Chapter 1
Dave wakes up to find himself staring at a dull, somewhat grossly cottage-cheese spackled ceiling, minaturely impudent bumps of whatever the fuck they used to make the disgusting texture. Everyday two bedroom one bath apartment grade. Just like every day before then, even if it wouldn't be completely true.
Refocusing, he can see strings tacked up from wall to wall, a smattering of photos hanging from them. A deep breath lets him know that his shelves are still cinderblock and plywood, and the soft tinge of formaldehyde and alcohol continues to speak for his collection of dead things. Not to mention the somehow always-clean smell of Bro's smuppets – a smell that permeates the entire lonely Texas apartment.
Crooning out the window makes him sit up. Stupid crow. Probably sat there since ungodly hours in the morning, just watching him sleep. Creepy fucker.
With a groan, Dave hoists himself up and out of the tangled sheets. They're on top of a naked mattress, and the entire concoction of a resting place can hardly be something called a bed, but it is, and a pretty comfortable one when it came down to it. Immediately, and smoothly, his shades are settled on his face.
Looking out at the window again, the crow since then, gone, he sees it's probably about noon. Apartment buildings go on for what seems like forever, but it's just an illusion, he knows. He ambles a bit closer and peers outside, looking down to the street below. People are antlike, and cars are somewhat more the size of caterpillars.
The sounds of the city below reach his ears – his room – the entire apartment – easily, a roiling, turbulent noise he's grown so accustomed to. Closing his eyes, the sounds nearly match the soundtrack of a hot, arid place from so far away, so long ago.
He doesn't let his mind wander for long, but an unchecked sigh slips from between his lips, leaving his blank expression quite studiously alone. He turns away from the window, room greeting his be-shaded and open eyes.
Things don't change much in five years. It doesn't appear as such in his room, at least. Sure, his turntables and computer got a little upgrade, slick, newfangled models and all that.
A particularly stuffy gust of hot air ushers Dave out of his room. He wasn't surprised to see Bro sprawling out on the couch, clad only in boxers with a sweating beer half empty and ignored by his feet, hands preoccupied with the xbox controller, as he walks out into the living room.
Soundbytes of prerecorded gunshots, groans made unearthly for zombies, and repetitive quips mix with the dull throes of the city below, making an even more incoherent medley as Dave roots through the sparse pantry.
Cereal.
Lucky Charms, of course.
Actually, it was an off brand, Magic Marshmallows, or something ridiculous like that.
Disregarding the colorful illustrations of garishly cartooned children and magical marshmallowed shapes on the box, he pours himself a generous bowl. Offhandedly, he notes that he only got five chalky marshmallows in the entire bowl of the stuff. The box is returned to its home in the pantry, next to a couple of cans with the labels removed (they said things like SOUP, or FRUIT, nonspecifics).
Turning to the fridge, Dave doesn't hesitate before opening it. The swords in the fridge had been a long-running activity in the apartment, until a new nosy neighbor tried to help herself to a beverage even after Dave assured her Bro didn't have bottled water.
Dave searches for milk, unperturbed to find that there isn't any, but there is a slowly accumulating pile of tantō behind a six pack of beer whose sixth member was alone in the living room. Of course, it wasn't exactly a pile, per say, but a collection of three of the six to twelve inch blades. He closes the refrigerator door and turns to his bowl of cereal, lonely and milkless.
There is a crackling and a hiss as Bro tears into a bag of Doritos in the other room, which Dave disregards, and takes to picking out all the x shaped pieces of frosted cereal, popping them one at a time into his mouth. After a few moments, the shrink-wrapped commercial-size pack of juice boxes finds itself one apple juice-filled cardboard companion less as Dave sets himself up with a drink.
Breakfast, or rather lunch, is quickly finished despite his picky habits. He crunches the final sad, dehydrated excuse for a marshmallow and unceremoniously taps the crumbs out of his bowl, where they are joined by the empty juice box. The thud of the cardboard box is mostly lost in Bro's obnoxiously loud chip munching and the xbox.
