You feel the shift in the air behind you as someone else approaches, but you don't get up. You'll waste anyone who tries to fuck with you right now. "Hot damn," says a voice almost but not quite like Terezi's. "Double trouble, huh?" Your dancestor snickers, and you look up as dancestor Pyrope swaggers around into view.

You push yourself up to a sitting position. "Bro," you say. "Long time no see." You manage to keep your voice almost totally steady, even. He's sitting cross-legged in the sand, his elbows on his knees, his katana planted point-down next to him. His horns echo the shape of his shades, jagged outward-facing points. You wonder what yours look like, but you think you'd lose points for reaching up to cop a feel of your own headgear. "Come on. We don't exactly have the high ground out here."

The dishes need doing. They're not the only thing.