#strider shenanigans

[justicescales]

oh well if its praise then let them go ahead theyre absolutely right about everything

H4H4H4H4

1 4M SUR3 4LL TH3Y W1LL H4V3 TO S4Y 1S PR41S3 D4V3

4ND 1T W1LL B3 D3L1C1OUS PR41S3 F1T FOR 4 COOL K1D

[justicescales]

terezi whatever they have to say about me is not true dont listen to a single solitary word they say theyre dead wrong

H3H3H3H3

BUT D4V3 1 4M SUR3 TH3Y H4V3 1NT3R3ST1NG TH1NGS TO S4Y 4BOUT YOU 4ND 4LL OF TH3 COOL STUFF YOU H4V3 DON3

1M QU1T3 3XC1T3D TO L1ST3N 4CTU4LLY!

[psqqa]

Visit Original Link

Talking Heads - Stay Up Late

This song reminds me so much of the Strider-Lalondes for...reasons, I suppose.

[lizzledpink]

> Reader: Be the dude with the puppet fetish.

Your name -

...

Lame insult, dude.

Your name is not Bro Strider, but you suppose if you have to be called something, better that than Puppet Fetish Guy. Being Dave's older bro is something you're proud of. 

You're proud of the puppet gig too, but only ironically. The title makes it sound like it's not ironic at all. Bitch, please.

You wake this morning with the knowledge that it is April 14th, 2009, and you are pleased to not be dead. You're not sure why this is such an important detail. You were in perfect health yesterday.

But, for some reason, waking up and looking in the mirror without a sword plunged through your torso is an awesome thing. You look at Cal and find he too is safe. Oh, yeah. Good day.

> Bro: Put on shades.

You are already wearing your shades. Check it.

> Bro: Stop being a dick.

No.

You leave your room and go to the kitchen.

> Bro: Take Cal with you.

Are you high? Cal is already sitting on the refrigerator. 

> But Cal was just in your room!

Really?

Really now?

This voice in your head should just give up. You are too cool to be manipulated like this. Seriously, it should just stop.

You reach into the fridge and pull out some orange juice. There is nothing better than the taste of refreshing orange juice in the morning, or any time of day, really. Dave can have his sissy apple juice all he likes; you know what's good. 

It's a Sunday. There's not much for you to do on Sundays. Sundays are good days. Sundays mean looking after the kid and hanging out on the internet. You have a few people you need to talk to and a couple of traps to set in the house. Nothing big. It is a day to kick back.

This is when you see Dave.

Dave enters the kitchen with the weirdest sort of gravity. You can't place it. He has always been a cool kid (and you would expect nothing less), but this is different. He's like he grew up by four years, went to Vegas and fucked a prostitute, ran for President, fixed the economy, resigned due to bullshit and spent the next four years of his life running a club for the richest motherfuckers only.

Then he donated it all to charity, bought him self new shades, and became a DJ who could spin the sickest. vinyl. ever.

It's like he did all that overnight, came back, and was your little brother again. Cool as ever - but cooler.

You're not sure what to make of that.

"Morning."

Dave remains silent behind his glasses.

"Are you going to get your damn apple juice?"

Beat. 1, 2...

"Yeah," Dave says.

If he doesn't do something normal soon, you might flip. Okay, you won't flip. But you might do something stupid like worry about the kid.

"So get it."

"Not thirsty."

"What's wrong with you?" you ask. 

"Long night."

"Doing what?"

"Kicking ass."

"I'm going to kick your ass if you don't tell me what's up," you say.

"Then kick it."

"What?"

"Kick my fucking ass," Dave says flatly. 

"What kind of shit are you in? This isn't funny."

"I'm not joking. I'll tell you exactly the shit I'm in if you kick my ass," Dave says. "Rooftop."

"I beat you every time," you say, raising an eyebrow. Damn if the kid isn't being cryptic. He's being worse than the bitches on TV who are from the future and talk about spoilers and shit.

"I know you do. I don't care."

"Meet you up there in five," you say.

Dave leaves the kitchen.

It feels like a goddamn sucker punch.

You really don't know what just happened.

The kid tosses swears around a lot. So do you. But it's all a juggling act. A two-person act in a three-ring circus. You and he toss those cusses like clowns with unicycles and bowling pins and whatever else clowns toss. You don't know. You're not a fucking carny. 

If anything, you're the ringmaster of this circus. You bring the house down. You get the audience clapping, slapping their hands together and raising the stands, making plans, they're coming back - they'll watch the show again and again.

This is not the time for rhymes, you remind yourself.

The point is, for all you and Dave bitch at each other, sharpening each other's wits (this is how you Striders roll), you don't get in arguments like this. It's like Dave doesn't even know how to deal right now, and you don't even have something to scratch. There's not a single fingerhold for you to grab.

Dave is all wrong and needs fixing. You can tell that much. You're bad with the fixing part, always have been. But you're good at the caring, and usually that's enough to help you wade through any emotional shit.

This time, you just don't know.

So, you decide on your course of action. You are going to do one thing:

You are going to kick Dave Strider's ass.

