Tavros sighs. Sometimes, he thinks, you might have had different things in mind for your day, or your life. You may have wanted something else for your ol' uncle clown, even if what that could even have even been is buried under too many faygo-sticky years to begin unearthing it. You may, he decides as he steps toward where Gamzee's head has lolled backward against the bumper, just simply wake up one morning and have to play the final clown hand you have been dealt. And mayhap that clown hand is dead and in your trunk, and though you are not responsible for it being there, nor are you completely ready to deal with the emotional repercussions of its presence, you still have to figure out what to do with the physical and legal reality of it. And all that, with what feels like the eyes of the world on you, even if it is just the 9 eyes of your girlfriend and her alt-self. He feels a sudden rush of hot, stifling...something. He refuses, this time, to call it fear. He's got to cool down. Stay steady. He pulls his sweater over his head and tosses it into the trunk too.