You have one day off per week. The exact day varies depending on the flow of customers and whether or not there's a major holiday, but you're guaranteed at least one day off for every seven days you work.

Not that you have much to do. You know few people in Skaia, and you're not comfortable going the usual routes to get new friends. Clubs aren't your style, and you're not about to sit and hang out at local dives like some sort of parasitic hipster.

On this particular day off, you find yourself itching to go somewhere. You want to go to the mall, but it's pretty far away, and you don't have a car. You also don't feel like dealing with public transit. So, you opt to walk to work. You enter, and find John re-shelving stock in the front. A pile of novelty pranks in shitty cardboard boxes sits on one side of him, and a stack of build-it-yourself fantasy-themed models are on the other.

Clearly, he's too busy to drive you there. (You've always hated riding with John, anyhow. His car is dirty as hell, and you usually have to move at least two empty Starbucks cups before you can sit down.) Still, you ask. "Have a minute, fuck-tooth?"

John turns, smirking at the nickname. Not to your surprise, he shakes his head. "I'm busy, and I want to actually clock in some hours. Dave is free today, though. He can take you."

At the mention of the blond-haired human, you wrinkle your nose. "Ugh. Maybe I'll just go binge on Netflix," you huff, burying your hands in your pockets as you turn away. "Thanks for the info."

"No problem." By the tone of voice, you can picture the dorky grin on John's face.

Despite your harsh words inside, however, you still wantto go somewhere. You've spent the past few days off alone, and it's grown tiresome. Beyond that, you want to at least try and meet a few people. You're not going to be the one loser of the Vantas family. You are notgoing to die alone, and you're not going to let Kankri steal the dating glory.

With a great deal of reluctance, you pull out your phone and send a text.

YOU: THE BLACK-HAIRED NEMATODE FUCK TOLD ME YOU'RE OFF TODAY. ANY CHANCE YOU'D BE ABLE TO DRIVE ME TO THE MALL?

The response comes quickly, almost as if he was waiting for someone. (Certainly, not you, though.)

DAVE: For what? Got a hot date with a buxom troll babe? ;)

YOU: YOU'RE A SKIVVY, WANDERING-EYED LITTLE PERVERT, DAVE STRIDER. NO. I JUST WANT TO GO DO SOME CHRISTMAS SHOPPING. OR HOLIDAY SHOPPING. WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO CALL IT NOW, THANKS TO THE "WAR ON CHRISTMAS".

DAVE: ... Please tell me that's a joke. I'm not sure I could handle if it's not.

YOU: OF COURSE, IT IS, YOU PEA-BRAINED SHITSTAIN. NOW, CAN YOU USE WHATEVER SORT OF UNDOUBTEDLY UGLY EXCUSE FOR A MOTOR VEHICLE THAT YOU DRIVE TO TAKE ME TO THE MALL, OR SHOULD I JUST CALL UP A TAXI?

DAVE: You're really mean, dude. Chill it with the insults.

YOU: WHAT? YOU CAN'T HANDLE SOME BABY-TIER BANTER?

DAVE: I'm more tempted to call it vaguely offensive shouting than friendly banter. I mean. Banter is like, "Ha ha. You're a buttface. But you're *my* buttface." You feel?

YOU: NO, I DO NOT FEEL. NOR DO I WANT TO FEEL. ANYTHING INVOLVING YOU IS SOMETHING I WILL NEVER PLACE ANY OF THE EXPOSED FLESH OF MY HANDS AGAINST. I'M DEADLY AFRAID THAT YOUR DOUCHEBAGGERY WILL RUB OFF ON ME.

DAVE: Harsh words. But, I am a *good person* and will do a *good deed* by taking you to do Christmas shopping for your imaginary friends.

YOU: THEY'RE NOT IMAGINARY. YOU CAN'T CALL ME OUT FOR BEING A JERK AND THEN BE AN ASSHOLE. THAT'S SOME TWO-FACED BULLSHIT.

DAVE: Not my prob, Bob. Meet me at my apartment. Lucky Estates, north building, 413.

YOU: I GUESS I OWE YOU A THANK YOU.

DAVE: Duh.

YOU: FUCKING *RUDE*.

By the time you've sent this final text, you've arrived back at the apartment complexes.

