[ All things considered, there isn't an overly compelling reason for Karkat to be hitting the confetti-littered streets at this particular time of day. As far as he's concerned this carnival is Nothing To Do With Him, and as the dancers spin and twirl across the pavements with their various bits shaking and their everything jangling obnoxiously through the samba of steel drums and whooping of idiots who think this is all just a pretty show, he doesn't exactly fit in what with his compelling state of monochrome and scowling indifference. His surroundings are a woozy whirlwind of colour and sound and the surrounding crowd are all gathered in close and personal – all things he'd much rather avoid – but he pushes forward with his limbs flailing and his voice a demanding shriek in the din. He might as well be throwing women and children into the road.

He's the last person anyone would expect to be out in a place like this willingly. What could possibly drag a lacklustre teen out of bed on a Sunday? The parade? Pfft, please. Dancing isn't his thing. No, his focus is on the tables lining the streets to the back of the parade, gilded with those familiar neon signs with scruffy sharpie lettering. Fuck yeah; he’s here for the food.

He goes straight for the meat, avoiding the rice and peas with an indignant and determined air. He came for food, not mush masquerading as food. If he wanted rice and peas he'd go buy some rice and stick it in a pan with some god-damn peas, why would he come all the way out here for food he could make at home?? Arguably, he could make curried goat at home too – the recipe is on the damn website, after all – but he's obviously not thinking about that as he shovels more goat into his mouth.

He's truly feeling the Mas as he stalks away from the street vendor with his little bowl of meat and spice, and he's feeling Mas even more when he buys and slurps loudly from a hollowed-out and prettified pineapple. He finds a seat on the stairway to some poor fuck's doorway, complete with a handy and already overflowing rubbish-bin standing close by. The surrounding smokers and antisocial patrons are his fellow wallflowers and he grunts at them as he stares drearily at the dancers covered in powder and paint. ] 'Be pretty shit if it rained, huh?

[ He has literally every sappy movie in existence to remind him that a) good guys finish last, and b) every day heroes do not exist; and yet here he is nursing an impressive bruise, a nose gushing with blood and his own wounded pride. Stopping a fight, to him, had been a selfless and daring act that would give him both the pride of having done a good deed, and some fucking peace and quiet on a dull commute across central, but instead it's served him with nothing but trouble and a big-ass headache.

The fight in question broke out in front of the supermarket Karkat wanted to shop in, and his already paper-thin patience wouldn't allow him or any of the others stood around the tussling duo to wait until they’d tired out their testosterone. He took the initiative and surged forwards into the crowd to wrench one man away from the other with surprising strength for one so small and so pathetically untalented at anything remotely physical. He was doing a pretty good job of condescendingly scolding them with a dark frown and barked insults... or so he thought, at least, until the two wrestlers turned on him in retaliation. Without any palpable method of self defence, Karkat flailed and screamed madly until he was finally relinquished from the assault, but only after he'd kicked one of the police officers who'd been called to assist in the jewels, and had bitten the other. ]

Ooooh my god, shit. Shit, shit, shit. [ He's worried, as is pretty obvious from the way he keeps stalking behind the LITERAL IRON BARS like a caged animal. He thought iron bars were just a thing that happened in cartoons and is more than a little disturbed to find that of all things is a reality.. If that much is true, what other horror stories are likely? Is the soap thing true, too???? ] Oh my god, I’m gonna throw up. [ He's not liking this at all. He's as white as a sheet, as a ghost, as the police officer's face had been when Karkat kicked him square between the legs. He looks petrified of what's coming, and he keeps jumping whenever the heavy door leading back to the main desk opens and closes. ] Fucking shit god, my dad is gonna kill me.

[ It isn't unusual to find empty carriages on certain strands of the tube line as the end of the day draws closer, and Karkat doesn't exactly look out of place as he’s rocked by the slow thudding of the tracks beneath... He chose this carriage on purpose (or rather he was led there on purpose) and chose this seat in favour of the figure sitting with him. Very few people disturb him and his quiet mumbling, but those who do sit far enough away that they can't hear him talking to apparently no-one – as most who innocently disturb him aren't able to see his companion.

He's working fast, and his voice gains speed and volume the longer his apparent conversation goes on. Above the din of the wheels and the rushing of the wind through the tunnels he sounds as if he's trying to secure a great deal of information with limited resources and time, until finally the tube line crosses a certain body of water and he swears loudly, suddenly truly alone.

Ghosts stuck in one place are usually the ones he prefers – at least they can't follow him home – but still he finds himself feeling for them. Being stuck on a tube line that continuously ran back and forth over a body of water you're incapable of crossing isn't the best state of affairs to be stuck in, after all, and if it got so bad that they were reaching out to a amateur like him then it had to be bad... Karkat sighs loudly, propping his feet up on the empty seats facing him, and ducks his head into his shoulders, shrouded by the collar of his jacket. Only then, without anything to focus on than his own sense of inadequacy, does he feel the presence behind him. He turns and makes eye contact with the other body in the carriage, squinting to quickly judge the breed of this particular stranger. Dead or Not Dead was an important judgement to make nowadays. ]

go nuts! i'm up for plotting or being contacted either in a pm to this journal or on plurk at mirobug

also, as a note, if you prefer writing in paragraphs, i'm good with that and will reply in kind. i just find it easier to write starters in brackets, that's all. hope that's not too much trouble!