Chapter Text
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
The clock on the wall reads 12:37 PM.
Three hours and thirty-seven down. Not counting breaks, that leaves four hours and twenty-three. Subtract forty-five, and that makes it… ugh, what's the fucking point?
Another day, another deathwish. Nothing quite drains my lifeforce like the capitalist vise grip of the nine-to-five machine. Every fucking day is a cycle ran through ad nauseam. Grab the newspaper from outside. Take yesterday's off the shelf and stock today's. Update the FedEx inventory. Scan the shelves for expired shit. Print every. Single. Fucking. Picture. Order. That. Went. Through. Last. Night. And yes, I promise you all eight hours of my shift are this tedious. Do you know how hard it is for me to muster up a Disneyland attitude when I'm subjected to career purgatory for 5/7ths of the week? Not hard. Try impossible.
I didn't think this is what life on Earth would be like. I mean I knew it would be insufferable. Any planet responsible for mothering a fleshbug as irritating as that hipster fuckstick Strider must be. But this? My all-powerful God, strike me down with whatever biblical psionic powers you possess. I shouldn't have to work this sort of job. I busted my ass for years playing a game to save the universe, and I won. Yet here I am, doing pull-ups on the bottom rung. Me and my pitiful upper body strength.
If I were to guess, my (yes, still-secret) mutant blood transferred to Earth in fiscal value, because why else would I be working such a… "humble" occupation? And by humble I of course mean demeaning and inspiring of "I'm gonna pull a Chubbuck" attitudes. I'm a fucking cashier. At Walgreens. I'm the embodiment of the American Dream, on full display for the burger-gorging masses. No upwards mobility in a workspace where I'm exposed to the worst sorts of abuse via the sheer stupidity of people. Is it possible to be legitimately abused by ways of oblivious airheadery? If you're shaking your head and thinking well obviously not, then congratulations you eternal fog-for-brains, you've clearly never worked retail.
Maybe I wouldn't be complaining so much if I were actually working for something. Who knows? Technically I am, but it isn't much. I share an apartment with Strider, lucky me. We got it for a bargain and it comes with some amenities. I mean the door locks. The cabinets… hold things. We can wash our clothes in the cleaning appliances that break once a fucking week, and ride an elevator that does the same by the hour. But I'm not on the street singing show tunes for rusty pocket change, so it isn't all bad.
As usual, work can't help but be a fucking downer. And the commute home even more so. Not only do I get to travel back to my own private Hooverville, but the musky, vandalized slum shuttle the kids call a "bus" passes through the best neighborhoods in the city as if to say "Fuck you, Vantas. Grovel and beg. We love the grovel. Give our shoes a shine while you're at it, eh?"
Thankfully, the bus isn't as jam-packed as it could be, which gives me some room to breathe. It's springtime now, and the weather is flowery and warm enough for people to walk or find other ways to work. Because when winter creeps its sneering, snaggle-toothed hiney around the seasonal corner, boy-oh-fucking-boy does shit get too close for comfort. Sweaty guys in stained white tees squishing their slop-storers up against your back and having the nerve to tell you to get out of their way. Like fuck a paraplegic Koopa for five rounds and die, you dense population of Warios.
Alright, first stop on the Lower Class Torment Express. The nicest sect in town, which homes the seadwellers. It must be nice for them to have taken all their societal advantages and financial privileges and gadgets and gizmos aplenty and whos-its and whats-its galore with them from Alternia, because these chute-stuffers are living it the fuck up. This is the most depressing part of the ride, naturally.
Then we get to the not-a-beach-resort-in-all-but-name part of the city. It's a gated community Equius, Nepeta, Rose, Kanaya, and Gamzee call their homes. Equius is one hundred percent in his element here, considering everyone is a stuffy, pompous tool who looks down on others just a bit too easily for my liking. And I hate everyone, remember that. But these assclowns take it to a really icky level. Gamzee doesn't fit in at all, and I think these shitheads know it. All the guy does is smoke hash, and I'm sure the incessant stench of it lowers the property value. I support the antics. Stick it to the man.
Vriska and Terezi's neighborhood is up next. This one is still pretty intimidatingly-fancy, but at least it looks like a place where actual fucking people dwell. The homes are still pretty mansion-y, but they're grounded. As grounded as mansions can be, at least. Terezi's really reaping the benefits of that lawyer money, and Vriska… well, knowing her weird 8 ball/dice obsession, probably got real lucky on a gamble. Spiderbitch will be in my exact spot by next week, I guarantee it.
