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Before he was Bro, he was Dirk.
It’s a name he refuses to associate with anymore.
The thing is, he’s a piece of shit. He knows it. He grew up on the streets of Houston in the ‘80s with no one to tell him right from wrong. All he had was a cruddy inherited apartment, Cal, and a fading will to live, only because he was unfortunately all too aware of his purpose.
He grew up quickly, and he grew up mean. He didn’t take shit from others, and he revelled in the way the other kids flinched as he walked by.
He started training with swords around the same time he got his first paycheck, at 15.
Of course, Cal was there for him the whole time. He was the closest thing he had to a guardian. He couldn’t have cared less what the fuck was up with the puppet. That thing was his companion, dammit.
He hardly spoke a word to anyone. He made himself as scarce as possible. He couldn’t have cared less about others, all that mattered was getting his own life to a point where he wasn’t in danger of losing the only belongings he’d ever had.
He worked more than one job. He dropped out of school. He was the poster boy for what not to do as a teenager. The neighbors would whisper about him, and when he bothered to buy snacks from the gas station, so did his peers. Former peers. He used all his money to save up for the latest technologies and shit. He learned to flash-step and strife and he began to collect the puppets he was always interested in and he couldn’t have given less of a shit about the outside world.
Then, finally, when he was 18, the meteor struck in the remains of his favorite record shop. His purpose came in the form of a baby that he didn’t fucking want. He gave it some tiny sick matching shades and named him Dave and suddenly he was no longer Dirk Strider, he was Bro.
That changed nothing.
Maybe at the start it did, because he’s not fucking stupid enough to think that babies could become self-sufficient, but once the little guy took his first proper steps it was time to train him.
It never processed in his brain that this was wrong. Making this kid learn to live for himself. He threw himself into work during the day, now having two fucking mouths to feed, and made stupid puppets at night. He’d always been an insomniac, not like it really mattered. He came to master his own irony. He was like a fucking sensei up in here.
Sometimes he’d notice just how scared the kid was of him. Good, he’d think. This is how it should be. He can’t afford distractions.
Later, he made some ironic porn sites. That became his main source of income, and he was able to quit his jobs and move himself and Dave into a bigger place. He filled the place with puppets and swords and cameras because fuck if he wasn’t going to suit it to his own ironic tastes. He continued the kid’s training. He continued making puppets. Cal was there for him, as always. He couldn’t bother to be there for Dave.
Dave eventually mastered the Strider apathy, got good (not great, but good) with swords, and for the first time, Bro felt something akin to pride.
He was counting down the days until April 13, 2009.
He and Lil Cal strife with Dave that day, one final farewell and test on his part. Dave probably doesn’t see it that way, but Bro doesn’t really care. He passed well enough.
He goes out in the sickest fucking way possible. How many dudes can say they cut a fucking meteor in half to save their bro? Not many. It’s fucking awesome and ironic and vaguely, as he’s sure he’s dying, Bro wonders if there ever could’ve been more for him in life.