"Do you have to file your claws now?" John moans from the other side of the store. He's spread out on the sofa, his feet propped against the top of the nearby display case of fake wands. "Can't you do something else, like eat those grub-shaped candies?"

"Not after you failed to tell me work was closed beforeI almost broke my goddamned neck!" You intensify your filing efforts, making sure that the noise produced is tenfold its original volume. John might be your friend, but you're not letting him off the hook for this mistake. "I spent a whole day with your fucking pit-lurk of friend!"

"Dave said you were actually pretty nice to him." John grins. It's a sort of knowing smile, —a smirk—which boils your blood. "Do you likehim?" His vocal pitch rises, bordering on high, to emphasize his undoubtedly stupid point.

As the adult of this situation, you simply rise from your seat behind the counter and walk outside. John, perhaps sensing that he's pissed you off, doesn't comment. He lets you leave without any interruption, and, when you step into the cool winter breeze, you're greeted with a familiar scent. The aroma of pine trees mingles with a slight hint of tobacco, and you immediately know the source.

When you turn your head, you find yourself staring at a confused-looking Dave Strider. His new speech processor is visible beneath his hair, though you'd expect it to be. As opposed to the last, which was colored to match his blond hair, this one is as black as the darkest night sky. Having noticed your gaze, he makes a poor attempt to cover the device, brushing a few more strands of hair over it before nodding towards you. "It looks like your ankle is doing better."He twirls an unlit cigarette between his fingers after finishing this statement. His feet scuff the now-clear sidewalk.

"Mhm." You turn your face away from him. "Thanks for yesterday. I was kind of rude..." Maybe it's your conscience talking. "So... You fixed your implant?"

Dave nods. "I hear you."After what looks to be a moment of vaguely serious inner debate, he lights his cigarette and sticks it into his mouth. From its pulsating red-orange tip, a thin line of smoke rises. It snakes into the air, spiraling and flowing like an untamed wisp. "What are you doing out here?"

"John was bugging me about you." To emphasize your point, you punctuate your statement with a grunt of annoyance. "He's got this bug up his perky ass about us getting together. Absolute bullshit, right?" you laugh.

He, however, remains silent. The expression on his face seems to falter, falling slightly. His shoulders tighten, yet they still fall. You've seen body language like this before, and it's after someone is kicked in the gut. His usual confidence has dissipated; now, he almost seems defeated. Yet, as soon as this registers, he returns to his usual self. He, too, laughs, though it seems a shallow parroting of your own. "Yeah. Absolute shit."

For some reason, you don't believe him. "You don't seem entirely convinced," you point out. You try to prod him, to pry him until he's willing to satisfy your latent curiosity. "What, were you in on the bet, too?"

"He has a bet!?"Dave's statement is made complete by his expression. His brows are furrowed, his mouth agape. He looks as if someone has slapped him across the face with a fish, then told him it was actually a wet shoe. What he doesn't look like, however, is a man about to give any worthwhile answers.

That won't stop you. "Of course not, you blithering wriggler bait. I mean, are you in on this, too?"

"I'm not in on anything!"Dave's jaw still hangs open like a faulty drawer. His eyes are wide, looking an awful like the tear-filled eyes of some disheartened anime character. "I was just surprised you said anything about us."

Surprise? That's not what it seemed like to you. "You acted like we had some sort of chance."

"I don't know what you're talking about."Dave huffs, then folds his arms across his chest. If you had to choose what he looks like, you'd pick a petulant child. He looks like a kid, who's just been refused some more candy at the store. Or, perhaps, he's the child caught red-handed in the jar of grub candies. Either works. "Why do you care so much?"

"I'm just wondering," you admit.

"Do you like me?"He doesn't ask this as a question; he intends it to be an accusation. And, in line with his intentions, you feel assaulted.

A grunt of annoyance. "I can't fucking stand you, Dave Strider!" you scoff. "I wouldn't date you if I got a million goddamned dollars for it!"

Again, you see a slimmer of disappointment. But, it's gone before you can definitely confirm anything. Again, he bounces back. "Whatever. I don't care."

With this, an awkward silence falls between the two of you.

