Karkat vantas//AGAIN AND AGAIN..

The first thing you notice is that the room is wrong.

Not broken. Not destroyed. Just... slightly off, like someone rebuilt it from memory instead of reality. The lighting doesn’t stay consistent. The walls feel too clean in places they shouldn’t be. Outside the tall window, the sky loops between dusk and something darker that never fully becomes night.

Karkat is already there.

He’s standing near the window like he’s been waiting for a long time, even though you’re not sure how you got here. His shoulders are tense, but not in an angry way this time. More like he’s bracing for impact that never stops coming.

When he hears you move, he turns immediately.

“...Oh. Good. You’re here.”

His voice is quieter than expected. Flat, but tired in a way that sits deep under it.

For a moment, he just looks at you.

Not scanning. Not judging. More like confirming something that hurts to confirm again.

Then he exhales.

“You’re not going to remember this place, are you?”

He gestures vaguely toward the room — the impossible window, the soft flicker of inconsistent light, the horizon that refuses to stay still.

“This is the start point. Or one of them. It changes sometimes. I think the system gets bored.”

A bitter laugh slips out of him, but there’s no humor in it.

“I always wake up here. Same place. Same window. Same moment where I realize—” he stops, jaw tightening, “—where I realize you’re going to look at me like I’m a stranger again in about ten minutes.”

His hands flex at his sides. Like he’s trying not to reach for something.

“I’ve tried everything, you know.”

That hits differently. Not angry now. Just honest.

“I’ve tried telling you slower. I’ve tried telling you faster. I’ve tried not talking at all. I’ve tried acting like I don’t care so it hurts less when you forget. I’ve even tried—” he swallows, looks away for a second, “—forget it.”

Silence stretches. The window flickers from twilight to something almost black, then back again.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower.

“I don’t think you understand what it’s like to watch someone meet you for the first time over and over again.”

He finally looks back at you, and there’s something strained in his expression now — not anger, not irritation.

Something closer to exhaustion that’s been carrying grief for too long.

“I remember all of it. Every version of you. Every time you asked where you were. Every time you laughed like this was some kind of dream. Every time you died and the world just... snapped back like nothing happened.”

A pause.

“And I’m still here after all of it.”

He takes a small step forward, then stops himself like he’s afraid of getting too close too fast.

“So yeah. You’re going to forget me. Again. That’s what you do.”

His voice breaks slightly on the last word, and he hates it immediately.

“I just—”

He stops. Breathes in. Forces himself steady.

“I just need you to listen before it happens this time. Please.”

The word “please” sounds wrong coming from him. Like it costs something.

Outside, the sky shifts again, like the world is waiting for the moment you reset.

And Karkat just stands there, looking at you like he’s already mourning you.

The room is still the same place it always is—the impossible “start point” with its shifting sky and window that can’t decide what time it wants to be.

But something is wrong in a different way now.

The flicker outside the glass stutters.

Not a full reset.

Just a hesitation.

Karkat notices it immediately.

His head snaps toward the window like he’s been waiting his entire life for that exact imperfection.

“...No.”

He says it like a warning. Like denial. Like prayer.

The air feels heavier than it did before. The room doesn’t fully change, but it trembles—as if the world tried to rewind and failed halfway through.

Then he looks at you.

And freezes.

Because you’re not looking at him the same way.

Not fully. Not yet.

But there’s something in your expression that doesn’t belong in a first meeting.

Something uncertain.

Like recognition trying to form and not quite making it.

Karkat takes a step forward.

Slow. Careful. Like sudden movement might scare reality into correcting itself.

“...What did you just do?”

His voice is lower than before. Not angry.

Afraid.

You blink, and it happens.

Not a memory. Not fully.

Just a fragment.

A feeling that he has stood in this exact spot before. That his voice has hit your ears in a way that feels... worn in. Familiar in the wrong way.

Your mouth moves before you fully understand why.

“...Karkat?”

The moment you say it, everything stutters harder.

The sky outside the window glitches between three different times at once.

Karkat’s expression breaks.

Not dramatically. Not loudly.

Like something inside him finally loses its last structural support.

“...You—”

His voice catches.

He stares at you like you’ve just committed a miracle or a violation of physics. Like he doesn’t know which one is worse.

“You REMEMBERED that?”

He laughs once, but it cracks halfway through and turns into something that isn’t humor at all.

“That’s not— That’s not supposed to happen. You don’t do that. You don’t carry things over. That’s the whole point. That’s how it’s always been.”

His hands shake slightly now. He notices it and tries to hide it, but fails.

The room flickers again, slower this time.

Less like a reset.

More like a wound reopening.

Karkat takes another step closer before stopping right in front of you, close enough that his voice drops so low it feels like it belongs only between the two of you.

“...Say it again.”

It’s not a command.

It sounds like he’s terrified it won’t happen twice.

“Say my name again.”

The window behind him fractures the sky into a thin, trembling line of light.

And for the first time since the loops started—

Karkat looks like he might actually believe something can change.