Title: A Thousand Words (and maybe more)
Universe:
Homestuck
Chapter/s: 1 out of 3
Pairings:
None (but mentions of Dirk/Jake)
Genre/s: Humour, Family
Rating:
T
Disclaimer:
I do not own these characters.
Notes:
Just something that's been sitting in the back of my mind for a while. Reviews would be awesome.
Warnings:
Swearing. Mentions of homosexual shenanigans. Nothing explicit of course.


I

Your name is Dave Strider and you live in a pretty sweet apartment with your good ol' Bro (that's coolkid speak for deranged guardian with a puppet fetish but you still love him pretty unironically).

Right, so anyway. Your apartment or more specifically, yours and your bro's apartment is pretty sweet. It's got a living room, two bedrooms, a kitchen and a bathroom. You get one of the bedrooms, obviously, and you just manage cram all your shit in there. Your bro spends most of his time in the living and crashes on the futon, so that still leaves you guys with one more bedroom. At first, you reckoned that it was going to be some sort of guest room, but no. Bro keeps it locked at all times and you've only ever seen him go in there once and that's when you were like, ten, or something.

You're thirteen now and curiosity has you restless as fuck. Or more specifically, curiosity has you standing outside the bedroom door, hoping from foot to foot. It's not like you don't know how to pick a lock. You know how to pick a lock and Bro knows you know. Hell, he's the one who to taught to you how to pick a whole lot of locks (why he did is the question) and it's pretty much the only reason neither of you ever lock doors anymore. Not even the bathroom door but that's more for irony's sake.

So unless that door is password encrypted, you're not really sure why he's even bothered. Maybe it serves more as a warning? You can practically here his deep monotone voice with only the slightest warning lilt in your head and it's actually a little bit scary. Stay the fuck out, Dave.

Maybe it's where he stores all his, like, really expensive smuppets or where he films some seriously delirious biznasty that he doesn't want you to see.

Eugh.

Now you're not really sure you want to see what's in there. Okay, so that's a lie. In fact, you're already hunched over the knob before you even know what you're doing (another lie, what are you even saying) and –

Voi-fucking-la.

The door unlocks with a slight click and you mentally high-five yourself. Why haven't you tried this before? Oh that's right. Before last week, you hadn't really thought twice about the room. It was always just one of those things that you didn't question. But your best bro John Egbert had brought it up during his latest stay"So what's in there, Dave?"I...have no fucking idea."But this is your home. How can you not know? And you haven't been able to stop thinking about it since (ugh, damn you, Egbert.)

In the most clichéd way it could possible pull off, the door swings open ominously, complete with eerie hinge-creaking and dramatic light from the hallway pouring into the dark room. You peer in tentatively and the sight that greets you nothing at all what you've mentally been steeling yourself for.

"Woah," your jaw drops (very uncool, you know) and you even push your shades up into your hair just to make sure that you are totally seeing things properly. Fumbling for a switch on the wall, you let out a low whistle when the light flickers once, twice, and then sweeps across the room and falls over piles and piles of what you are pretty damn sure are robots.

Wow, what the fuck, Bro?

There are bits of metal everywhere. Wires lie tangled and scattered on the floor and some even hang overhead on the ceiling. A crooked working bench stacked with tools and rags is pushed up against the back wall. The robots themselves, however, are covered with dusty white bed sheets or clear plastic.

Two catch your eye.

One robot, smaller than the rest is sitting slumped against the workbench; backwards hat low on its forehead, eyes devoid of any spark. It's kind of cute, you guess. You wouldn't fucking know what's cute or not, but yeah, you guess you could call it that. It isn't exactly the kind of robot you'd design yourself though and it looks out of place amongst the more bulky looking things. The other robot is a little (lot) more unnerving.

It's almost an exact replica of your brother. It's a little shorter and leaner, like a younger version of your bro with perfectly sculpted metallic hair, translucent red shades and a blue hat not unlike Bro's sprayed onto the robot's torso. You smile slightly (because fuck it, Bro's not there to see) and you wonder if that's what his hair looks like if it's not squished under his dumb hat all time. A katana rests loosely in its grip and for some reason, its lifelessness distresses you. Even in this state, the damn thing is poised to strife, as if someone had hit the pause button on your bro and turned him into a steel statue. You shiver and move away when you realise how close you are to it. Just what was all of this?

You drift towards the workbench, mind racing and fingertips barely brushing against the covers thrown over the other robots. You don't really want to disturb anything; in fact, you're pretty sure that heavy lead thing in your stomach isn't indigestion it's more like guilt. Partly because you know you aren't supposed to be in here, and partly because you feel as if you're intruding on something private. Like a secret you were never supposed to know until Bro was ready to tell you. You swallow and your hand hovers over the bench hesitantly.

You really shouldn't be in here. There was a reason why the door was locked. There was a reason why Bro acted cagey about this room whenever you brought it up. You turn quickly, ready to abscond right the fuck out of there, but you aren't quick enough. Something catches your attention from your peripherals and your curse under your breath. You were never going to get out and you were going to get caught.

But you'll be damned if you don't check that photograph out right now.