Title: Coolk1ds In Lockers
Fandom: Homestuck
Summary:'Coolkids don't get shoved in lockers,' you think with venom as you continue to shove ineffectually against the metal door holding you snuggly in your ass scented box.
Warnings: Bullying and possible parental neglect.

Chapter One:

'Coolkids don't get shoved in lockers,' you think with venom as you continue to shove ineffectually against the metal door holding you snugly in your ass scented box.

You are Dave Strider and, despite being one of the "Heroes of Legend", you still find yourself reduced to these slights every day. Loathe to violate your own ironically 'knightly' morals, you are unable to fight back and can only allow the atrocities to continue. Oh, when will the horror end!

You have been missing Houston more and more lately, which is something you never thought you would be able to admit to yourself.

After the game, Bro had made a sudden move from downtown Houston to Pasadena. He had never really explained it, muttering about heat levels and the general tax situations in Harris County. He had bought a really shitty fixer-upper on the far west side of the city, almost in South Houston. The house had three bedrooms, two baths, and (despite being the smallest house in the entire area) was still way too big for the both of you.

If the house wasn't awkward enough (no matter how much you shift around your stuff, your room still looks bare), school was much worse.

As you try your best to hold your breath, preferring the spinning sensation of asphyxiation to the rotten smells of whatever strange body soaked clothes have taken up residence in your locker, you try to remember the ridiculously stupid train of events that lead to this day to day torture.

As you remember, it started in homeroom. They were so old school in Sean Royburn High School that you were actually asked to come to the front of the class and introduce yourself. Which you did with an exceedingly chill, " 'Sup." Your classmates had seemed unimpressed, but that was okay. You were also unimpressed by them.

While you were moving to seat yourself firmly in the back of the class, the nice young teacher with the huge rack stopped you with a hand on your elbow. "David, dear," she drawled, "You'll have to take your sunglasses off. No glasses inside, school rules."

It was very hard for you to keep your mouth from opening while you groped around in your usually overflowing vocabulary for a string of words that would make her take back that order. Coming up blank and not really wanting to make the wrong impression, you recall nodding coolly and continuing to the back of the room. You quietly took off your shades, glancing up only to see the happy smile of the homeroom teacher whose name you couldn't remember.

You didn't like not having your shades. Your face felt naked. In the back of your mind, a little voice nagged that you would soon have to deal with a lot of dumb-ass questions about your eye color that you had no interest in answering ("Iron deficiency, man. Yeah, I know, it's a very rare condition.") But, though you were loathe to admit it to yourself, you really just wanted to quietly merge into your new school without any fuss and continue your life where you left off as much as possible. So, you were willing to leave your aviator shades in your backpack.

Nobody noticed during homeroom. Nobody noticed during the class change. Nobody noticed during English and Spanish class. It wasn't until Gym class that the shit finally hit the proverbial fan.

It was field hockey, which was not your favorite sport, but hey. You were Dave Strider and you were a lot of things, but physically awkward was not one of them.

You got a really good game going, the two or three guys from the field hockey team quickly separating themselves from the pack to really give you a challenge. It was fun and you enjoyed the exercise after the stress of your early morning classes. There were other guys horsing around in the far reaches of the field, but they rarely got the puck.

It was only when you were feeling relaxed and in your element that shit went down. One of the guys who had been hanging back and enjoying smacking his friends in the shins with his stick had the puck fly straight for him. You, being the dashing young fellow that you are, went right for the steal. It wasn't hard to duck under his wildly flailing stick.

For just a moment as you moved in to snatch the puck away from your classmate's ineffectual slapping, your eyes met. And, he screamed.

"Gah! What the fuck is wrong with your fucking eyes?" the teenager screeched as he fell backwards on his ass, his arm half raised as if he was expecting you to hit him with your stick.

You could only stand there and stare down at him, your poker face so easily holding its hallowed place across your features. Slowly, everyone on the field began to stop and stare, muttering between one another as what happened was relayed back and forth.

The coach quickly broke in and got everyone moving again. But, it was too late. The stares had started. And, they wouldn't stop any time soon.

- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] –

TG: sup
TT: Dave, I'm surprised.
TT: It usually doesn't take you so long to bother me on AMC's Alfred Hitchcock night.
TG: yeah well you know how it is
TG: just couldnt scrape the bitches off me
TG: it was just all like bitches to the left and right of me
TG: wanting all my strider juices and I just had to tell those bitches
TG: whoa
TG: step off
TG: i have a serious date with my ecto-sis that needs some doing
TT: First of all, Dave, I'm flattered that you are willing to scrape young harlots from your soft undercarriage out of consideration for our weekly movie night.
TT: Secondly, Dave, that was a very weak lie fraught with sarcasm and cynicism.
TG: fuck i forgot you can smell that shit like sharks sniff out blood in chum infested waters
TT: Quite.
TT: A few painfully long years of living with Mom have sharpened my senses enough to cut through your thick veneer of coolk1d charm.
TT: So, what kept you?
TG: oh you know the usual
TG: detention late buses and possibly getting stuffed in a locker for an hour or two to be left out by a very awkward janitor
TT: Ha-ha, Dave.
TG: …
TT: Oh, dear. You were serious.
TT: Dave, are you saying to me that, despite the thickly set expression of nonchalance you have cultivated, you are actually being bullied at school?
TG: dont worry about me and my broken selfesteem
TG: you dont have to act all concerned sis
TG: ill be okay
TG: so tone down the concern youre smothering me
TT: My apologies.
TT: It just seems so unlikely for this to happen, for all the effort you make to fit into a preset definition of cool.
TG: i am so offended right now.
TG: never can i escape the evils of bullying
TG: straight from school into the terrifying land of the cyberbully
TG: i may need to take up making shitty youtube videos of me butchering popular hits and gain fifty pounds.
TT: I deeply appreciate your grasp of sarcasm, Dave, and apologize for my frosty reception of your problems.
TT: But, on a more serious note, are you okay?
TG: what
TG: of course im fine
TG: there may be some dicks at school
TG: but its not like i cant handle myself

You are loath to admit it, but you're pretty sure you can't handle yourself quite as well as you assured Rose. The bruises that litter your body just seem to keep increasing. The itching healing process bothers you a lot less than the reminder that you're being pushed around by kids that would be in pieces on the floor, if you were of a different mind set.

But, a lot more than the physical bullying, the emotional toll of being looked at as a freak by all of your contemporaries is starting to play with your head. Your natural confidence has been waning and most of what you do is just bluster anymore. You've begun to lose interest in things you once found fun. You haven't updated Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff in what is approaching a year. More and more, the negative attention is starting to break you down and you feel as if there's little you can do to stop it. Your own act of indifference can only do so much.

You can't bring yourself to tell Bro or any of the teachers at the school. Not to mention that the teachers seem to be aware of it already, though at a general loss as to what to do about it. Your internet friends, your Heroes of Legend bros, are great, but you know they can't do much for you other than offer their condolences and comfort.

So, you mostly just bottle it up and keep it to yourself.

And keep assuring yourself that it's only three more years until you graduate.

Just three more years.