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.More Like This
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
Typical MorningMore Like This
The reason the alarm (also known as her cellphone) had been carefully placed across the room was so Thayle would be forced to actually get up out of bed to turn it off. It was either that or suffer the warbling upbeat tune of The Bangles so hellishly early in the morning.
Struggling to pull her brain out of its shroud of cobwebs, Thayle rolled over and yelped when something jabbed her neck. Something pointy and ... plastic.
Thrust. She groaned as the small jet stirred and burrowed closer to her neck. With a sigh, she fumbled to untangle him from her hair despite the Seeker's sleepy protests. She never knew when any of the apartment's smaller denizens would decide her pillow-space was up for grabs in the middle of the night, but Thrust in particular seemed to lay a persistent claim to it. He was not usually the sharing type, but he could be very generous about his sharp angles and pointy appendages.
Laying the snoozing Seeker back onto her pillow, Thayle fought down a