The Sixth Day of Dark: 9:00 AM: LOG 0004
It is far too early for you to be awake, but you must be. Damn this job. Damn it to the Human concept of hell and back.
On the bright side, after purchasing new shades for Dave before the sun actually rose, thus apparently avoiding a headache, it seems that your target is far more open and willing to speak than he was when you first met. And that's fucking awesome, seeing as it means you'll get more information. So far, though, it's been little more than asinine chatter.
"So... What're we out of?" Dave inquires, relaxing in his chair as John pushes him. "I know we need more juice. We always need more juice."
"I'll pee in a jug and spray some cheap apple scent on it."
(Disgusting.)
Dave laughs. It doesn't take much to see the chemistry between the two. "Look, jackass, I know the difference between fine apple juice and literal piss." He stops, cranes his neck to look at you, and frowns. "You don't know much about around here, so I might as well fill you in. We've got all your standard amenities, but they're probably not up to your snuff. I'm guessing you're from the nicer side of Alternia."
"Mhm." You lie. You fled Alternia before you were even six sweeps old.
"Well, it's probably a big..." He stops to squeeze out a few weak coughs. Then, as if nothing happened, he continues, "A big culture shock. Get used to it." From your vantage point, you can't see his eyes. You can't even tell what his passive expression means. For all you know, he knows what you're here for. It's unnerving as hell, and you don't like it. Even his words are delivered in the most infuriatingly unaffected tone. (Only to you, though. Never to John. With John, he's less of a robot.) "First stop's the grocery store. Keep your eyes peeled like naked grapes, meat shield, because it's fucking wild in there." He tends to drop the "G" at the end of words. You note that much, but you've got little else to show for the hour you've been with him.
In regards to Dave's words, you're skeptical. Nonetheless, you definitely won't be paid if he ends up being shot by some random mugger. So, you heighten your guard.
The Sixth Day of Dark: 1:00 PM: LOG 0005
Not surprisingly, the whole deal about the market being a vicious back alley free-for-all was a lie. It was a massive, filthy lie, but you had to take it at face value. After all, if you pull this off, you'll be the assassin everyone wants to hire. You'll be the de facto killer of the cosmos, which might not be the job of threshecutioner you'd always dreamed of, but it's pretty damned close.
That aside, you still haven't managed to squeeze any useful information out of Dave. It's getting ridiculous, and you're on the verge of giving up when he practically sticks an apple in his mouth and sprawls out like a stuffed pig on a platter.
"So, hey," he begins, having appeared in your doorway only moments ago. (You say "doorway" because your room has no door. You suppose it's an occupational hazard; a bodyguard with a door between them and their intended charge would be pretty useless.) He clears his throat and offers an anxious half-smile, an expression that somehow manages to make you consider the fact that he's pretty attractive. For a Human, that is. "I was a huge ass yesterday. Chock it up to a killer headache and the fact that I felt like I was having the worst hangover ever. Do... Do trolls know what a hangover is?" He pauses, seemingly filled with genuine concern.
Clearly, this asshole has some strange priorities.
"Duh," you respond. "I've been drunk plenty of times, sir." (Rule number two. Formality, professionalism, and etiquette. You've never been good at the last one, but you do your best to fulfill these rules as often as possible.)
At this realization, Dave breathes a sigh of relief. Then, without mentioning hangovers again, he continues, "Well, I feel bad about it, and I wanted to know if you maybe wanted to come have lunch with me. John's out picking up some things, but he fixed some toast and jelly." Dave frowns. His head tilts so that he's not longer facing you, and he rubs the back of his neck. His voice drops, turning to a muddled mutter. "It's not much, but... Sorry. I'm not that great at making money. Kind of awful at it. Can't hold a job to save my ass." Another sigh, this one more pensive than before. "We have butter," he adds, seemingly considering this a major development.
Somehow, the sheer fact that he thinks butter is some sort of luxury worth mentioning astounds you. In fact, it bothers you. You want to pull out the king's hefty down payment on your hit and give it to him, if only for the hopefully short amount of time he'll be around to enjoy it. Of course, with your profession, such attachment is bad. Horrible. Awful idea. So, you do your best to smother it to death with a moldy pillow. "Thanks. That sounds like a good idea, sir."
"Quit calling me 'sir' while you're at it."
"Understood."
As you step forward, Dave inches back. You follow him to the living room, and sit down at the rusty metal slab that serves as a dining table. As you sit down, Dave speaks up. "Anyhow, I never got your name. It's real shitty of me to be calling you a meat shield all the time, so..." Again, he turns until he's no longer facing you. Something, somewhere in his past, has made him as skittish about a personal connections as you. But, what was it?
