The Eighteenth Day of Dark: 8:00 AM: LOG 0020

After everything you've been through and seen—all the people you've killed, some of them quite violently and with your own hands—you'd think you'd never be fazed again. After being soaked through your clothes with the blood of someone you just stabbed to death, you'd think you'd never be uncomfortable again. But, it seems that assumption was incorrect.

Because you're uncomfortable as fuck right now.

Being unfamiliar with Human anatomy, you're unsure of anything about the specifics of Dave's injury. All you know is that—in accordance with the sparse medical files you received upon being hired—he can move little more than his head and his left arm. As he's demonstrated, he can use his right arm, but it seems to you that it takes a fair amount of effort.

That said, you arrived to breakfast to find that Dave had already eaten. He hasn't moved, though, and he seems to be making a haphazard attempt at the newspaper's daily crossword. The plastic bit at the base of his throat is exposed, and he doesn't seem to care much about covering it today.

For the first time, you notice that the skin of his right arm, particularly on the upper portion, is marked by unaltered burn scars. Tiny details you'd never noticed, but find disconcerting now that you have.

Who is Dave Strider?

What happened in his past?

"You're ogling at me like I've got twelve fucking heads," he says aloud, snapping you from your thoughts.

"Hm..." You frown. "Sorry."

"I'm not fishing for an apology," he shrugs. His right shoulder seems to rise little more than an inch or so. Perhaps even less. "I'm just pointing it out."

You nod.

He responds with a sigh. "John's coming back tomorrow," he says, probably trying to find something to talk about. "Hopefully he'll be back in one piece. He's not the best as keeping his whereabouts under wraps." He taps the fingers of his left hand against the table, creating a rhythmic 4/4 beat. "Not like they'd target John. They barely know he exists, right?"

You freeze, though it's only for a fraction of a second. "Yeah. That'd be weird," you say, even as you recall forwarding a detailed report on John to the Skaian king.

"I should call him, though," Dave muses, backing away from the table, "Just to check and see he's okay."

"Mhm. Sounds like a good plan." You offer an artificial smile, and he seems to take the bait. Nonetheless, it occurs to you that the plan was—as your mission briefings informed you—to dismantle the organization from the bottom and work to the top. Take out the lower levels, and, once they were gone, kill the leader. It's a logical strategy. If there are no more subordinates left, then the leader has no power. When the leader dies, no one is left to take their place.

The Eighteenth Day of Dark: 8:30 AM: LOG 0021

So far, Dave has yet to reach John. It's only been thirty minutes, but you have to admit that even that much time is too much. For someone with such a high-risk position and the knowledge that such a position is dangerous, John would have answered by now. If he could. Nonetheless, you continue to quell Dave's anxieties by feeding him bullshit about shoddy phone connections and unreliable networks. You feel absolutely awful doing it, but you have to. Unless you decide to come clean to being an informant, which is an awful idea, then it's what you have to do.

Meanwhile, you write to the king. If anything, John is a secondary target. Any guilt you have about having to kill Dave is only doubled with John, whom you're certain only got into this because he's Dave's friend.

To the Great & Honorable Derse King XVII:

I redact any former intelligence previously sent which indicts Johnathan Egbert as a figure of any importance in the Prospitian Movement. The individual is of little value to the organization, and his death will neither harm nor benefit its continued existence. Please accept my sincerest apologies for this grievous oversight.

My investigations have yet to reveal any people of major importance.

I thank you for your time and hope for a prompt response.

K. Vantas

Somewhere, in your gut, you have a feeling that your plea is too late.

The Eighteenth Day of Dark: 4:00 PM: LOG 0022

Out of absolute desperation, you gave Dave one of your beers. You brought many; as much as you hate Human alcohol, you admittedly enjoy the buzz. It's certainly a pleasant but rare diversion from your usual day to day life.

Unfortunately for you, he ended up consuming a fucking solid amount of them. If your current tally is correct, you've lost three to his thirst. And, despite his appearance, he holds his own. He's yet to vomit, at least. Of course, everything has a negative. Perhaps unsurprising, given his personality, he's a chatty drunk. He's an incredibly chatty drunk, and you've yet to convince him to shut the fuck up in the past however many hours. (Too many, as far as you're concerned. Far too many hours.) The only plus that you can possibly draw from this is that you're getting some information.

"John and I went to school together. We even went to college together, but I got kicked out with Rose when I formed a human welfare club," Dave explains, his words slurring together, "Don't tell him I told you this, but we even dated at one point. He didn't feel it, though, so we broke up." Here, Dave nudges you with his right elbow. It's little more than a light tap, though the booze-scented breath that ends up in your face as he pulls his upper body closer to you is more than enough to make up for it. (You're not being paid enough for this.) "I'm still single, too, you alien cutie."

You, now thoroughly creeped out, nudge him away from you and back into a proper sitting position.

He continues speaking. "We pulled so much shit together. Me and John. John and I. Fuck." A snort of laughter. "This one time, I climbed up onto the statue of the king at the center of our high school campus, and I shat on its head. Big fucking dump right on top of the king's head. Not like he uses his head for anything, right? And add in Sollux." Dave whistles. "That was some wild shit. Fucking shame the king had to publicly hang the guy."

(Now that's something you didn't know. And it's definitely not going in the report, but you'll keep it in mind.)

"Damn. You're just so... Fucking... Nice. Karkat, bro..." There's a brief pause. Dave eyes you over and smirks. "You really are pretty cute. Mm. I don't get those freaky troll quadrants, but I would be down to quadrant with you." A drunken belch. "John was right, man, I should totally go for it. We should, like, hang out some time. Just. Us. You and me. Chill out at Headquarters or some shit. We gotta hang out." He emphasizes the last two words by drawing out the vowels.

You, meanwhile, begin to formulate a way out of this situation. You might have instigated it, but you sure as hell won't be sticking around to see it through to its conclusion. Besides, as much as you'd (admittedly) be fine with taking him up on his offer, there's no way you're going to date your assassination target. That's just asking for all sorts of trouble. Moral, emotional, mental, legal trouble. Every fucking sort of trouble there is, that's what you'll be getting if you follow through. Nonetheless, you figure he's too damned smashed to remember any of this in the morning, so you laugh awkwardly and agree. "Sure. Whatever, Dave."

With a still-surprising amount of force, he slaps his left hand against your back. As you choke back a yelp, he offers another of his stupid smiles—the sort that makes your heart flutter and causes that weird, unwanted feeling in your stomach. "That's the spirit, my extraterrestrial bro. Go with the flow."

"Mhm." You fake a yawn. "Look, I'm tired. I'm going to go to bed, so... If you need me, call me."

From experience, you know the gesture he's shooting you is supposed to be done with both hands. You believe it's called something akin to "double pistols and a wink," but you're not sure about it. You're not going to stick around to find out, though.