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June 15, 1994
Chicago, Illinois
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Your name is Ambrose Strider and you're stoned well past forgiveness.
The pleasant buzz massages the back of your brain, and all you want to do is lay down. Unfortunately, the spray paint can in your hand is still half-full and the dude beside you is getting pissed that you're just standing there. You tell him to shove up and shake the can. The clicks of the paint mixer are too loud and it smells worse than something dead and rotting.

You just want to go home.

The guy beside you is muttering something under his breath, but you don't really like him and are therefore completely disinterested in what he has to say. You hear something about a girlfriend, but you cut him off.

"Shit, what's that fucking noise?" Your words sound off, even to you, and a brighter-than-bright light floods the alleyway. It flashes and the noise is louder, and the guy beside you is no longer beside you.

You blindly shuffle around, the lights burning too much for you to see anymore. Your eardrums click with the sirens moaning aggresively in front of you, behind you, slightly to your left, far to your right. You press your palms over your ears and then you're running, dashing and gasping for air (even through your stupor, you vow to quit smoking), pushing past pedestrians until you get to the closest main road.

You stop at a phone booth to hiss and struggle to get oxygen to your intoxicated brain, and after you feel you've decently regulated your breathing, you shove a few quarters into the phone mount and tap in a familliar number.

"Hello?"

"Mom."

"Ambrose, my God! Where the hell are you? You're not with those boys again. Promise me you're not."

You swallow and glance around, checking for officers. Your eyes instead land on a gorgeous woman (who you suspect is probably a hooker) and lie, "No, I'm not. I'm at the corner store. Just come and get me, okay? I'll explain in the c--Shit!!"

You drop the phone and raise your hands, because suddenly there's a policeman motioning with his gun for you to step out of the booth.
Your name is Ambrose Strider, and your mom came to get you, but it wasn't from the corner store.

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June 20,1994
Chicago, Illinois

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Your name is Ambrose Strider and today marks the first day of your sentence to a behavioral institute.

They take you to a room you're supposed to be sharing with another patient, which you bet is probably some crackhead suicidal noboby who checked themself in to get back at his parents for ever giving him life on this godforsaken Glad bag of ranky shit called Earth. You wouldn't mind being here at the institute so much if the staff wasn't so insistant on asking you to remove your sunglasses indoors.

You sleep in them now just to piss them off.

Therapy makes you want to hang yourself with your bathrobe drawstring, and you never say a word in the group sessions, and when they take you to private ones, you just sit there and stare at the therapist with the blankest-blank coolguy expression you've ever..expressed. Eventually, they dismiss you and you go back to your room, pocketing pills under your tongue until you have enough for a nice trip into the clouds.

Your name is Ambrose Strider and you're never getting out of here.

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Chapter Text

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Present day
A ratty apartment complex; Freeland, New York

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Your name is Dave Strider, and you're leaving.

Your brother came into your room a short while ago, flipping every shit in the septic tank about how it was time to move again. He said his job was falling through and he was about to get laid off. You know he's lying, but you don't call bullshit on Bro.

As you stuff all your clothes into an old duffel bag, you tap your foot to your radio, which is blasting some really unironicly horrible country station. You're too lazy to change it, so instead you think about Bro. You guys move a lot, all the time. The man's just not happy staying in one place, you tell yourself, even though you know that's not why.

"Kiddo, you ready yet? We've gotta scram if we want to leave while it's still light out."

Bro's head peeps through the door, and when you turn all you get is a glimse of sunglasses and the tip of an orange baseball cap, worn ironically forward-ways.

"Yeah, yeah," you reply, zipping up the bag and slinging it over your shoulder.

He brushes bangs from his eyes with a fingerless-gloved hand. "Help me get the turntables into Ol' Shelly."

Ol' Shelly is the shitty-ass, fucked over hippie van Bro had bought when you were a kid and fixed up. Every time you sit down in one of her shredded front seats and the entire vehicle dips on one side, you are surprised all over again that she still runs.

You and Bro lug all your music eqipment (which looks like way more than it really is when you're wrestling it down a million and seven flights of Goddamn stairs that squeak under a toddler's weight as it is) down to the building's parking garage and soon enough, Ol' Shelly is ready to ride.
Your name is Dave Strider, and you're moving to Texas.

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Present day
An even rattier apartment complex; Houston, Texas

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Your name is Dave Strider, and your new home smells like cat piss.

