Things were... good. Better, at least, since Dave had taken him to the hospital. Gamzee felt better, even if it always came back. He could find his own way to the place now when the sickness started up and clawing through him again, and he thought that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't as bad as it had been. And they were still in his pan, screaming for sopor, for killing, for blood and violence and death. And painting. But there were things to do now. Nice paints that had the right feels to cover the walls with color and picture and words.

And the turntables. Gamzee liked the tables, how they felt under his fingertips and how the beats up and filled him in the best way. He liked that, swaying and moving and nothing else mattering but the beat and the tables. So he got his practice on a lot, down in this little place Dave had helped him find. Because it felt good, and maybe because when Dave said he was doing good that felt even better.

And Dave was due up for a visit, so he practiced, lost in the beat and mumbling words to himself--little rhymes up and bursting free from his pan.