Chapter Text
==> Dave: Experience rude awakening.
“RINNNNGGG, RINNNGGG, RINN—“
There is a loud crash as a shabby looking alarm clock explodes against a wall. This is followed by a barely audible groan that came from somewhere beneath red sheets, the comforter having long ago been kicked off.
Your name is Dave Strider, and you are not a morning person.
Unfortunately, this doesn’t really matter, because you have somewhere to be this morning, so you have to get up. Not because you actually want to go, but because you guardian will beat the ever living shit out of you if you don’t.
So, you stretch a little, pop your neck, and crawl out of your safe haven of warm covers and into your surprisingly cold bedroom.
‘Toto, we’re not in Texas anymore.’
You strip out of yesterday’s boxers and throw on a fresh pair and don that god-awful thing that you are being forced to wear. Of course, your ironic anime shades are on your face right after that.
‘I guess it doesn’t look so bad,’ you decide as you look into the cracked mirror propped up into the corner of your room. Still, it’s the principle of the thing that sets you off. You are in a white dress shirt, topped by a dark grey blazer with white lining (which you leave hanging open, rather than buttoning it up) and matching pants. You’re supposed to have a blue tie and loafers to go along with it, but you give up on the tie after failing to put it on three times (you never did learn how to knot the damn things), and it will be a very cold day in hell before you ever wear loafers.
Uniforms are a retarded concept anyway.
You walk out of your room, socked feet making no sound as you go to the bathroom and brush your hair, but not your teeth. You know from past experience that apple juice will be the only non-alcoholic thing in the fridge, and the thought of toothpaste combined with fruit really just makes you want to vomit.
You trudge into the kitchen, wondering where your Bro is. You grab a bowl of Frosted Flakes and some apple juice and sit down to eat at the itty bitty kitchen table.
Of course, your Bro shows up out of nowhere in mid-bite, but you’re so used to it by now that you don’t even bat an eyelash. You want to complain—tell him how stupid this place is, how you want to go home, back to Texas, where everything is a million degrees hotter and familiar. You want to tell him that the metric system is for pussies. But Striders don’t whine, so you just slouch a little more to let him know you aren’t happy about this.
“Get over it, kid. This is how it’s gonna be, so man up.”
‘Easy for you to say,’ you think, ‘You didn’t have any real friends in Texas. Granted, I only had one, but still.’
Damn, you missed the crazy bitch already. Even if the only thing she ever talked about was how the law worked, at least she didn’t speak with a fancy fucking accent, like all the pretentious pricks around here.
Your brother continues to speak, and you hear him strip away a layer or two of irony from his words, just like he always does when he’s trying to comfort you. You appreciate the gesture, even if you are still pissed about having to move for whatever job he’s fished up this time.
“England needs a good dose of coolkid. Show them all your Strider swag, and you’ll be ruling the school in no time. The Monarchy will have nothing on you.”
You just nod and get up, unceremoniously dumping your dishes in the sink. You brush your teeth, grab your tattered back pack with the ironic SBHJ patch on it and push on your red converse without bothering to untie them first. Then you are leaving without a word, because Striders don’t do long goodbyes. Even on your first day in a new school in a completely different country.