You drink in the stale, bitter scent as you drop your duffel bag on the floor. It lands on a brown stain in the light blue carpetry, which you can only hope isn't blood. You close the blinds and climb into your naked bed.

When you wake up, there's a blanket draped over you. Bro must have come in to check on you or something. The blanket itches and it's smoldering in the room, but you suppose it's the thought that counts. You realize you slept in your sun glasses when you reach to rub the sleep gunk out of your eyes.

Bro is suddenly leaning against the window sill, and it takes all the self control you have not to jump or at least look surprised. Your mouth twitches anyway, and he notices. He always notices.

"You start school tomorrow."

You stand up to stretch, but don't let yourself react, even though the thought sends more than just butterflies parading through your intesines. Like the butterflies called up all their grossnasty insect friends for a party and gave them invitations for a plus eight. "Okay."

"I know it sucks, but if it's any consolation, Dave, I start work tonight."

You allow yourself a small, chilled smirk and say, "Hah. Sucks to be you." even though you really just wish he didn't have to work so much. You wish you could hold a job so he could spend more time at home, resting for the first time in seventeen years. You wish you could tell him that and you wish he would listen.

Your name is Dave Strider and you're tired of pretending.

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Chapter Text

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July 15, 1994
Chicago, Illinois

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Your name is Ambrose Strider and things have gotten better.

You started talking in therapy, even if it's only a sarcastic comment every once in a while, so they've started letting you go to the recreation rooms. You've found the music room to be your favorite, and you spend every moment you can playing the keyboard or messing with the old turntables and last-century music records.

It's a weird feeling to you because you haven't even thought about playing an instrument since you got into high school, much less since you dropped out and joined up with your friends/cohorts. Even so, you always feel a bit of disappointment deep inside when a staff member comes to get you to go back to your room.

In hopes of your music time being elongated, you start behaving more during therapy. Instead of music time they start letting people visit you. Your mom is the first and only (aside from your dad occasionally popping in, but he doesn't count since you hate him) person to show up, and she does so very often.

Today, her smile is wider and she hugs you a bit tighter. She fixes your bangs which are starting to poke out from under your hat due to lack of a haircut, and rubs the back of her hand down your cheek, across the stubble you should have shaved off two days ago.

She says hello and you nod. She asks how you are and you shrug. She grins and rests a hand on her belly, and suddenly you know what she's going to say next.

Your name is Ambrose strider and you're going to be a brother.

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July 20, 1994
Chicago, Illinois

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Your name is Ambrose Strider and they've given you more time in the music room.

They've also lessened your pill dosage dramatically, but you don't really mind as long as they let you scratch out your beats. Other patients and some nurses have started listening to you play, which is cool because there are some really hot screwed-up chicks to impress at this place.

It's time for therapy so they let you finish out your song and then a nurse drags you down the hall. You feel like you're being taken to the gallows, and you almost smirk as you consider ironically faux-strangling yourself and making some really loud choking noises to freak out the staff.

Bad choice, you decide as you take a seat in front of your therapist's desk, because then they'd get pissed and lock you up again. That would mean more pills, but less music. You figure if you had to choose you'd go for the music.

All thoughts of everything are dropped when the first thing your therapist says is: "You're being released tomorrow."

Your name is Ambrose Strider and "never" came a lot sooner than you thought it would.

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Chapter Text

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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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Chapter Text

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July 21, 1994
Chicago, Illinois

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Your name is Ambrose Strider and you live inside a bubble.

You suppose the living in the institute wasn't so bad after the lockdown part was over, but the second you stepped out of that place you hit up an old buddy for some questionable smokes and stayed out all night with the gang.
They tease you, mostly, for getting caught and shit, but you're just glad to be back. You slash some tires, ruin some publicly showcased art. The night is young until the sun comes up, and so are you.

Your name is Ambrose Strider and you belong on the streets.

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December 3, 1994
Chicago, Illinois

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Your name is Ambrose Strider and you are panicking.

Your dad just called, and your lil' bro is coming early. Two months early. Worst part? You're so drunk you're not even sure if you heard his words right, and he repeated them at a scream, over and over, the painful banshee calls of your mom in the background. Whatever is going down, you presume it wise just to avoid getting involved. You don't want to show up and give the baby a buzz when it catches a taste of your tequilasweat. Or show up and get arrested for underage drinking. Or try to drive there and crash.

Your name is Ambrose Strider and you don't know it yet, but you will always regret getting drunk on December 3rd, 1994--the day David Strider was born into your family.

