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Present day
Houston, Texas
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Your name is Dave Strider and there isn't a pair of sunglasses thick enough to stop the Texas heat on your first day at your new high school.
Walking to school is bad enough, but when they stick you in phys. ed. last period, you feel like a wet noodle with all the sweating you're doing. You lean against the basketball hoop post-y thing and try to protect what's left of your dignity. You swear the sun is shaped like a certain Internet meme that remsembles a constipated clown, and you try not to notice how the clouds around it seem to scrawl out, "problem?".
Of course, it's probably just your vast imagination turning gears.
You allow yourself to lean more against the pole, resting your head against it. You don't get to fully relax for long, though, because suddenly there's a really nasally voice calling out just to your left.
You sigh and glance in the direction, looking over the rim of your glasses at a scrawny, black-haired kid. His blue eyes are wide and frightened, innocent, and you'd probably scowl if Bro hadn't taught you better. Three bigger guys have him cornered against the outside wall of the school, and he's pressed against the grungy brick like if he believes hard enough he'll phase through it. You roll your eyes because he's not Harry fucking Potter and this ain't London, bitch.
"Hey, Waldo, why don't you take off your scarf and come hassle with someone competant?" you find yourself saying. (Cliche lines are a necessity in a situation such as this.) All eyes turn to you, but you don't back down. In fact, you let your lips twitch into an almost unnoticable coolguy smirk and you cross your arms. You push yourself off the pole and approach the the one in the center, who you'd been addressing. With bullies, the leader always stands in the center and slighty further away from the action than the posse, and that's a schoolyard fact.
Center-guy twists up his (rather handsome, you realize with slight surprise) face and raises a fist at you. He's holding a pair of glasses, and you can safely assume they belong to the kid they're tormenting. "This doesn't concern you! Back off..um, who are you, anyway?"
He looks at his lackeys for help and they both shrug simultaneously. You take a step toward center-guy and shove your hands in the pockets of your skinny jeans. "Does it matter who I am? I could be Tiger fucking Woods. I could be Chuck fucking Goddamn Norris. I could be your grandfather time travelling to stop you from becoming some hooligan good-for-nothing, but it looks like Poppop's too late. Practice with me now, sonny, 'would you like fries with that?". I said it reeeal slow, too. Do I need to repeat it, or do you think you've got it?"
He doesn't say anything, so you walk up almost nose-to-nose with him and and say, "The name's Strider, got it? Now why don't you just hand me those glasses, back away from the pipsqueak and run off to your mommy and ask her to bake you some fuckin' dinosaur-shaped cookies, m'kay?"
"Whatever, man. You're not even worth it." Center guy drops the glasses on the asphalt and waddles off, his two ducklings following suit.
You reach down and fetch the glasses. They're bent in between the lenses to look like a 'v', and you're pretty sure they're irrepairable, but you hand them to the nerdy kid anyway.
"Sorry about the glasses, man," you say as your fingers brush his. A light feeling wiggles around in your stomach, but you ignore it. You pull away and put your hand back in your pocket, where it belongs.
"Oh, man! You were SO AWESOME!" he says, disregarding the glasses completely. His fists are balled and he holds them at his chest, so he pretty much just gives off the feel of a dumb little kid that's excited too easily. "You're, like..you're, like, freaking Superman or something! Wait, no. You're, like, way too cool to be Superman. You're Batman! You're Batman, uh, Strider, was it?"
"DAVE Strider," you correct.
He nods enthusiastically and holds out his hand for you to shake. "I'm John Egbert. It's super great to meet you, coolguy Dave!"
You look at it, and slowly fish your hand out of your pocket. You maneuver around his fingers and bump your frist against the back of his hand.
He giggles, and your heart skips a beat at the sound.
Your name is Batman Strider and you've been caught; you're a total fruit.
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