John and Sollux's neighborhood follows. It's a bit nicer than mine but honestly, not really all that much to see. It's been spruced up a bit by the Caucasians, as Rose the Ever-Political describes them. She talks about white humanpeople like aliens, honestly. Caucasian. What a clinical term. So yeah, it's alright, but still not enough to comfortably call a family-friendly environment. No wonder Sollux keeps himself holed up in his room practicing for 20XX, whatever that is.
I usually pay a bit of attention around now, because I always manage to spot Feferi in the area. She comes around every so often, and this is just one of many times I've seen her on my way home from work. And each time, she gives me the most enthusiastic of waves. I don't really get why. Yet without fail, every go-around, I force one back, just because I don't wanna hear it from Sollux next time he trolls me. What's going on with them is so fucking confusing, too. I mean they aren't exactly dating but there's definitely… something still. Better just not to poke the bear.
Now this is the real depressing part. Tavros, Aradia, Jade, Dave and I's. It's slummy as all asshair-singing hell. Project building after project building with the occasional bodega to break up the monotony of the architecture. Once I'm off the bus, the physical toll of my job starts catching up. The sweat I produce running between the aisles and the register with very few breaks leaves my skin glistening and slick, and the shooting pain in my feet and calves gives me a serious Tavros complex. I'll be the first Alternian in fucking history to buy Dr. Scholl's. You can't say I'm not an innovator. And holy fuck, is the sun ever hot today. The heat always seems to catch me at my grumpiest, and I'm really not having it.
I drag my lethargic corpse into my apartment to be hit by a lariat's force of cool air. It feels nice now, but the bill is gonna pound our grundles lubeless because of it. But I don't mind at this point. I need the relaxation.
I'm making my way back to my room when I spot Dave cuddled up with Terezi on the couch, giggling up a storm. Unfortunately for these metaphorical Fozzies though, my Statler and Waldorf gauge is at max capacity, because I'm the exact opposite of peaches and cream. I'm… uh… apricots and yogurt? I'm shit at metaphors. Rose is the writer, not me. Get off my back about it.
TG: sup
GC: H3Y K4RKL3S! YOUR3 SW34T1NG. GOT COMFY W1TH Z4HH4K, D1D Y4?
Never a dull moment with Snarkmaster Supreme around, folks.
CG: CRADLE YOUR RESPECTIVE CROTCHES. I'M FUCKING EXHAUSTED.
GC: HOW RUD3
TG: no worries t-rez
TG: were just two friends wanting to know how his day went is all
TG: we arent entitled to kindness or anything
TG: thats narcissus think
CG: IT WENT FINE, DAVE. MAGICALLY. CAN I GET IN THE SHOWER NOW, PLEASE?
GC: ONLY 1F YOU PL4N ON 1NV1T1NG US 1N!
Don't blush, Karkat.
CG: WHAT THE FUCK, NO-
TG: i second this
Dammit.
CG: DAVE STOP-
TG: get your coupons out
TG: theres a sale at birthday suits r us
TG: and im cleaning out the entire stock
CG: OH MY GOD
GC: DON'T B3 SO SHY! 1T'S 4LL 1N GOOD FUN
CG: I'VE HAD QUITE ENOUGH "FUN" FOR TODAY, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. I'M ALL FUNNED OUT. WORK WAS A FUCKING PALOOZA, GUYS. A CAVALCADE OF ENTERTAINMENT. SO IF IT ISN'T TOO MUCH TROUBLE, I'D LIKE TO BE BORING FOR THE REST OF THE EVENING.
TG: knock yourself out ben stein
CG: I RESENT THAT STATEMENT, PUPPET-PEGGER.
And with that, I retired to the lavatory. I got cleaned up, which did a lot for my grossness but not much for a whole lot else. For dinner was a five-star selection made by my wonderful roommate and his cultured beau: McNuggets. I had about three before I regurgitated it into the bin. And after all that, I finally went to my room, and my head finally hit my pillow.
It was the most relieving thing I could've asked for. It brought to me a comfort not offered by all the cuddles and McNuggets in the entire multiverse. It was rest, and rest was what I needed. And I had it. I had peace…
… until I remembered that this torturous cycle starts from step one the second I open my eyes tomorrow.
Fuck. This. Shit.
I didn't think it was possible, but dammit, I miss Sgrub.