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Chapter Text

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Present day
Houston, Texas

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Your name is Dave Strider and you've been invited to sit at the nerd table.

The cafeteria is noisy and crowded, and you find it difficult to maneuver through the crowd without dropping your tray. Of course, you make it without a single hiccup because that's just how smooth you are. You sit directly next to John Egbert and across from two ladies, one pretty but serious-looking, the other not-so-pretty and ditzy looking.

The ditzy-looking one cocks her head at you and then glances at John for an introduction, meanwhile the smart-looking chick just stares at you like she's trying to concentrate so hard that she shoots lazers out of her pupils.

"Guys, this is Dave Strider. Dave, this is Rose Lalonde--" he gestures to the smart-looking chick (who's still staring at you, by the way) and then at the other girl. "And she's Jade Harley."

You nod at them both, keeping up your coolguy demeaner even though all you want to do is rip off your glasses and partake in the most intense staring contest you've ever had wth this Lalonde girl. But coolguys never remove their sunglasses, nor do they openly accept challenges to such childish games.

"Hi," Harley says, offering you a small wave and a buck-toothed grin.
Lalonde stares blankly still, and speaks slowly, carefully: "Why are you wearing sunglasses indoors?"

You don't hesitate. You feed her the line Bro always told you to say: "The way I see the world and the way you see the word are two totally different things, sweetheart. What if the sun exploded right now? Guess whose eyes WOULDN'T get fried?"

"The answer is no one. If the sun were to rupture, every single part of everyone would be burnt well past recognition. Not that identification would matter," she pauses, stabbing a slab of meat on her tray with her plastic fork. "...because we'd all be ashes."

"Cheery," you say. "But that was actually meant to be a charming metaphorical line I say to everyone who asks me that."

She looks at you evenly, like the word charm is foreign to her. She seems to be thoroughly lacking in that department, so you accept this and look to your food.

Your name is Dave Strider and the rest of lunch is an awkward disaster in which your knee brushes against Egbert's every few minutes, until finally you both just stop pulling away.

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Chapter Text

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December 24, 1994
Chicago, Illinois

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Your name is Ambrose Strider, and Christmas is the worst time of year.
You stay at home, because the streets are too crowded and cold for you to go out and get high. You stole some lortab from your grandmother's purse the second she walked through the door to see the bubbly baby boy, fresh out if NICU. As far as you know she's the only family coming down to visit, whic is a relief because both your aunts are the cheek-squeezing, cooing type, even when you're eighteen years old.

The smell of ham slow-cooking in the oven makes your stomach growl.
"Mom, when are we going to eat?" you ask. She doesn't hear you, because Grandma is asking about the doctors' latest news and discoveries about baby Dave. You sigh and go to the bathroom to swallow your newly-acquired pills.

Your name is Ambrose Strider and you figure you'll get more out of them on an empty stomach anyway.

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December 25, 1994
Chicago, Illinois

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Your name is Ambrose Strider, and you're got to hand it to little Dave--he's a ladykiller already.

Aunt Cora showed up unannounced earlier this morning with a purse full of gifts and fingers full of your "cute little cherub" cheeks. When she reached in Dave's cradle to do the same to him, he got a handful of each of her DD's. She shreiked in surprise and covered her embarrassment with loud, bellow-y, fat lady laughs as you gave Dave his first brofist. Mom glares at you and makes sure her sister-in-law is okay, but dad winks and tosses you and Dave a thumbs-up.

Grandma, Aunt Cora and your family eat together around the dining room table you never, ever sit at. Little Dave gets some formula and you feel slight envy that he doesn't have to eat mom's sucky cooking for a while.
You slip him a little nibble of nashed potatoes anyway.
Your name is Ambrose Strider, and maybe having a little brother around to mess with won't be so bad.
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Chapter Text

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Present day
Houston, Texas

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Your name is Dave Strider and school is awful.

That is, until you get to P.E. class and you get to hang under the sun with Egbert, the cute nerd kid who can't take anything seriously. Or a hint.

Despite your attempts, you've failed miserably when it comes to hiding your faggotry from Egbert, but you're lucky because he's as clueless as they come. You blush at everything (can't control that. You've tried). You have almost let a few smiles slip (that happens all the time, you tell yourself. But it doesn't). Every time you feel the heat on his skin from a near-touch, you jerk away and push up your glasses, stuff your hands in your pocket (you hide everywhere, even at home. You'll give yourself that one).

