Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you’re really not sure why you bother taking your dad’s calls anymore.
There’s a thousand things you could be doing right now, none of them exceptionally desirable, all of them more pleasant than sitting in near-silence on a concrete floor next to a surly Dersite. Even if the Dersite in question did take you in when you were a dumpy little grub.
Now you’re a troll. A dumpy troll. No longer little.
Spades Slick is sitting across from you on the cold floor of the hideout, fiddling with a baggy and some utensils. You keep glancing up at him, and then away; you know he doesn’t like it when you stare for too long. He’s grumbling something to himself as he sorts through his things.
It’s a beautiful day out. You could be anywhere.
He sits up a little straighter and squints at you, his gaze searing through you. Leaning forward, he sets a candle between the two of you and looks away before tossing you a little box of matches.
“Go ahead and light that,” he says casually.
You go ahead and light it. The hideout is already pretty well lit, so the atmosphere of the place doesn’t really change. If you were younger, or feeling bolder, maybe you’d have sighed in exasperation as you shake the lit match into extinction. You look around for a place to throw it out, but the garbage can is a few feet away and you’re pretty sure Slick will have words for you if you get up and start gallivanting about right now.
You stay put with your sad little burnt out match, and when you turn back around to face your adoptive father, he’s holding the spoon over the candle flame. It would be a shocking enough sight if you hadn’t seen it before. You know Slick – know him well enough to know that whoever this is for, it’s not for him.
He’s a professional, best in the business. You can practically hear his voice ringing in your ears. He’d bring it up at random when you were little, taking a walk through the neighborhood or heading back to your car through Wal-mart parking lots. At street lights, gas stations, sometimes even at home, if Deuce was so inclined as to offer him ibuprofen for any of his recurring ailments.
He’s no junkie, kid, he’s no layabout ex-vet or pregnant teenage girl hobbling around with no cardboard sign. He’s a businessman.
And he doesn’t get unprofessional with his goods.
For all you can say about your dad, you’ve never seen him waver on that.
He also won’t sell anything he hasn’t tested. He’s got a reputation to uphold, of course. Normally he’ll select a customer at random for this – they never protest. If he’s feeling thorough he’ll test the same batch out on a human, a troll, and a carapacian, to make sure a batch is good to retail to any species.
Earlier this week you recall him leaving you a voice message on Whatsapp, complaining about some particularly whiny disenfranchised Prospitan roaming about the place. You had kind of written it off since it had, due to the age and deteriorating quality of Slick’s phone and to the closeness of his mouth to the microphone, been largely incoherent. You suppose that must have been his first lucky customer.
Probably he’s going to ask you if you have any friends you can call and ask to come over. Your eyes glaze a little as you stare at the now steadily bubbling liquid in the spoon.
You’re not sure what you’re going to say to that, really.
“Sorry, Dad, I don’t have any friends to call. I don’t leave the apartment that you help me pay for except for to go to work, which I do at night, because I have issues with emotional regulation that make it difficult for me to do work involving frequent or long-term social interaction. There’s no one I can think of to invite over to shoot up for you. Not even for free.”
Without realizing it, your gaze slips off the spoon and towards the bottle sitting on the floor by Slick’s elbow.
The yellow label beams up at you, uncannily bright in the gray hues of the hideout. Mr. and Mrs. Bragg also beam up at you, proud as always to bring you organic apple cider vinegar in the raw.
You’re pretty sure you’ve never seen anyone on the street with a bottle of this stuff next to them. But then again, a 946 mL bottle of Bragg’s Organic Raw Apple Cider Vinegar was a clear $9.99 when purchased at a regular Healthy Planet location. Just the other night you were stocking some truly monstrous 128 oz bottles of regular Great Value brand white vinegar for a mere $4.67. So there’s that mystery solved.
The Walmart you work at carries Bragg’s too, you’re pretty sure. But it’s pretty nice stuff. Maybe they’ve got cameras in the Bragg’s aisle? Cameras in the organic fermented goods aisle? You make a mental note to check. Maybe they’ve been giving out Bragg’s at the needle exchange this whole time. You’ve never been – you’d be none the wiser.
Slick’s voice cuts through your idle thoughts, and you sit up a little straighter reflexively.
“Sorry, Dad, I don’t have any friends to call. I don’t leave the apartment that you help me pay for except for to go to work, which I do at night, because I have issues with emotional regulation that make it difficult for me to do work involving frequent or long-term social interaction. There’s no one I can think of to invite over to shoot up for you. Not even for free.”
If something changes in Slick’s expression, you can’t quite perceive it. He keeps staring at you. He’s holding a needle, already drawn up.
“Kid,” he says, “You’re good enough.”
He makes a face, dissatisfied with the way he’d phrased his previous sentiment, and wiggles the needle a little.
“You’re good enough to test this out for me. I don’t need any of your stupid friends.”
You don’t pull your arm away when he reaches out and grabs it, pulling it out towards him. But when you see reaching with his other hand for a strip of cloth sitting by the Bragg’s apple cider vinegar, you start leaning away from him, almost involuntarily.
“No, no, I mean, I can find someone,” you wheeze, already feeling yourself flush with panic. “I’ll – the signal is shit down here, let me go upstairs and I can call -”
“It’s ready now, kid,” Slick hisses, narrowing his eyes at you. “It’s a low dose, you’re going to be fine. Not like I’m going to sell it to you after this.”
He laughs shortly at his own joke. You don’t think it’s very funny. He yanks you forward firmly and leans in to tie you off.
You’re trying to think of something to say. You can’t run, and you’re certainly incapable of fighting – not while you’re in this kind of shape, not when you’re at this point in your life, not Slick.
He stretches the cloth around your upper arm and wraps it tight. Then he looks down at your lower forearm and frowns before readjusting the cloth, squeezing it even more firmly around your bicep before he ties it. He looks down and frowns again.
Hunched over, he looks up at you. You turn your head to the side, mostly unconsciously, avoiding eye contact. He’s staring at you.
After a long moment, he attempts again to tie you off. When he’s done, he pulls your arm directly in front of his face, staring intently. No luck.
Slick reaches up again to adjust the cloth, and this time, when he tugs at it, it rips clean in two.
The two of you sit in silence.
“Karkat,” he rasps. “If you do this for me, I’ll pay for three months of membership down at the Planet Fitness by your apartment. Whatever that place is called.”
“This is bad, Karkat. Droog’s been talking to me about this,” Slick continues. “It’s, it’s calories, and it’s in everything you eat. You have to pay attention. That junk food, it’s terrible for you. You’ll get sick.”
He looks up at you beadily. You meet his gaze.
He reaches up and claps you gently on the shoulder, the look on his face difficult to read. You’re reminded, as you occasionally are, that this is the Dersite that raised you. This, all of this, stems from a maladjusted desire to care for you, to keep you safe, and to eventually enable you to keep yourself safe, something you are aware is becoming less and less likely to ever come to fruition. He’s not shooting you up with Great Value white vinegar. He got you Bragg’s, from Healthy Planet. Because he loves you.
His clamps around your upper arm, metal fingers squeezing far tighter than the cloth had been able to, and this time, when he looks down, he sees something he likes.
The needle plunges down. To Slick’s credit, you hardly feel it.
You’re already feeling something by the time he’s standing up; makes sense, you’ve never shot anything before. When you look up at him, you’re cognizant of an unusual taste stinging at the back of your mouth.
It’s apple cider vinegar.
cool story by @myskyperevenge​ but not that well researched…
