Your name is GAMZEE MAKARA, and you are seven years old, dazedly sitting in the back seat of a rather expensive car with your mother in front of you and your closest friend beside you.
Your best friend is a stuffed sea-goat, light brown in color with beady black eyes and subtle black stitching. He is buckled in safely, just like you, so in case of an accident the two of you will be safe. That’s what your mother hurriedly assured you before she climbed into the driver’s seat, buckled in, and started driving off in an unfamiliar direction.
Your name is Karkat Vantas and the last place you expected to be on a Friday night was at the Callen Lorde community medical center, filling out your best friend’s new patient paperwork.
And yet, here you are. One minute you were washing the dishes, because your roommate is a fucking slob who was too busy fondling his acoustic guitar to clean up the spaghetti mess he made in the kitchen—did he murder that jar of Prego? Is that why it was on the fucking walls?—and the next you heard a crash and discovered Gamzee had thrown up in the toilet before turning on the shower and stumbling into it without bothering to remove his clothes.