"Hey, Dave?"

Your eyes rotate, lock on Egbert's sweating face. To him it looks like you didn't move an inch, so you grunt to let him know you're listening.

He smiles. Wider. "I don't wanna be all bothersome-nerdy-whatever, but why don't you let yourself smile?"

The wording catches your attention. "Let myself smile?"

Egbert nods, his damp hair curling and sticking to his too-chubby-for-a-high-schooler face. "I'm not blind."

You slide down the brick wall and plant your bum on the hot pavement. Pressing your knuckles to you mouth, you think carefully about what to say next.

"I went too far, didn't I? Did I, like, invade some sort of "bro-code" or something?" You love the way he tugs at his sleeve, his earlobe, his fingers--anything he can get ahold of when he's nervous.

"No. No, man. It's chill." You hesitate. Actually hesitate, mouth open and everything. "I--"

Egbert waits a few seconds for you to say something, and when it's obvious the only thing coming out of your fly trap is the sweet smell of your gum, he smiles. Soft, kind. John Egbert. He crouched in front of you and puts a hand on your shoulder, looks you straight in the glasses and says, "I'm not going to try and make you someone you're not. If you want to hide from me, I'll wait until you're ready to show me Dave Strider."

Your name is Dave Strider and all you want is his lips on yours.

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Present day
Houston, Texas

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Your name is Dave Strider and P.E. and lunch every day have turnd into cheap burger joints after school.

Today, you've decided a change was in order and invited Egbert out to a skating rink. It's a shabby deal your bro has DJ'd at before for their Saturday night geek party or whatever.

As you're lacing up rented roller blades, Egbert looks confused beside you on the bench.

"I have no idea how to do this."

You eye him through your shades and motion for him to put his foot up on your knee. You tighten the laces to where the raller blades won't fall off and do the same for the other foot. He smiles. You blush.

Just another scene in the movie of the not-so coolkid, co-starring Bill Gates, the nerdy little kid who ends up starting his own business during what should have been his glory days in high school.

You have no idea where the inner monologue came from, nor the casting as Bill Gates, so you stand up and gently push off toward the skating rink. Egbert doesn't budge. He looks mortified, so you go back for him, help him up, and show him how to keep balance.

You pretend not to get flustered when he loses balance and grabs you to steady him, one hand on your hip, the other on your shoulder. You make a half-hearted joke about dancing and he laughs.

Eventually, he can stand on his own and you start to show him how to move. This part is tricky, because he decides that grabbing your hand when the sides of the rink slipped away and he was tripping over the disco lights on the floor would be just the greatest idea ever and you both tumble to the marked-up linolium. He laughs it off, but seeing as his face landed on your chest and moobs are rubbing against your most sensative area, you back away in a crabwalk and get up. Help him up. Continue skating like nothing happened, especially ignoring the boner you have to think away with images of dead puppies.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you had a great night.

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Chapter Text

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January 1, 1995

Chicago, Illinois

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Your name is Ambrose Strider, and you were napping when you got the call.

The obsessant ringringring of your house phone startles you awake, and you grip your forehead, glaring sickles at whoever dared to call you when you're coming down from a party. You push yourself off the sofa and shuffle clumsily into the kitchen, grab the phone with trembling, pale fingers.

"The fuck do you want?"

"Hello? Is this Mr. Ambrose Strider?"

You glance at the clock above the oven and sniffle. It's well past nightfall. "Mmmph."

The man seems to understand that you mean yes, you are, and he says, "I'm calling from Lasko Regional Hospital..."
He pauses, and you feel your eyebrows twitch, your exterior faltering for barely a second.

"I'm sorry to inform you, but your family has been in an accident. Please come down here as soon as you can."

You drop the phone, and it misses the counter, dragging the reciever to the floor with a loud CL-CLACK. You grab your dad's keys off the tree by the refridgerator and scramble out the door.

Your name is Ambrose Strider, and you've never been more scared.

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Your name is Ambrose Strider, and you make a huge scene when you bust into the ER.

You march up to the counter and slam your leather-gloved hands on the cold granite. "I need to see the Strider family."
"Please take a seat. A doctor will be with you shortly."

"I need to see the Strider family."

The nurse's features scrunch. She knows you're afraid, that you can't contain it much longer, but she averts her eyes and tells you, "Please take a seat, sir. Mr. Strider is in surgery right now, but that's all I can tell you."

