Archive of Our Own

> Dave: Continue to prove that ghosts aren’t real

Your name is DAVE STRIDER, and the reason for your presence in what is colloquially known as Skaia City’s “Most Haunted House” is simple: Three years ago, you started a ViewTube channel. Dubbed “Ghost’s Ain’t Fuckin’ Real, Yo”, the internet series strives to present what you consider irrefutable evidence that supernatural phenomenon are little more than imaginations gone awry.

Tonight’s filming session is no different.

The goal remains the same.

And as you stand in the middle of what was once — by all outward appearances, at least — a pretty kicking den-slash-living-room-slash-entertaining-parlor, you recite what you know to the camera that’s currently held in Karkat’s grasp.

“So, as we fuckin’ know, this” — you cast a lazy, sweeping hand over the dismal scene before you — “is Salamancer Manor. The former home of some stuffy li’l bastard, this place is supposed to be haunted by damn near everything you could think of. Ain’t that right, Kat?”

From the cameraman, there’s a low, buzzing rumble of disapproval. His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth before sliding over his strangely nubby teeth. Then, with a scoff and a backward jerk of his head, he snaps, “Leave me the fuck out of this!”

It’s an act — at least in part. You know that Karkat isn’t genuinely angry, but he’s definitely getting antsy. The surly troll has never liked your dismissive approach to the supernatural, and he knows what’s coming.

But the show must go on, and the crowd wants what they want!

“So, where the hell are they?” You march in a wide, meandering arc. Each stomp brings up a thick cloud of debris — the sort of long-forgotten dust that most definitely has some nasty shit in it.

In the back of your mind, you briefly ponder what could possibly be in the shit you’re kicking up. You reckon there’s probably a good amount of pulverized rat shit, asbestos, and general rot. None of that is particularly good to breathe in, and you mindlessly readjust your respirator before continuing, “It’s exactly midnight — that’s prime fucking ghostly hour. We’ve been here since, what? Hey, Kat, when did I drag your ass into this latest round of allegedly supernatural bullshit?”

Karkat’s brow twitches in disapproval, but he still plays along. As much as he complains about this ViewTube gig, he’ll never turn down spending time with you. Likewise, he’ll always hand out help, even if it’s reluctant and stuffed to bursting with a slimy sheen of annoyance.

“It’s been at least two hours,” he eventually grumbles.

“Two fucking hours!” You emphasize each word with a smug clap. “And have you seen anything fucked up? Hell, I can’t even say I’ve spied anything even screwed up. I mean—”

“Are you trying to make my editing work a fucking nightmare, Strider, or is your explicit vocabulary a side effect of your bottomless stupidity?” Karkat interjects. He sounds annoyed, but the vaguest upward quirk of his left eyebrow suggests otherwise.

Naturally, you lean into your cameraman’s prickly personality. You laugh, roll your eyes, and perform an over-the-top shrug. You play the part of a snobby skeptic perfectly because you are a snobby skeptic. It’s the perfect foil to Karkat’s surprisingly earnest belief in damn near all things otherworldly, and it’s enough to poke out some more chittering commentary from the series’ “behind the lens” costar.

“Why do I even do this shit? What could have possibly compelled me to accept a business proposal from someone as blisteringly clueless as you, Strider?” Despite the relative emptiness of the space, the layers of grime and decay prevent Karkat’s voice from echoing. “You are the most infuriating part of my onerous existence. Every day, I am unwillingly forced to grapple with the reality that I answer to you. What the fuck was I—?”

And it is here that things start to go a bit sideways. Karkat never trails off mid-rant. Well, no — he does if he’s sick or shocked, and seeing as your cameraman was fit as a fiddle mere seconds ago, there’s only one option left.

Of course, you consider the possibility that Karkat’s just fucking with you. It’s not entirely out of the ordinary for the usually taciturn bastard to decide that his life requires the briefest dash of whimsy, and said “spice of life” often comes at your expense.

But it can’t be a joke — not this time. Karkat’s brow is too stern. His stance is too rigid. His eyes, rimmed with gorgeous candy red, widen as his gaze shifts away from the camera’s fold-out screen. His jaw drops open, and he breathes a pitiful little whine before muttering, “Hey, Strider? You might want to turn around.”

Despite your unshakable conviction that ghosts are little more than misfiring neurons conjuring up things that don’t exist, the unnatural quietness of his voice fills you with some piss-worthy fear. You swallow an apprehensive lump and force a smile onto your face.

“Oh, ha fucking ha. Real funny, man. You need to get your kicks outta this shit, too, right?”

