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You had only ever expected to raise one kid, one, and you had never really expected him to begin with. He came out of nowhere. Literally out of the blue and shit. You bet he thought you made that crap up, but nope. Heaven was raining babies on dead ponies that magical, fucked up day.
Anyway, when you’d first been pushed into this mess it didn’t seem so bad. Sure your kid had apparently multiplied and dragged a mini you into the mix, but there was another grown man with them so you figured you could share all the adult based shit and take a bit of the load off yourself. Half of this bunch was technically his anyway.
Unfortunately it only took a matter of minutes for you to see that your grown lil bro had even less an idea of how to do any this shit than you did. This left, of course, you as the sole member of this fucking family with any clue how to get real shit done, and thus the default person to do all of said shit. Fan fucking tastic.
Nothing was simple either. Not even your names. You and mini-you were cool almost instantly. You were Bro and he was Dirk, simple, no fuss what so ever. It wasn’t like anyone called you by your first name anyway. But Dave cubed could not settle on anything. They all had to be something like “the true Dave.” Like, you couldn’t even do numbers because they all wanted to be number one. “Big Dave,” “Lil Dave,” “Orange Dave,” and all other variations of Dave were pushed aside with rambling metaphors and (not so) hidden complaints custom to the Dave they were referring to. You still don’t understand the problem. They’re still all fucking Dave.
Eventually you just gave the fuck up and hoped to god that they’d somehow know which Dave was being referred to with any “Dave” that dared pass your lips. None of them ended up helping with the fucking paperwork anyway. You could have told the feds that they were Larry, Curly and Mo if the ironies were with you. But you didn’t think they deserved the names of such comedy legends with all the shit they were putting you through so they became Huey, Dewey, and Louie. Fucking. Disney. Ducks. That’ll show ‘em.
Living arrangements were thankfully provided for you. The powers that be had made your apartment twice as big to accommodate all y’all before you got dumped there. There was almost a several way strife over who got which room but all your shit had already been sorted so you guess the powers that be decided that for you.
Money was a no brainer for the first time in forever. Apparently the lil man became a big shot director in mini-you’s world. The fucker’s loaded. You’re still keeping your smuppets thing. Man’s gotta have a hobby. (And have you seen Dave’s face?)
You and mini-you did get in one major strife the second day. Apparently some law of the universe (paradox space? Whatever) made it so there can only ever be one lil Cal. Shit got wrecked. Daves absconded. You won, of course. You let the kid have him in the end though. You love Cal and all but it was obvious lil you needed him more. You are such a good guardian sometimes. (Not a dad. Even though apparently you are? You’re even your own dad. How fucked up is that?)
Yeah, mini-you had a really hard time adapting. Going from knowing literally three other people your whole life to living in the human mess that was Huston? Not good. Hell, neither of you are really any good with people in the first place. That’s why you let him have Cal. Cal is a constant companion. Cal never talks back or makes you uncomfortable. He actually makes other people uncomfortable, which is pretty awesome by your socially defunct standards. He’s familiar to the kid at any rate, and that’s more than you can say for everything else in this shitty place.
Though mini-you does have this problem where the little shit constantly makes more little shits for you to worry about. Like, they’re robots and all but you just know there’s a bit of Strider in each of them. And the lil man told you something about Dirk and soul splitting so your Strider sense ain’t wrong by any definition. Not that it ever is. You know a Strider when you see one, metal or no metal.
But, yeah, you’ve confiscated mini-you’s tools until he at least tries to socialize like a normal human being. Try being the key word. You’re not always the best guardian but you know when things have to be taken with baby steps. Well, you do most of the time. Right now you’ll settle with “leave the apartment and talk to someone” even if he only says “hi” or some shit. Doesn’t help that the kid’s paranoid as fuck. You’re pretty sure he doesn’t even trust you and you’re practically the same person. You’re not usually one to talk when it comes to paranoia but shit. If Dirk didn’t have his own room you’re pretty sure he’d have an aneurism or something. He wouldn’t get any sleep, anyway. Not that he seems to get much… You probably need to get him a therapist or something. (What kind of therapist could even deal with all his shit?)
You are so not prepared to deal with all your own problems times two with a dash of teenage hormones. You can’t even tell how his thought processes work sometimes. He makes everything more complicated than it has to be, thinks he has to solve every fucking problem himself, and then makes his solutions even more complex than the problem was. Were you like that at his age? Probably, but fuck if you know for sure. (You sure as hell aren’t going back to find out.)
And then there’s the pain in the ass to end all pains in collective asses. He somehow managed to be worse than all the Daves combined so you might have to give him an ironic award or some shit. He wouldn’t even fucking pick a name. One day he was Hal, the next day he was Sunny. One day he’d deiced that his name was fucking Pinocchio. Mini-you calls him AR and he did kind of create the little shit so you guess that’s his real name? Fuck if you know. You just have to try your best not to punch him out a fucking window. At least the rest of your bros seem to find him as annoying as you do. Well, most of the time. You have to admit that he can be pretty fucking cute when he thinks no one is watching.
All and all, you guess this clusterfuck didn’t turn out too bad. At least you’re all alive and shit.