[video]

[myownbestfriend]

[Say hello to Emma Frost, an intimidatingly beautiful but apparently normal human woman who is not especially pleased to be on a giant turtle and drafted into some kind of metaphysical war. She's got it dialed down to an aura of vague irritation, though, and she leans back in the large desk chair that came with her Fire Sector suite. The deep brown of the leather sets off her pale coloration and low-cut white X-Men uniform to excellent effect, and if you think she didn't plan that, you haven't met Emma.]

Please tell me there's a half-decent salon somewhere on this planet.

[If she has to do her own roots she's switching to diamond form until the problem is resolved, see if she doesn't.

Yes, yes, Malicant, a murdered emperor, giant turtles all but extinct, a world on the verge of destruction...but none of those are the sort of thing one ought to ask stupid questions about in public, now are they?]

Comments

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[myownbestfriend]

[Hello, child who might or might not be an alien.

Emma regards Karkat with what might almost be a hint of affection. She has a soft spot for really obnoxious teenage boys.]

You could benefit from a trip to a good stylist, dear.

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[crabmunicator]

[He'll explain if she asks. For now, he scowls.]

Do I look like I care?

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[myownbestfriend]

[She'd be much more interested in the mutant part.]

Enough to berate me over it, apparently.

[Appearance is important, Karkat, you adorable little rage-ball.]

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[crabmunicator]

Yes, you sure got that one right. Me thinking you're stupid for caring about a salon first thing is the same as me caring about personal style. That logic flows firmly and soundly as a river of cold, liquid knowledge, and surely no falling log of counter-argument will dam up that natural wonder.

Oh wait!

Trolls don't give a shit about fashion! Not the normal ones, and I sure as sentient beings' indelible tendency toward frothing stupidity am the same in that category. Styling and fancy clothes and shit like that are pointlessm the end.

[Look at that, angry little hand motions on top of the verbal flailing.]

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[myownbestfriend]

[The crushing force of Karkat's rage...doesn't seem to have any effect. Emma looks faintly amused.]

Has this particular style of conversation been especially effective for you in the past?

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[crabmunicator]

When not faced by self-satisfied smartasses who know to listen for the actual content of what I say beyond the base presentation, yes. What a surprise! Someone else giving me shit for the way I talk.

[He glowers at her, somewhere between unamused and tired of this crap.]

Do you have any worthwhile response or am I just wasting my time?

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[myownbestfriend]

You've certainly been wasting mine. Turnabout is fair play and all that, hmm?

[She's not quite well-behaved enough to stop needling him.]

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[crabmunicator]

[Yeah, still glowering.]

And tell me, what part of you asking for a salon in exclusion of all other concerns indicates an intelligence worth answering with an actual good response? I'll stop wasting your time when you earn yourself a worthwhile response from me.

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[myownbestfriend]

Life goes on, war on a cosmic abstract notwithstanding.

[She's not stupid. Just really, really jaded.]

I'm not going to my possible messy demise with my roots showing.

[Also vain.]

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[crabmunicator]

Your roots. Your objection to possible death is a scenario in which your fucking roots are showing?

[He's still thinking stupid, personally.]

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[myownbestfriend]

I object to my roots showing at all times, not just when lives are on the line.

[Emma is not really interested in proving her bona fides to a teenager. He'll see what she's made of when it matters.]