You’re doing your damnedest to keep a straight face. You know that a moment of misplaced fear can be easily edited out in post, but that’s still leaving some pretty not-so-chill footage on the table. It’s the sort of shit you might have needed to keep under lock and key in the past. Not that you need to now, of course. You trust that Karkat wouldn’t do that to you — he’s not your “Bro”, but—

> Karkat: Continue to prove that ghosts are fucking real

Your name is KARKAT VANTAS, and you believe in ghosts. In somewhat related ways, you similarly believe in such things as “cryptids”. However, neither of these descriptors fits what you’re currently witnessing. Behind your multi-quadrant co-host is…

Well, it’s certainly something.

It’s a an orb of pure light that’s at once blinding and completely devoid of luminescence. Its teal aura sears directly through your ganderbulbs in the most unpleasantly literal way. Yet, somehow, it emits no light. The world around you is as dark and drab as it was before, and that fact is probably why Dave has yet to notice this thing behind him.

Of course, being the cameraman — or, perhaps, cameratroll — you posses an untenable awareness of it. You’re multi-tasking like a wriggler on the most potent of energy drinks — mouth inelegantly agape. On one hand, you’re trying to describe what you’re seeing; at the same time, you’re fighting the instinctual urge to shit yourself. Notably, neither of these tasks is meeting much success.

You know you look outrageously inelegant as you gawk at the thing before you. Your mouth hangs open, your ganderbulbs may as well be popping out of your skull, and you’re only vaguely aware of the long, buzzing noise that’s escaping your vocal folds — something caught halfway between a scream and a confused groan. You’re finally about to spew out what will most certainly be the world’s least intelligible of utterances when the not-exactly-glowing orb releases a high-pitched, nasal cackle — a gleeful “HEHEHE” — and the temperature plummets.

Now — with all the suddenness and finality of death — Dave spins around. You can never see his eyes behind those stupid, impenetrable shades of his, but you know they must be as wide as your gaping maw. In a moment of uncharacteristic incoherence, he drawls out a long, uncertain, “Can… Can I help you, uh…”

Here, his voice drops. He breathes an uncertain laugh, rubs the back of his neck, and tries to reason with the situation. His thickening accent betrays a rising sense of anxiety. “You’re some sort of projection, right? Some other channel’s fuckin’ with us, huh? Bet it’s those Ghost Hustlers! Those fuckers were always so jealous of our swag, and—”

“Mm-hm.” The orb bobs up and down, and the movement vaguely resembles a nod. “You know, coolkid, you sure do talk a lot about ‘we’ and ‘our’ for this to just be your… Hm… What’s this shit again? Catch me up some, buddy. I’ve been stuck in this mansion since the 70s.”

“V-ViewTube,” Dave hesitantly volunteers. “It’s, like, a place where you post videos online.”

“Mkay. So it’s some sorta internet thing. Got it.”

A low, rumbling hum warbles through the air. It surrounds you, seeming to emanate from every direction at once. Unlike a normal voice, its cessation is total and instantaneous. You can hear your blood-pusher slamming against your chest as the orb as the entity’s pause extends. During this pause, you slowly lower the camera until you can set it on the ground.

Finally, just before you feel ready to explode into a cloud of stress-induced gore, the orb moves. It stops about an inch from Dave’s chest before continuing, “Whatever. The point’s that you and Shout McNubbins over there got some unresolved tension happening. Unrequited romance, y’know?”

“We do not — and I cannot stress this enough — do fucking not have anything ‘going on’ between us,” you immediately shout.

You’re on defense now. You’re certain that Dave knows about your stupid, incomprehensible, pan-quadrant “crush” on him. Everyone else seems to know, and you’re not exactly the most subtle troll. You’ve always worn your emotions on your sleeve, and you’ve spent the past three years assuming that Dave simply doesn’t reciprocate your feelings.

In all honesty, you do have feelings for him — that blond, cocky douchebag with more skepticism than he knows what to do with. The annoying, wearisome human with a crooked smile and a veneer of aloofness as fake as every celebrity’s sparkling white masticating protrusions.

No, you remind yourself. None of that matters. He doesn’t feel the same way, so—

“The hell’re you talkin’ ‘bout?” Dave’s usual drawl is thicker than you’ve ever heard it before. “I don’t… I don’t like damn near anyone like that! ‘Specially not my cameraman! That… That just ain’t professional, y’know?”

You, eager to shed some of the responsibility for whatever is happening, pipe in with, “Yeah! We’re just a good team. That’s all!”

“A good team?” The orb’s brightness wanes ever so slightly, yet its luminescence never actually changes. Then, all at once, it burns with the illogical brilliance of countless suns. A booming laugh rips through the room, and you find yourself slamming your hands over your ears to compensate.