"Karkat Vantas," you reply. "Pleasure to serve."
"You sound like Sollux when he showed up," Dave laughs.
You freeze.
You know that name.
Before you fled your home planet to escape culling, you were friends with someone named Sollux. On the other hand, it's not an odd name... "Captor?" You ask.
"Yeah," Dave continues, smiling all the while, like the oblivious fuck he is. "You knew him?"
(Shit.) A long, deep breath. In.
Out.
In.
Out.
"Nope," you lie, "Never met a guy like that in my life. Heard about him, though." You know you pulled these false statements off, but you can't help wondering what became of your former friend. Sure, getting close to people is an occupational hazard, but that can't apply to dead people, right? "What was he like?"
"Pretty cool guy, actually." Dave shrugs. He sets his right hand on the table, and you watch absentmindedly as the fingers seem to tremble constantly. Slight, tiny, sharp movements. "He programmed my chair for me and maintained our old security system. Made it out of old computers and stuff. I'm trying to figure out how he did it, but it's not as easy with one full functioning hand. Two would be ideal, I guess."
"Hm." By now, you've managed to beat your feelings to death. Your mind is once again focused on your primary task. "That explains the hand, then."
A casual nod. Dave takes a few bites of his toast, though he seems thoroughly uninterested in actually eating. "Side effects of being shot in the neck, dude. Kind of mean of the bullet manufacturers to not include a fucking warning label, though."
You have to snicker at his comment. He's got a dry sense of humor; you can already see that. (You've always admired that in people. Personally, you can't even tell your own jokes with a straight face. Even after all these years of straight up murdering people for money, you're a fit of giggles in the middle of a shitty knock-knock joke.) "Yeah. You and John... Are you two...?"
"No, we're not."
"Ah." A pause. You note how quickly he answered. That's not something to bring up anytime soon. "So, you lead the Prospitians?"
"John does. I used to, but it's too much for me to handle, now. I write the pamphlets, but John does the public engagements. It's actually nicer that way, though. I've always hated doing that sort of shit." At this point, Dave pauses. He curses under his breath, and it dawns upon you that the juice he'd been drinking is now all over the table. Some has also dripped onto your lap, which means your pants will be sticky as fuck until you can find a proper place to wash them. "Fuck. Sorry."
"What happened?" You know you sound clueless, but you were studying his facial reactions to your statements and analyzing his every word like some frazzled, burnt-out old psychologist.
"Reached with the wrong hand. I just forget shit sometimes and... Jesus. Fuck. Really, dude, I'm sorry. I know better than anyone what a pain it is to get apple juice out of clothes. Especially around here." By now, Dave's face has turned a vibrant pink. The fingers of his right hand twitch, seeming to unconsciously pick at the fabric of his admittedly ugly, tattered black sweatpants. His left hand busies itself with navigation. In a way, it's almost nice. As someone who usually does his best to stay unnoticed, it's a refreshing change to have someone so concerned about inconveniencing you. On the other hand, it tells you that Dave is as soft and stupidly sentimental as you are. And that's a problem.
"It's fine," you reassure him. "I've got some more clothes upstairs."
"No, really." Returning with paper towels, Dave proceeds to wipe up the resultant mess. After handing you a dirty dishrag, he averts his gaze. "This went... Badly. Sorry."
"You're fine." At this point, you're actually trying to reassure him. It's not some sort of disconnected jig around a target practice dummy anymore, and you're genuinely starting to feel sorry for this twit. Sure, he's a clumsy douchebag, but he's beating himself up over nothing. And, on a certain level, you can relate with that all too well. "It's a mistake. Happens to everyone. I'm not even the same species as you, and I've done some shit like this before, too." (Again, you're not too great at maintaining a perfectly professional and respectful tone. The point is that you try.) You dry yourself off, then proceed to help him wipe off the rest of the table. When it's cleared of all traces of juiced tree produce, you offer him a smile more sincere than any you've ever offered before (especially to a future victim of your occupation).
And, in return, he offers you a similar expression. It's slightly lopsided, but oddly charming. "Thanks. Sorry. I just get... Certain people I know don't take mistakes so well. He..." A sudden pause. Then, as if the past few minutes never happened, he adds, "It's nothing. Don't worry about it."
You, following instructions, do not. You don't have time to, anyhow.
Right now, all you're worried about is how the fuck you're going to kill this bastard.
You can't kill him. Hell, you can barely bring yourself to think about pulling the easy out card and poisoning his damned juice. There's just something about him... He's not some crime lord or murderer or shady corporate boss. He's just a guy with a life doing what he thinks is right. And it is right. But...
Money.
You want that money.
Shit.
This is going to be harder than you thought.
This is going to be much harder than you thought.