You couldgo back inside, but you're dreading what John will say. If he knows you're out here with Dave, he'll start toying with you like one of those goddamned purrbeasts. (A cat. In hindsight, you realize that these are called cats.) Then again, every passing second adds another umpteen pounds onto the weight in the air outside. As it is, there doesn't seem to be an easy escape either way.

You simply choose the most convenient way. You clear your throat and say the first thing that comes to mind. "You were working on something in the shop yesterday. What was it?"

Dave frowns. He looks at you, frowns, and seems to take a moment to recall what you're talking about. When he does, he offers a wide grin. It makes it seem as if nothing happened, and you're perfectly okay with that. "Just a little design of mine for a tattoo. I'm thinking of getting another one."

"Another?" Your brows furrow.

Likely sensing your confusion, Dave rolls up his left sleeve, stopping about halfway up his forearm. (It occurs to you that you've never seen his arms before.) Apparently, the red fabric hid a world of wildly twisting flame motifs, whose forms suggest landscapes akin to valleys and mountains. Layers of tattoos seem to be on his skin, stacked atop one another like old drawings. The most prominent visible design is on his wrist—a vinyl record, split in half, with motion lines that flow around and upwards, creating the outline for the flames behind it. You sense that there's a deeper meaning to it, but you're not up for pushing that point right now.

Instead, you offer your honest response. "Fuck. You're pretty good." Then, out of nowhere, you continue, blurting out, "I've always wanted a tattoo, but I've never known what to get. And I'm not a big fan of needles."

"People tell me I'm a good person to get a tattoo from, because I don't speak back. They can just talk about whatever sort of shit they want to."Here, he pauses. There's another moment of thought. He plucks the cigarette from his mouth and rolls it between his fingers. After a few seconds, he replaces it and offers another of his increasingly familiar half-smiles. "I can do one for you, if you want."

Here, you should logically withdraw. You've never seriously thought about a tattoo, and all of your inner logic is screaming for you to jump ship. But, being who you are, you let your heart lead the way, albeit against your common sense's will. "Why the fuck not?"

"Cool!"Dave's eyes light up like a Christmas tree. His half-smile shifts to a full one, and the air of confidence around him swells to a new record high. As if he prepares for this sort of thing, he whips out a pocket-sized sketchbook and a pen. He begins drawing, the pen scratching across the page with rapid precision. As he does this, he hums an outrageously off-key rendition of a tune that's vaguely familiar to you, though you're not sure why.

"You don't have to do this right now," you grumble, thinking about how, if you were human, you'd likely be blushing. "Really. I have to go to back inside soon."

With both hands occupied, the most Dave can manage is a firm shake of his head.

"No," he seems to say, "I'm doing this now." You can picture it in your mind's eye—him, with his stupidly flourishing sign—communicating this to you with the shittiest of grins.

And, after a few minutes of silence, he shoves the notebook into your hands with a gruff grunt.

You look down.

A sketch presents you with a black-and-white image of a thorn-encapsulated sickle, around whose handle is coiled a length of thin parchment or silk. The material spirals outwards, creating a sprawling tangle of elegant lines, before arching above the blade, following its curve. Written in blocky, all-capital text is a Latin phrase, the meaning of which is a complete mystery—Sine metu. Helpfully, Dave's cramped, all-lowercase writing clarifies—Without fear.

You study it.

The detail is beyond what you've ever seen in such a rapid sketch, and the fact that Dave knows such as phrase further disproves your theory that he's a completely brainless oaf. As if this isn't enough to throw in your face in one day, however, lower left-hand corner bears some more tiny writing. His Pesterchum handle—turntechGodhead—and his phone number are also included.

(It doesn't slip by you that his phone number spells GET-REKT.)

"That's just a preliminary design. I'll polish it up later. The drawings transfer to the page below, so you can keep that one."With this, he offers another of his enigmatic smirks and a quick farewell salute. "I'll catch you later. Pester me and tell me what you think, I'll send you the finished design."He clicks his tongue and shoots you a double-pistols-and-a-wink gesture before departing.

You, meanwhile, are wondering how your desire for a signed book has led to you possibly agreeing to get a goddamned tattoo. You carefully fold the page and slip it into your jacket's inner breast pocket for safekeeping.