General was staring back, arms crossed.
"To evacuate in time, you need me," they concluded, “and I need my year mates."
PL: John. Are you alright?
JH: we’re fine, dad.
PL: I am not addressing “we."
JH: …
JH: i’m fine. little syncing up between copilotpals. nothing to freak out about.
It was jarring to go out of sync. At the same time, his father’s tightly restrained horror — it shocked him, reminded him of the horror he also… And then Karkat was pushing him the rest of the way out, shuddering, fists clenched behind the podium.
Shit that felt really wrong (really too right) what the flying flock of fucks.
If it’s any help I don’t think there’s any way it would have lasted past the time we went back to the suite! John sent back, face trying to contract into a mildly hysterical smile. Holy shit, holy shit. You should see the bed they’ve got in there even I can’t say it’s meant to be slept on more than in passing, like, to recuperate.
Oh lord.
Silk sheets and sinfully fluffy pillows and bouncy like a dream it’s big enough to fit like five people —
John for the love you bear Rose do not make me send her lapdog/balance/boyfriend back to her with his alien dick lodged up his left nostril, I swear to all that is holy I will find a way to coil your spine at least three whole revolutions before it gets in there.
See? John shot back with a wide inner grin, lip twitching as he forced it down. We’d snap apart the second I think “I want to jump on it."
… You are depraved.
"Corporal Vantas," the General barked out, startling them. John realized he’d been sort of staring in her direction without saying anything. Whoops. (She was using John’s pronunciation now, heh, wonder what she’d think if he told her that the first he’d heard it was today.) “Do you think Egbert is compromised?"
Karkat snorted, quirked her a weird smile. “Yes."
John spluttered.
"It’s okay," Karkat said. “Me too."
(Oh.)
"Warhammer," she said. There were people watching them, listening, though about half the room was snarling at each other in more or less contained tones.
"Yes, ma’am?"
"Do you feel able to kill his friends when they come for us?"
He looked at Karkat. Karkat met his eyes, expressionless.
"Yes, ma’am. It’s war. That makes it fair. No hard feelings." Then he grinned. “Plus I have it on good authority that I’m not pretty enough for the cushy harem position anyway."
Oh my god, fuck you. (that is so not true anyway shit fuck hell PLUG YOUR MIND EARS AND BUTT OUT.)
Karkat tried to raise his hands to yank off the headband, but one of them was chained to the podium and the other one was chained to John, who refused to raise his to match (that turdfondling taintsniffer.) John grinned — Jesus but this day was completely insane, adrenaline everywhere and nowhere for it to go — and said to the room at large, “Thank you for allowing us to address the Committee. If there are no more questions at this time we will cede the floor."
There were not. Or more like there were but no one could hear themselves talk in there, and eventually General Harley got up all official-like and said they could, only in fancy words.
So you think I’m hot enough for the harem? he teased as they waited for a guard to finish unlocking Karkat from the podium. (One took their distractions from that horrible shame where they found them.) Ohoho, Mister Vantas.
Why not I’ve seen some ugly ones there for the novelty value your teeth would be pretty fucking exotic! Argh. You’re in good shape is all, like your oh no cut it off cut it off now please John I will beg —
John turned the headset off. He was pretty sure he could blame the last flash between them on Karkat; he’d never seen his own ass from that angle, that was for sure.
Karkat’s ears were a pretty nice brick red.
So was John’s face. Welp. Hehehe. Well, John supposed he didn’t mind. No harm in looking, right? (No harm in being looked at.) It wasn’t like Karkat would ever want to be unfaithful to his boyfriend anyway…
Surrounded by guards, they were herded back up the winding staircase, back to the hotel side of the building, and up and right and left, and it was weird to be alone in his head again, too many thoughts buzzing, (so many enemies looming on the horizon, but today they’d faced other enemies and they had them, they so had them, and Karkat looked at his ass, that was just too hilarious for words,) too many feelings.