And when you do, you're going to give your brother the manliest, least uncool hug you possibly can, and ask him what the fuck's going on. 

You won't let him down.

> Bro: Be yourself five minutes later.

The voice in your head is a prissy, impatient whiner, but you'll let this one slide.

You stand on the rooftop, sword poised.

Dave stands across from you, comfortable and entirely unreadable.

You are ready.

Lightning-fast, you dart forward. There is no beating your speed. The kid has come close, but there's nothing for it; you're still the fastest bastard in town. 

clash

clang

He meets your strikes evenly. You're going easy, to start. Nothing fancy. Just attacks he can block. He looks bored behind his glasses, and that's okay - set him off balance.

People don't know how psychological all this is. It's all about staying calm and waiting, because the longer you wear them down, the sooner they make a mistake. And that's when you slip past their guard - when they're mentally weakest.

You are unflappable. You can't lose.

Dave's putting up a damn good fight.

You come around behind him, he just reaches back and flips your strike aside; without a word you move to scratch his leg and you find your katana glances off again. 

The kid's good.

Step it up. You give even less of a fuck.

You kick it up a notch, and now it's less like movement, more like disappearing and reappearing. The kid follows you, matching every motion smoothly, and it's like a fucking dance, this part. You feel yourself smile. This is what a battle's supposed to be like - two finely tuned opponents, each as good and each as strong in every way. 

You're taller and stronger, but Dave's being surprisingly agile and easily making up for the difference.

Bring it.

You stop looking at Dave, and look at your opponent. You can't watch his eyes to see where they're headed, not behind those glasses - just another reason you wear them, yourself - but you can watch his body. A slight twist in one leg muscle and you know he's facing the right; he shifts his body weight and it almost throws you off. 

He watches you just as closely. It's thrilling to know he's this good. The fact that you could lose doesn't cross your mind, but the fact that this could go on for a while sticks. Challenge at last. Whatever else, you're damn proud.

Whoa.

Whoa.

You lift your sword just in time - the bad angle sends a jolt down the blade, through the hilt and straight into your wrist. Shit. That is one bad vibration. 

You shake it off, but your eyes meet Dave's sunglasses for the splittest second, and damn.

He's on the offensive, now. Not you. Him.

And then he's behind you and you block again.

And again.

He's fast. He is so fucking fast. If you didn't know better, sometimes you'd swear he was in two places at once. He is everywhere and you can barely keep up. You're breaking a sweat and slowly losing your cool and you know it. Dave's sudden change in technique is wearing you out.

This isn't fucking happening.

Time seems to melt (and maybe it does); thought disappears and you're just holding on now. You manage to throw in a few wild thrusts. It doesn't even occur to you that you might actually hurt the kid with some of them, and it doesn't matter. Dave's gone before your sword so much as whispers into the air.

You see something come at you from the right, and turn, and fuck only knows what you've gone and tripped over but you're sprawled on your back -

Dave stands above you, his sword calmly held at the base of your throat.

He won.

You don't know how he did it. But he won.

And he looks miserable about it.

Your lips are open and you don't know what to say.

Dave removes the sword from your throat, but he backs it up by kneeling. One leg on the ground, the other leg on your chest, lightly weighing you down. 

You don't understand, but he's doing something.

He reaches forward, and takes your shades off. Anybody else, you'd castrate them. Anybody at all.

You blink at the light. It's bright and for a moment you can't really see, but then Dave comes into focus. He's looking at you. 

And then he's hugging you.

His arms are thrown around your neck. He's burying into your chest like he hasn't done since he was four or something. He isn't crying, or sobbing, or making any noise at all. He's just sort of clinging.

Fuck.

Fuck. 

You don't know a goddamn thing but you know what you have to do now. You pick up your arms and you wrap them around your little brother.

He's probably not going to tell you what's wrong, but you can hold him, can't you? Nobody looks on rooftops anyway. There's nobody up here to see how unironic this is. This is some sincere bro hugging. Kind of hurts. But Dave needs it, and that's the only reason you need to ever do a single fucking thing.

Always. 

He sort of bunches his fists up in your shirt and you don't care.

"Sorry," you mutter. You don't know why.

"Not your fault," Dave says hollowly.

"Can I do anything?"

"Fuck off," Dave says. But there's none of the bitterness from before. You speak brother fluently, and this one means, "Don't let go. Don't leave."

"Not a chance," you tell him. "I can't just leave your pansy ass alone."

"This pansy ass just won. You're the pansy ass."

"Still not fucking off, no matter how much you want me to."

"Bastard."

"I know."

:::

> Bro: Be yourself from a game you don't remember.

You're fighting.

You're fighting for Earth, you're fighting for your pride...

Nah. To hell with that. You're fighting for your brother.

Even if he does seem to be an orange, winged-glowy thing at the moment.

He's still your bro.

And you're willing to die fighting on his side any day, if it means a chance at winning.

What - 

Green?

Motherfucking green?

Wings - 

Jack's face is - 

greenblackredgreenredgreenblackredblackblackno