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With The Wrong CrowdYour name is Tavros Nitram, and you're pretty sure this is what parents and teachers always warn you about. Parties where what's in the punch bowl probably isn't punch, and the sweet smelling smoke hanging heavy in the air probably isn't from a smoke machine.
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You have no idea what you're doing here.
There's a lanky guy sprawled out on the ratty sofa in polka dotted purple pyjama pants, smoke rising from his lips. His clown-painted face is creepy and relaxed, too relaxed.
You don't know why you said yes when he invited you here. You hardly know Gamzee Makara, outside of school, and he scares you. He's also listened to your poetry, and told you it's good, and rapped with you, and instead of calling you crippled, called your wheelchair a four-wheel miracle device.
So actually, yeah, you do know why you said yes.
You move to sit near him, because the room is dark and crowded and intimidating.
"Hey, Tavbro," he murmurs. His eyes are lost and glassy, and he's not really forming pr