They stepped back into the suite and were freed and the first thing they did was reach up to their throats, and they weren’t even telepathing at each other anymore, hehe. Karkat yanked his tie off, John pulled his high collar open, they both went about taking off their jackets.
Flop, flop, on the back of the couch, which was, John thought, the natural perch of jackets in a house, sorry. Dad would grump when he came back but he had just left again for God knew what reason so that was a while off.
Karkat rescued the pocket handkerchief from his jacket, stared at the symbol. John watched him. He still didn’t get it, that was one mystery Karkat still had left, but he could tell how important it was.
They stared at each other.
"I —" Karkat blinked, raised a hand to his head, took the headset off. “That. My head ow." He looked away from John’s face as he massaged the base of his horns with a hand, putting the headset down on the table and his handkerchief in the incomplete circle of it, like a teeny hot pink fence to keep people from touching it.
Right. John took off his hat, and then his headset, too, ruffled his hair where the flattened roots were starting to ache. The headset went on the hat like it was a headset stand, because why not, and why he couldn’t look at Karkat suddenly, he didn’t know.
"I want… They talk yes?"
"Yeah, for another couple of hours until the session is over, and then we can go home."
"Okay." Karkat breathed in deep, like he needed to brace, asked cautiously, visibly forcing himself to meet John’s eyes, “I want — me not you. No TV, no — no talk. Couple of hours no Zhann. Is… that okay?"
"Oh." John didn’t know if he was hurt or not. No, probably not, at this point togetherness was starting to look like torture, and John at least had gotten a few chances to tap out and be on his own here and there. Karkat had never even been left alone in a room on the island because their home wasn’t escape-proof, but this suite definitely was. “Okay, yeah. Which room do you want?"
"Bathroom," Karkat snapped back instantly. John laughed.
"Wow, I see you’ve had your eye on that tub for a while. Sure, there’s a tiny pocket bathroom off the main bedroom anyway, I probably won’t have to pee in the chimney."
Karkat snorted on principle, even though he likely didn’t get half the words, and with a little nod and a vague wave of his hand he snatched the pile of his normal clothes and disappeared down the corridor. John stood alone for a little while as he tried to decide what to do.
Maybe a nap.
Maybe he’d go yank off his boots, kick free of his constricting pants, throw himself on his back on that ridiculous mattress and bounce until the bed allowed itself to go back to stillness. Maybe he’d stare up at the silly princess dais.
Maybe he was already doing that, actually, and maybe his hand had landed on his thigh, and maybe several weeks’ worth of enforced chastity and quick, guilty, unsatisfying jerk-offs after everyone had gone to sleep or the morning in a goddamn toilet stall were starting to get really annoying.
Okay, yes. He closed his eyes and pushed his hand down his underwear, and didn’t know if he was surprised to find himself half-hard already. Maybe not very surprised. Adrenaline. Yeah.
Mnh. They had — they had rocked today, and John wasn’t even annoyed anymore that Karkat hadn’t talked to him first, hadn’t warned him, how did you warn for a bomb that size? You just dropped it and hoped they’d rise to the occasion.
(Stand your ground I know you can.)
The war — the coming war, that was going to be awful, so much worse than it already was, but Karkat didn’t get humans very well yet if he thought they were going to run. Hah. Saving his friends, though, yes. Making more allies, maybe. Yes, that’d be awesome. Couldn’t wait. Maybe Karkat would be happy.
Felt good. He bit his lip, froze his lungs to keep from gasping, silence ingrained in him since puberty. Goddamn dorm room. Couldn’t even — oh, he could now. Just like — just like in Warhammer’s cockpit, just turn off the mike for a minute, seated all nice and firm, enclosed, alone, safe.
He could gasp, maybe. Quietly. No one would hear.
He wasn’t going to last long.
He planted his feet on the mattress, knees up, bit his arm where it wouldn’t show through the sleeve even if someone came in before the nanomachines were done with the bruise, tightened his hold on himself. He pulled on his dick, tight and fast, no time to waste today, shoved himself toward his orgasm at a punishing pace.
