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The first thing you notice is the pain in your chest, deep and dull, like a bruise that goes all the way through your body. You’re lying on something soft—grass, maybe, or moss—and your shirt, when you reach up to feel it, is dry and free of holes. Must’ve been dead, then.
Shit. How long were you out?
He gives you a hand up and you take it; it hurts to move, but you don’t feel the telltale pull and flex of an actual wound, so you ignore the pain. Standing, you can tell you’re in a meadow a little too circular to be natural, surrounded by unreasonably lush instantiations of the platonic concept of a tree. Dave’s looking at you with more suspicion and less delight than you consider quite ideal.
“Finally,” he says. “Took you long enough. You got any idea where the hell we are, by the by?”
You haven’t, as it happens, but you’da figured he’d know that already; saw you die, didn’t he? (You hope he didn’t do anything too uncool about it. You didn’t raise a whiner.)
You elect to play it close to the vest; don’t want him getting cocky, after all.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that? It’s pretty clear you outlived me.”
“Dude,” he says, “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
His mouth doesn’t twitch like it does when he’s lying, but you can’t think how your kid wouldn’t know you. It feels like there’s something you’re missing, and you hate that.
You say nothing, stare him down until he cracks. His poker face has gotten better in your absence.
“I’m a busy man—lots of irons in the fire—so how about you cut me a little slack if I don’t remember everyone I gave an autograph to or read a script for or however it is you think I know you. Just… cut it out with this bullshit cryptic thing and gimme whatever intel you’ve got straight out.”
When would Dave have been signing autographs—oh. The Scratch. Somebody must’ve pulled it off while you were gone. This isn’t your Dave at all, huh.
You give this other Dave a thorough once-over. He’s missing a scar on his left eyebrow, and there’s a nasty one across the back of both his hands that you didn’t put there. He stands up a little straighter than your Dave would, and he doesn’t turn his face toward what he’s looking at the way yours does. (Kid thinks he’s so slick, but when it comes to hiding things from you he’s about as opaque as a smuppet is unprofitable.)
He puts one hand on his sword, all casual-like, and that’s another difference: your own Dave is wound up tight as a spring, ready to go flying off the handle if he so much as sees his shadow. This one holds his shoulders square, taking up space; it puts you off your game.
It isn’t smart to piss off potential allies and/or minions, though, so you extend the proverbial olive branch: “You ever heard of a thing called Sburb?”
That gets his hackles up, which you weren’t planning on, but it’s reassuring to see him go closed-in and off-balance.
“Who’s asking?”
You waver a moment, but decide to go for broke.
“Call me Dirk.”
Other Dave just sags, like a puppet with its strings cut.
“Oh my god—Dirk? You beat the game? You’re so old, I thought you’d be a teenager—”
The nice thing to do would be to tell him he’s got the wrong Dirk; you consider this course of action and promptly drop it. Better if he trusts you. (Besides, it’s gonna be fun watching him figure it out.)
“Watch who you’re calling old, there.”
“Right, yeah, sorry—this is just, it’s so great, I didn’t think I’d ever get to see you—can I get a hug?” He’s smiling more broadly than Dave has ever smiled, and now that you’re looking at him properly you can see he’s got laugh lines, for pete’s sake.
“Nope.”
He backs up half a step, and his smile wavers a bit.
“I guess you wouldn’t do hugs, yeah, that makes sense. I don’t wanna do anything you’re not cool with. I’m just. So glad I get to see you”—you note that he’s repeating himself—“like, I thought that was gonna be it, you know?” You do know—you thought so too—but letting on to that would give up the game too soon, so you say nothing.
“I know I wasn’t able to be there for you—I really wish I could’ve—but I just want to say, I am so, so proud of you, and I love you, Dirk, I love you so much—”
“Let’s keep things professional,” you say, and watch how his smile crumples off his face and comes back smaller.
“Oh okay yeah that’s cool, whatever you want, you’re the one holding the proverbial strings here. Totally fine with going at whatever pace you find most comfortable.” He’s definitely looking more like your Dave now, limbs pulled in toward the center of his body and nervousness visible on his face.
“So, uh, what was it like? The game, I mean. Obviously you won or I wouldn’t be here, but… I don’t know, was it fun? Wait, no, that’s a stupid question, consider it withdrawn. Uh, you got the Batterwitch, right, god what a bitch—sorry—did you get in any good quips? Rose and I were planning some great ones but we never got to deliver them, more’s the pity. I guess you know that, though. I’m not letting you talk at all, am I? Sorry, uh, you can totally interrupt me whenever, I really do want to hear your perspective. That sounds lame as hell but it’s the truth, promise. God, I just keep talking, don’t I. I’m gonna shut up now.”
“You do seem to have a tendency to ramble, yes. Can’t speak to the rest of your questions, I died pretty early on.” You’re deliberately giving him the bare minimum, and Dave being Dave, he’s going to assume it’s because he’s done something wrong.
“Sorry man, didn’t mean to bring it up. I’m putting my foot in my mouth so hard I’m chewing knee here, aren’t I. Man, this is really not how I would’ve wanted our first meeting to go, I apologize.” Works every time. “Okay, let’s just close the book on everything I’m saying, maybe burn it for good measure. How about you, is there anything you want to know about? I tried to leave as clear a historical record as I could, but things were an absolute mess, I wouldn’t be surprised if all you got was half a sentence about magnets and an HD remaster of Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff: The Movovie. Anything you wanna talk about, dude, just say the word.”
“I think I know everything I need to.” You have no idea what he’s talking about, actually, but if yours is anything to go by—and clearly he is—Dave’s low-maintenance enough that you don’t need to tell him that sort of thing.
“Okay, cool, that’s chill. You’re not into conversations, that’s fine, how about I give you my chumhandle—you have pesterchum, right?”
“Yup.” You don’t tell him your handle; he’ll keep.
“Great. Okay, I’m timetableGrandiosity, message me whenever, I mean it, my door is always open and all that, but if I’m reading the room right you seem to want me out of your hair? I can give you some space, go see what there is to see and all that. Unless you want to come with? Totally up to you.”
A perfect opportunity to set the hook. “You sure you can handle yourself out there? Could be something dangerous; I wouldn’t wanna lose my tragically-departed bro”—shit, would the other Dirk call him that? Nothing to do but roll with it—“so soon after our touching reunion.”
He probably doesn’t think you see the way he smiles at that, the way his limbs hang easier and his brow smoothes out. (Then again, this Dave apparently never knew his you; maybe he just doesn’t know not to let people see that sort of thing.)
“Thanks for the concern, bro—it’s cool if I call you that, right?—but I did kill multiple clown presidents in single combat, so I’m pretty sure I can take whatever comes my way.” He hesitates, shoulders tensing up again, before holding out a fist.
“One for the road?”
You know when to give Dave scraps and when to leave him hanging, and you could absolutely leave him hanging. But hey, what the hell, you missed the kid, and this might not be your Dave but it’s certainly a Dave.
You return the bunp.