Your mouth almost twitches into a frown, but you don't let it. You sit in a cold, fabric chair, helplessness, anger and cold, dead fear knocking on the door of your hangover. You wait and wait and wait for hours in the chair, not moving, until finally a white-clad man comes out into the waiting room, scanning the room for you.

You see the result of the surgery in his eyes.

Your name is Ambrose Strider, and your father is dead.

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Chapter Text

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Present day
Houston, Texas
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Your name is Dave Strider, and you're at Egbert's place for a pre-mid term cram session.
He was the one who suggested it, and he didn't invite Jade or Rose, so you're unsure about his intentions. It's John, who's awful when it comes to hiding things (and rarely tries), but you're much more guarded than normal when you sit on the edge of his bed and dig in your backpack for your science binder.
"Okay, Dave. What's this bone called?" Egbert points at the center of his own chest.
You raise an eyebrow. "The bone placed awkwardly between your moobs?"
Egbert cracks a grin, like you knew he would, and you're tempted to smile yourself. He's fucking infectiously warm. The exact opposite of (what) you (try to be).
"It's called a sternum," Egbert says after a comfortable silence. "It protects your heart...and stuff."
You nod. You hold out your hand and wiggle your fingers. "What about these, smart ass? What are they called?"
Egbert grabs your hand (!!!!!) and pretends to inspect it. "I'd say they're called the carpalnucleotidemetophysowhoseewhatsits. Don't you agree, Dr. Strider?"
You don't answer, instead yanking your hand away and pretending to point at your notes. "I was kind of wondering if you got this part of the section?"
Egbert giggles, and you look down to see why. You're pointing at your name. You feel a dreaded, terrible, evil blush heat your entire face, and you look down to avoid it.
What could have been the most awkward, embarrassing moment Dave had ever let himself experience with someone is halted and caressed into a minor fudge by Egbert's next words: "Dave, you're so silly!"
You glance up at him and allow a coolguy smirk to grace your chapped lips. "Yup. That was a joke. Glad we share a similar sense of humor, Egbert."
John smiles (GOD! You wish he would stop DOING that!!). You find yourself staring at his lips, and he notices. He wipes his chin, paranoid that there's something on his face, and the movement brings you back to his blue eyes. Sometimes you wonder how a color could be so intense, but natural. He says something, and you're back to his lips.
"Dave?"
You turn your head, examining the polished floor.
"Dave, are you okay? Dave??"
"Yeah, man. I'm great. Awesome," you say, brushing blonde fringe back into place on your forehead.
"Aew you hungry? My dad said he'd bring us brownies, and I bet they're almost done. His cooking is awful, but it's not like it's inedible." He pauses, grins. "Most of the time."
You know for a fact his dad is a marvelous cook, as John has brought you his baked goods for lunch before. He is a good cook, but you're not in the least hungry. In fact, all you really want is the one thing you won't allow yourself to have. You glance at John's lips one more time, and say you could definitely eat.
"Cool!" Is his only response, and then you two go back to studying.
Your name is Dave Strider and you didn't get much done at Egbert's place.
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Your name is Dave Strider and today you’re going to tell him.

Your brother’s not the kind of guy who would disown you because of who you want to sleep with. You’ve known that since the day your brain developed enough to form coherent memories. Bro is standoffish, stubborn, and ignorant to emotion (even his own). He’s rude and likes tangling people up in his mess of a mind for entertainment. But you know that he’s certainly not s homophobe. You’re almost certain he’s gone that way himself, because curiosity is one of his many traits.

Despite all the odds saying he won’t hate you, you can never figure out just how to word it.

“Bro, I’m a fag,” sounds too self-degrading, and he’d make you say it again with better wording because he didn’t raise you to self-loathe. Or he’d think you were kidding and make you say it again with the same wording every half hour until it lost its ironic humor.

“I like boys,” would work, but sounds too childish and you wouldn’t even be able to take yourself seriously.
“Dicks are my thing,” would be appreciated in an ironic sense, but, again, would seem too joking.

You want him to smile, put a hand on your shoulder and say, “Lil’ bro, I’m happy you feel you can share that with me and I approve wholly.”

Wait, no you don’t. That would be weird. You want something more like, “Okay. Go get me a soda,” because that would be normal and you can handle normalcy. Also, expecting anything more would be expecting Bro to completely compromise his beliefs, and expecting anything less would indirectly accuse him of being a bad dad sub.

Your name is Dave Strider and tomorrow you are going to tell him.

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