Chapter Text
Your name is Dave Strider, and you can’t believe you have to go to summer camp.
After your bro died, you became classified as an official-sounding ward of the state, because you had the misfortune to be a minor and therefore legally incapable. You fought your social worker about it, saying that you’re totally self-sufficient at 13 years of age and you could get a job, you’re sure about it, but Mrs. Case Worker wouldn’t have it. She dropped you in a foster home with a perfect family and a perfect life, and enrolled you in public school, and needless to say, you haven’t made a very smooth transition. What else is a guy to do when he’s had barely any formal education, is used to piles of swords in the fridge instead of food, and is antisocial to a problematic degree? In any case, the Richardsons enrolled you in this stupid-sounding camp that promises to “explore science, technology, engineering, and math through art”. You aren’t a great artist, you’ve just been sketching in your free time, but once they found your private, personal journal- filled with drawings of wings, swords, and your Bro, they decided that you needed to talk to more people your own age, and the best way to achieve this would be through summer camp. You aren’t sure what their problem is- you’re not mean, just antisocial- but they insisted.
“It’s gonna be fun, sweetie!” Mrs. Richardson coos, happy and bouncy while pulling into the nearest available parking space, tires crunching in the loose pavement. “A whole week of adventuring! And on the outdoor campus too- oh, it’s gonna be a blast!”
You take your suitcase out, and by the time you’re finished rolling it to the check-in, you’ve already been handed a “camp badge” and a bag. You’re grabbed and escorted to your dorm by Mrs. Richardson, who’s apparently been to this exact same camp when she was little. Great.
The dorms are a cozy place, air-conditioned and somewhat industrial for a place that promises sweet woodland adventure. You pick a bottom bunk at random, knowing some other guy will want to claim the top. You couldn’t care less. You don’t want to have fun, just survive.
Once Mrs. Richardson is done saying her goodbyes and you’re finished evading her kisses on each cheek, she’s off and you suddenly feel very alone. Even though you hadn’t known the woman forever, she was a friendly face in a sea of strangers. You decide to not care, and instead absentmindedly open your phone, which leads to the first of many unwanted surprises- the dorms don’t get coverage. You don’t have service. You swear through your teeth and get to unpacking.
Mrs. Richardson packed you a bunch of clothes, your charger, a sketchbook, a notebook, some pencils, and your favorite gel pen. It’ll work, you’ll make it work. Hopefully. She also packed snacks- some healthy granola bars that you’ll totally trade for some candy, and some red Airheads, because red and candy. It could be worse. Your sleeping bag unrolled and pillow unfolded, you settle in on your flimsy bed and start to sketch a crow’s wing, glancing at the door every so often to see if anyone new’s arrived.
Eventually, the door creaks open and slams shut and who the hell’s this kid? Escorted by his dad, he’s bright and bubbly and blue, in an eyes-match-his-jeans kind of way. He’s wearing a Ghostbusters shirt and glasses, and he’s extremely dorky, and of course. Out of the twenty or so beds in this room, he picks your top bunk.
“Hi! Nice to meet you! My name’s John Egbert, but you probably knew that from my name tag. I’m 12 and I’m very happy to meet you!” His buck teeth make his smile more perky than it might be otherwise, and he’s extending his hand in greeting. You just sort of… ignore it, because you don’t really know social etiquette here and you kind of feel like a dumbass.
“Hey. Dave. 13. Chill.” You glance away and intend to go back to drawing your wing, but he refuses to leave you alone. Others might think it endearing, but you just find it a bit annoying.
“What’s with the glasses? Light sensitivity or something? Hey, they kind of look like Ben Stiller’s. That’s pretty cool! Are you a fan?” You reply with a quick “yeah, nah” and go back to drawing, but he’s still peering over the edge of your sketchbook with that goofy grin.
“Yeah nah? What does that mean?”
“Yeah light sensitivity, not a fan of Stiller.” It’s easier to say that your eyes are light-sensitive than actually explain everything, especially to this stranger called John. He finally ignores you when his dad taps him on the shoulder and mutters something that even you can’t hear to him. He gives his dad a rib-crushing hug, and the dad departs the building. John starts to unpack, with a Ghostbusters-themed sleeping bag (of course this kid’s a terrible film nerd) and more shirts of the same design as the one he’s wearing now.
Another few kids enter, all picking spots fairly far away. You couldn’t care less about who they are or what they’re doing here. One, whose name seems to be Sollux, has similar complaints about the lack of cell service, and his dad notes that he “was sent here to unplug”. Another, Eridan, seems to have a power complex, saying that he’s too good for this place. His mom shushes his complaints and replies that a little socialization would be good for her “little prince”. You thank whatever god’s up there for these shades, because without them, you’d be visibly cringing. Parental displays of affection are so… unnatural, off-putting, weird, creepy. You don’t like them, in any case.
One kid comes in swearing. From what you hear of him, his name’s Karkat, and he didn’t go here voluntarily. You wouldn’t care enough to give him description, but his eyes- a bright, vibrant red- draw your attention. They contrast well against his skin, a deep creamy brown with black curls of hair framing his forehead. It’s a striking picture, and you’re admittedly more than a little intrigued. You take time away from drawing your crow, and draw one of his eyes, but it’s not as stark of a contrast without that rich red, but you keep trying to capture it until you hear two swift claps.
“Now, chaps, we have a fun activity to do!” A British accent barks cheerfully at you, and when you trace the source you see what can only be described as a strapping young chap. His eyes are as green as John’s are blue, and he’s wearing a bright smile, a forest-ranger hat, a tan shirt and forest-green overalls. It’s a sight, to be sure, so you decide to climb out of bed and see what he wants you to do. As you make your way to the table, you hear that his name is Jake English and he’ll be one of the boys’ camp counselors for the week. You see some markers and paper, and almost get excited until he tells you that you’re going to “Make a paper to describe yourself! Write down some things that are important to you!” and you sigh internally. Just when you were thinking you might make it through the week and not embarrass yourself too badly.
You hastily grab a red marker and write down, “dave. 13. pretty chill.” You draw a few record icons on it and tape it on your bunk’s ladder, to show people where you’re staying for this miserable week.
Karkat, apparently, is staying directly opposite your bunk, with no top-bunk partner. He’s a fan of terrible romance movies and-oh my god, is he seriously a fan of My Chemical Romance? What is he, a 2006 emo kid? You’ll ask him later, hopefully, if he’ll talk to you. As you walk around to the various other bunks, you wonder if it would be impolite to ask about his eyes. The answer: Probably, but that won’t stop you. You note with what might be a hint of a smile that Karkat, after seeing that John’s favorite movie is Con Air, hastily scribbles down “I ABSOLUTELY DESPISE CON AIR” on his sheet. You also decide to add that “My Chem sucks” on your sheet, even though you sort of enjoy some of their music and- god, Dave, no, never, don’t stoop that low. In any case, it makes him angry, and he physically snarls. You’re sure he’ll have some choice words for you later, but apparently later might be a lot later, because Jake interrupts you.
“Now, scouts, gather in a disorderly manner at the door! It’s time for dinner!”