He came with a short, muffled shout in the crook of his arm, cleaned himself up on automatic, brain mercifully blank.
After, he took a nap.
—
"Karkat? Dad brought sandwiches, and then we’ll have to go."
The door was locked, and he wasn’t answering. Had he fallen asleep in the bath? John knocked louder.
"Karkat, wake up, it’s almost time to go. Karkat?"
Something went thud in the room. The door unlocked with a click. “Yes, yes, what!"
Karkat peered through the crack. He was holding his button-up shirt closed and stepping on his too-long jeans; his hair was damp, sticking to his forehead and cheeks and flattened down, so that his little horns were visible to the start of the brick red zone.
"We go now?"
"Food, and then we go." John chuckled. “Did you fall asleep?"
"Uh — yes. Shut up." Karkat grumped, and started squinting down at his buttons and frowning in consternation. John remembered what happened the last time he’d tried to conquer them alone; he reached out and did up the two middle ones, at least, so his shirt would hold somewhat closed.
"There! You’re decent." …Karkat was staring at him. Uh. “What?"
"Zhann you go. I uh. Water on the tub. Make it fshoo. Go away."
"Yeah, go away is a good phrase for it, though that was a nice sound effect—"
"No, you go away," Karkat retorted, and closed the door in his face.
Rude! Huffing, John went back to the living room, where his father was finishing packing up John’s clothes. Were three Johnless hours not enough or what? He picked up a club sandwich and bit it in two mercilessly.
He’d decimated another three of them when Karkat finally came out, in tennis shoes and jeans and still the button-up shirt. Okay, wow, when he’d declared his enmity of John’s ghost slime he had really meant it. He even went to pick up his felt-pen monogrammed handkerchief before even a sandwich and put it to safety in his jeans pocket. (Then he didn’t know what to do with his headset and draped it around his neck like a weird collar. Heh. Wasn’t a bad idea, so John did the same with his own, since the box they had originally traveled in was nowhere to be found.)
Dad picked up Karkat’s suit from his arms and started refolding it as well. “Eat something, Karkat."
"Thanks, Dad," Karkat replied absently as he took one from the plate. John started giggling.
In the end Karkat ate more sandwiches than John did, even with his starting handicap, and drained almost a whole bottle of water to boot. (He bounced it off John’s skull once it was empty, but almost nicely.) They dragged themselves back to the underground parking lot and into the troop carrier with a couple of Noir’s calmer men; Karkat found a seat at the opposite end from them and made himself comfortable.
He looked all… thoughtful. Maybe a little subdued still, almost melancholy. Maybe just recharging.
(Maybe brooding. Maybe sad. Maybe guilty.)
(He’d betrayed his people there, even with the best intentions in the world. Even if in a way they had betrayed him first.)
JH: hey, grandpa.
HS: Yes my boy?
JH: why did we get to keep karkat really? why did they let us so easily?
HS: Oh that. They wanted to see if we could induce stockholm syndrome.
… Mother of fuck.
HS: I don’t think what we have here fits the clinical bill for it but if today was any proof it’s close enough for government work.
HS: You shouldn’t message people until you’re back on the island. Security concerns you know.
HS: Well then i’ll contact you tomorrow.
— Hass Harley [HS] is Away —
"Zhann, sleep?"
— Crap. John crouched low in the middle of the alley and stretched his thighs one after the other, busied his body, and hoped Karkat was too inward-turned still to notice his smile was a little wobbly. “Nah, I already had a nap, I’m not sleepy."
Karkat didn’t say anything, just blinked slowly and said “Mnh ‘kay."
He didn’t have anything resembling Stockholm Syndrome. John had never been cruel, never let him guess what would make him angry to make Karkat a nervous wreck trying to figure out how best to placate him, never even threatened to punish him — when Karkat mouthed off it cracked him up! Karkat wasn’t scared of him at all, John could feel that every time they put the headsets on. It was trust, not some gross mental mindfuck trick —
On his tenth angry crunch he noticed Karkat was already asleep.
John