The building is large and ugly, just like yours. The bricks have been painted grey, though the color is starting to peel; you see the faded red beneath. Between two buildings—each fairly sizable—is a winding staircase, with a slate overhang to protect its users. A landing marks each floor. As you make your way onwards, you also realize that large red numbers, placed beside each landing's singular entry door, also demarcate the level you're on.

Following Dave's instructions, you enter the northern building on the fourth floor. You work your way down the narrow hallway—with its bland, boring ash grey walls; cookie-cutter light brown doors, each with the same silver handle; and, its shitty abstract art—passing a grand total of five rooms before you find Dave's, at the very end of the hallway.

The numbers are etched in white, onto a placard on the door (just above the faux mail slot), and underscored by a piece of plain white cardstock. Written on the white surface is a simple message, which is slotted into the place beneath the numbers—Occupant: David Joseph Strider. Beneath this, a plain piece of printer paper is taped to the door. Angry, angular red writing covers its surface, and an arrow point to a button taped next to it punctuates the statement.

Deaf dude inside, please ring bell for complimentary laser light show.

While you might be an asshole, you're not a complete social menace. You abide by the odd request, press the button, and wait.

Within seconds (again, as if he's been anxiously awaiting you, or someone), the door opens. This reveals the answer to the nonsense on the door, as you can see various haphazardly wired red lights flashing throughout the tiny studio space. Beyond this, you see him, and he looks as if he's dressed for someone. Your mind reels, trying to figure out what the hell he's doing. What sort of not-completely-wannabe-detective-level-eccentric bastard wears a goddamned suit and tieto the mall?

"Were you... going somewhere?" you sputter, letting your thoughts leave the silent realm of your mind and enter the waking world. "I mean, what sort of shit-fondling hell spawn wears a suitto the goddamned mall?"

Dave shrugs. The indecipherable expression on his face doesn't change. "I've still got to grab my wallet and put on my shoes."His eyes, which had formerly been avoiding you, meet your gaze briefly. He gestures for you to come inside. "Come on."

You obey, and find yourself stepping into what you can only describe as the wet dream of every cleaning infomercial set designer in the history of infomercials. You can't vouch for the cleanliness, or lack thereof, for the carpet, though you have a creeping suspicion that its light brown surface isn't supposed to have spotty splatters of a variety of darker colors. Enough dust has settled on every possible surface that, in many places, you can actually see it. You don't even have to be that close. You can see the dust on top of the television at the back of the goddamned room. Clothes are strewn like shitty, dirty confetti. Trampled paper and discarded art—with, in some cases, the designs peeking out from behind the crumpled remains—litter the space. Clearly, Dave Strider is one lazy, messy motherfucker.

Or, as a voice in the back of your mind points out, he might not be as put-together as he makes himself out to be.

You prefer the former explanation; it makes you less inclined to like him or sympathize with him.

"What is this?" you grunt, "Some sort of dumpster fire?"

Dave responds with a nervous laugh. He pockets his wallet and slips into a pair of black combat boots before turning towards you. "It kind of is."He claps his hands together, though his right hand stays in place, flattened at chest level, before moving his left hand (with palm facing upwards) forward and off to the side. You've seen many people do this, regardless of their knowledge of sign language, and it still has the same meaning. "Let's go."

It's a cherry red Impala, probably from the early 2000's. As Dave points out, and as you experience firsthand, its heating system has long since broken.

Otherwise, Dave's car is, surprisingly, immaculate. It's almost as if he's more accustomed to living in a car than an apartment, because the entire thing is spotless. Like some sort of soccer mom, he's even got a little plastic bag hanging in the back for trash.

There are personal touches, too. A lucky golden poo is glued to the dashboard, in line with the center of the steering wheel, and (to your surprise) a tiny, beaten-up silver cross hangs from the rearview mirror.

Dave, being focused on the road, hasn't spoken (or signed) much to you.

And you haven't had any bright conversational ideas.

Even as you pull into the parking lot of the mall, a solid twenty minutes' drive later, it's Dave who has to start the discussion. He points to the car, then provides you with its name. He spells it out, letter by letter, but not in a slow go-at-your-pace sort of way. Like everything else, it's a rapid-fire marathon of letters, and you're glad you know your ASL alphabet as well as you do. Otherwise, you'd be lost. "Its name is Carlton. Like a car."

"That joke sucks," you mutter.

Dave nods, seemingly acknowledging this fact. "It's a good car."