When it finally calms enough to speak again, the orb’s voice is drenched in sarcasm: “Right! Right! A good team! I’m sure you’d make a great non-professional team, too, if you got your heads out of the sand!”

“Out of what sand?” Dave yells, his voice now a terrified, mouse-like squeak. “There is nothing happening! And even if there was, it ain’t like I’m in the dating game! I’ve got a channel to run and all that. Can’t be… uh… distracting myself with alien ass.”

You counter with a cold, sardonic snort of laughter. “As if you’d be distracted by my ass.”

Instead of agreeing, Dave turns around and cocks his head to the side. He shoves his hands in his pockets in that way he always does when he’s trying to feign indifference, and he shifts onto his heels before mumbling, “I mean… it’s… it’s a nice ass, bro. Kinda is distracting sometimes.”

The orb, having apparently decided that it has remained silent for too long, chimes in with an unwelcome purr. “I’ll give you that, coolkid. It’s a nice behind.”

“Oh, so now my co-host and a literal fucking ghost are taunting me!”

“No!” Dave interjects with too much force for it to be one of his usual jokes. “Ha! Nah, no, I—” he breathes a low, nervous laugh “—hell, nah! I wouldn’t lie about that, man. You, uh… You do have a nice ass.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you try to cover your blush by burying your face in your hands. You use a disgruntled huff as a thin veneer of annoyance, and you know you’re masking your feelings with all the skill of a literal wriggler. Still, you admonish him, “And… you’re deciding to tell me this now, while we’re being accosted by some sort of perverted ghost?”

“Excuse you!” the orb shimmers indignantly. “I’m not a pervert. I’m an unrequited consolidator. I’m here to help lost, stupid souls find their true love.”

“Well, you ain’t gonna find that shit here!” Dave snaps. He is — as he often is — as believable as a clickbait article. His stupid, lopsided grin is too wide. His right eyebrow is twitching. He’s about a second away from melting into a puddle of writhing, self-aggrandizing bullshit.

And you, unable to tolerate this imbecilic charade for another second, jab a black claw at the orb and inelegantly blurt out, “If I say I’ve had the most sexually confusing pan-quadrant crush on this blithering moron, will that make you fuck off?”

“Yep! That’s how it works!”

“Fuck!” You throw your hands in the air, a gesture that’s equal parts surrender and disbelief at the entire situation. “Of course that’s how this clusterfuck works! Fine!”

> Dave: Forget about the ghosts and get confessed to

Flip it back.

You’re DAVE STRIDER again, and you’re staring down an irate hulk of a troll. Sure, Karkat is your cameraman and unrequited crush, but he can’t — he doesn’t — reciprocate your feelings, right? That’s downright impossible! No. Surely…

And, yet, here he is. Clear as fucking day. He’s grabbing the front of your ratty-ass sweatshirt and pulling you closer to him. He stops when your noses are almost touching, and he speaks in low, steady voice as he says, “I like you, Dave. And I’m not just saying that because some sort of pale-aligned sex pest ghost is hovering over my shoulder, and—”

When the orb hovers too close to the scene, Karkat releases his grip on you. He turns, swats fruitlessly at the floating apparition, and snaps, “A little fucking space, please?”

Thankfully, the spirit — or whatever the fuck it is — withdraws.

And Karkat turns his attention back to you. His gaze locks onto yours, but you don’t find yourself squirming to escape it. In fact, despite his usual roughness it’s almost pleasant. You find yourself sinking into the eye contact as he continues, “If you wanted to… I don’t fucking know… go on an outing together that is not strictly work-related. Well… I wouldn’t mind.”

You blink. In the back of your mind, you wonder if your shades are big enough to cover most of the pink that’s rising to your cheeks. After what feels like forever, you finally manage to force out, “Oh. Well… uh… I mean… If that’s how you feel, then… I… wouldn’t mind doing that. A not strictly work-related outing, that is. With you.”

“Really?” Karkat’s left eyebrow rises. “Huh. I… didn’t actually expect that answer.”

“Yeah, well—”

You’re primed to finish your statement when the orb rises back into your view. Even with your shades on, you find yourself squinting.

Karkat follows your gaze, turning around just in time to see the apparition burst into a shower of spectral sparks. When it’s gone, he turns back to you. His eyebrows are pinched together, giving him a somewhat constipated look, and it takes him a few seconds to collect himself enough to mumble, “So… uh… you don’t want to stick around in this dump, do you?”

“Oh, fuck! No! Let’s get the fuck out of here before another ghostly freak shows up!”

“Thank fucking gog,” Karkat mutters. “Let’s leave before I get proven right about ghosts again.”