He replaces the mostly clean bowl with its kin in the cabinet before heading back out to the living room, flopping down next to Bro, snatching the disregarded beer. Dave tips his head back, taking a drink of the swill. It's some of the cheaper stuff, but hell, it's okay. Beside him, Bro continues blowing the brains out of zombie hordes until there's but a solo, and unfortunate, crawler, dragging itself across the concrete, all bark and no bite.
Wordlessly, Bro holds out his hand.
The beer.
Dave lets him have it back, not sparing a glance toward him, just watching the screen, reminded of a certain growly someone.
Bro downs the rest of the beer and commands the loud mouthed, stupid marine on screen to knife the poor little crawler. The prerecorded byte of 'K.I.A., Maggot-sack!' follows Dave as he returns to his room.
The weather is much too hot for closed doors, so he leaves it open. He grabs a clean change of clothes, surprisingly not from the floor, though he still employs the sniff test. Whatever his nose deems clean enough is good enough, and with that, he strips off his briefs, tossing them into a pile of clothes across the room. He steps into a clean pair, and tugs on thrift store jeans, torn and ragged but wearable, and a patterned tee, pink and brown, 'unnatural disaster.'
A pair of mismatched ankle socks find a new home on Dave's feet, and they're soon tucked under his ratty red chucks. He taps the toes of his shoes on the floor a couple times to get his feet to settle comfortably in them as he slips his sparse valuables into his pockets: iPhone, wallet, keys. Beats by Dr. Dre, another gift, settle around his neck.
"Going out."
And he was out the door, past the broken down elevator to begin the tedious trip down sixteen flights of stairs (thirty two, really, since it took two tiny flights to go down one floor). Dave slips his headphones up, on to his head, flicking through albums until he's suitably drowned in music.
The sounds of cars fall deafly around him as he walks along the street. The dry heat is amplified by the asphalt and concrete and buildings with bright glass windows, though regardless of all that, not many are venturing out, not without a car. Still, Dave walks, the rhythm of his chucks on the concrete in time with the beats permeating his brain.
In his pocket, under his hand, the iPhone is buzzing with Pesterchum, but with only an on-screen notification, Dave is still unaware. Before him, a rundown playground is shimmering in the heat waves, as if it's behind a sheet of water.
When he sits, the swing protests with crackled creaking noises, sun-dried rubber seat giving halfhearted indications that it might crumble, but, of course, it doesn't. The heels of Dave's chucks dig into the sand at his feet, a good foot or so away from the long rut under the decimated swing. He pulls the musically-inclined cellular device from his pocket, finally nursing to the Pesterchum alerts.
First, he looks out past the chain link fence, staring out into sparse traffic, then up and up and up until he can see the sky. Clear between the buildings, it's blue as can be, purely untouched by the hellish temperatures below.
The first alert to come up was John. Dave felt his mouth twitch into a near-smile. Derpy kid, teeth too big for his mouth, heart to big for his own good.
His eyes scanned the messages rapidly,
-ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 1:24-
EB: hey dave
EB: daaaave dave
EB: whatever, just answer when you finally check your phone
EB: i was just gonna check in
EB: you know, see if you remember you've got a flight to catch next friday heheh
EB: i can't wait to see you, man!
EB: you better be ready for all the prankster bro shenanigans i've got planned
EB: anyway, i gotta go, gotta work all week so i can get the next month off when you're here
-ectoBiologist [EB] is offline-
Of course he remembered. And of course John would remind him. Even if it's somewhat sparsely compared to years before now, it's always been like him to worry over Dave remembering this, Dave remembering that. And this was an especially big thing to be worried about.
Then he saw the next alerts: Rose, reminding him that there was more to do than just mope around. There were things to do, and nothing could change what happened five years ago.
In other words, it was all things Dave knew already. He had moved on. A long time ago, in fact.
He got past it when he got past it, and he still won't stop walking to his own drum.