"Mhm." You bury your hands in your pockets and begin to go against the bitter winter wind.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Dave, following suit.

"Who are you getting gifts for?"Dave indicates his question by furrowing his brows and tilting his head back.

You simply shrug. "None of your business, you nosy fuck. But, I guess it's not worth arguing. John, my brother, his boyfriend, and I guess I owe you something."

"I don't need a gift,"Dave responds quickly.

You ignore the comment, continuing in silence until you get into the mall.

Unlike the one nearest to your home, it's an outdoor mall. The stores are more varied than your local mall, and there's more to choose from. Beyond that, Kankri and Cronus both want some sort of stupid healthy juicer. You're not sure what it's called, but you'll know it when you see it. And you knowthat the only place that carries it in the whole goddamned town is in this mall.

Specifically, it's a place known as the Guru's Garage. The inside smells like every herb you could possibly imagine all at once, and the aesthetic is akin to what you'd assume an intoxicated hipster would deem to be cool. Then again, your brother is bordering on being just that.

You grab the juice, then get the hell out.

From there, you head off to find John's gift. Unlike your brother, his is easier to find. You drop by a shitty toy store, tolerate the borderline patronizing staff, and grab him a whoopee cushion. If he's as easily amused as you think he is, this should keep him entertained for at least a month.

It's only as you exit, and are swept up by the crushing rush of Christmastime shoppers, that something hits you like a sack of errantly thrown potatoes. Dave. You're missing Dave.

You consider calling for him, but wonder what the use of such an action would be. From what you understand, the louder a place is, the harder it is for a cochlear implant's processor to parse out what's important. Then, you'd just look like an insensitive jackass. You consider texting him, only to realize that your phone is dead.

A knot begins to form in your stomach.

You've never been very good with crowds. You can handle yourself in a small one, but this is beyond that. This is the rush of last-minute holiday shoppers, and everywhere you turn is packed.

You don't know anyone else in town besides Dave and John.

You don't know which way you came from.

You don't even know which way the exit is.

So, in desperation, you do the only thing you can think of. You begin to elbow your way through the masses, going against the primary flow, and occasionally stopping passerby.

"Have you seen a human male?" you ask them.

When they ask for clarification, you tell them what you know. "Blond. Deaf. Has a cochlear implant."

"I don't fucking know. The last time I saw him was when we got here," you eventually yell in desperation. This prompts at least five people to leave you where you started—alone, vaguely panicked, and completely lost.

You muddle through what, if your estimates are correct, amounts to around an hour and a half of this before you realize that you've made a complete circle. The cycle of bullshit is complete, and you're ready to slam your face into a wall. Just before you do, however, someone grabs your shoulder.

You react by turning around and punching, only to find yourself face-to-face with a now bloodied Dave Strider.

"Shit!" he exclaims aloud, parroting the (apparent) only word he knows how to articulate verbally. Then, he signs. "What the hell was that for!?" He grunts, the blood from his nose transferring to both hands with his movements. Then, after wiping his bloodied nose on his sleeve, he continues, his signing softer and slower. You guess this is the equivalent of people speaking in that sort of sweet, saccharine tone to children or upset adults. (You'd be more annoyed at this if it wasn't for the fact that you're realizing that Dave Strider is making an effort. He's actually trying to keep you calm, and it flies in the face of all of your expectations.) "I've been looking everywhere for you."

"Yeah, well, you don't just grab someone's shoulder when they're about to fucking slam their face into a wall," you counter.

He responds by tilting his head to the side. He frowns. "The batteries died. I can't hear you."

"Oh," you mutter, suddenly feeling like a tiny jerk of an ant.

Dave simply shrugs. "I wouldn't hear you anyhow. It's too damn loud in here,"he confirms your theory. With his fingers touching his thumb, he touches his fingertips to his lower cheek. Then, with brows raised, his mouth open slightly, he moves his hand about an inch and touches his upper cheek. "Home?"

You nod vigorously, and allow him to lead you by the wrist to the car.

By the time you're buckled in and backing out, you find your eyes sliding closed. You're not surprised. Getting lost in a massive crowd of holiday hell tends to make one sleepy. You try to resist it, figuring that you'll have to walk home from Dave's, but end up succumbing to the gentle swaying of the vehicle.

You think you remember him taking off his jacket and throwing it over you at a red light.