#dirl

Your name is Dirk Strider, and today seems to be the day of impulsive actions. To be fair, that describes every day when you get less than two or three hours of sleep in a night, but today is exceptionally full of shit you think of doing and then just do.

It's also full of seagulls, but that's probably because you're standing here waiting for the train and trying to eat about ten bucks worth of fries. The paper sack in your hands was completely full when you walked out of the restaurant; the poor girl at the counter had to ask you if you really wanted to fill the whole fucking bag.

You really did.

However, you do regret it now, because even with the fact that you didn't have enough sense to eat breakfast before leaving the apartment, there's no way you can finish all of these. At least the seagulls profit from your stupidity; you've got a goddamn flock gathered around your feet, flapping up to snag each potato stick you toss before it hits the cement. They're smart birds, too. Some of the bolder ones are already trying to dive down and steal the whole fucking bag.

You admire that kind of hubris. You're roughly twenty times as large as a single seagull, and yet you're willing to bet that there's not a bird here who, if given the power of human speech, wouldn't scream come at me bro and immediately attack you. All for some fries.

They do really like fries.

A seagull proves that point by snatching the next fry out of your hand before you can throw it. Damn, they're so bold. If they were human you'd find that hot.

...you really need to take a nap, since you're searching for dateworthy characteristics in birds. Maybe when you get home you'll just pass out on the couch for a couple hours.

Ten. Ten sounds like a good number.

Here's the train, too. And what do you know, it pulls up just perfectly, actually stopping so the door's aligned with you as it slides open. You take three steps toward said door, hesitate as the flock of seagulls moves with you, and then freeze in place as the worst (best?) impulsive thought you've ever had in your life hits you. It's horrible. It's wonderful.

You mentally debate it for a good minute, long enough for everyone else who's waiting to board. When you make your decision—which was really made the moment the thought occurred to you; when you're this looped for lack of sleep you tend to go with your first impulse—the doors are beeping a warning that they're about to shut.

Which is fine.

You've never been good at normal sports. Running yes, you're fast even if you look gawky and awkward as hell, anything involving climbing up shit yes, but baseball? Football? Oh hell no. You can't function on a team all that well and you can't handle a ball gracefully to save your life, both of which mean you didn't have much practice with fastballs and curveballs and whatever the fuck else kind of ways of throwing something there are.

The action of pulling back and chucking the half-full bag of fries into the train feelsboth graceful and powerful, though. It basically explodes on impact with the window on the other side; fries fly everywhere.

And the seagulls see that.

In the five seconds it takes the doors to slide all the way shut, the whole fucking flock manages to dive into the car. The birds are shrieking, people are shrieking, and you're pretty sure that the next stop isn't for six and a half minutes.

"Holy fuck," you breathe.

There's a McDonald's across the street.

You should be able to get another order of fries before the next train comes.

Your name is John Egbert and you're going to kill that blond fucker. You just spent what seemed like a really long time in a train car filled with panicked passengers and birds.

Not that you have anything against birds. They're a thing that exists; people feed them bread and whatever. This asshole was feeding them french fries. You know this because he threw the whole fucking bag of them into the train car, and half of them went straight into your bag.

You had to pick up a goddamn seagull and bodily remove it from your shopping bag. That's not normal.

On another note, seagulls are friendly. You never realized that. They like to sit on people.

As a result of you being one of the few people who didn't panic every time a seagull landed on you, you have a large stain on the shoulder of your shirt. It's wet and disgusting, and you're going to make the douchebag who caused all this buy you a new shirt.

Right after you kill him.

Realistically, the guy probably isn't going tothe same place. You do realize that, you realized that maybe two minutes after you got on the bus to go back to kick his ass. So really, this is nothing but an opportunity for you to calm down a little and have ten people stare curiously at you.

God, you probably look like a crazy person.

Oh well.

Amazingly, the guy's still standing almost where you left him, with another thing of fries. It's a more normal amount this time, though, with only a couple left in it; he's tossing them to the fifteen or so gulls circling him, completely oblivious to you as you come up behind him.

"Hey! Jackass!" He turns around when you yell, though, a bewildered expression crossing his face right before you punch him.

You've never punched anyone before. You didn't expect it to hurt quite that much. You yelp and shake your hand, and he staggers backward, trips over either a seagull or his own feet, and just completely wipes out. Doesn't even try to catch himself.

His head hits the pavement with a thump that makes you wince.

"Oh, fuck," you mutter. He's not moving; you may have just killed a guy.

Time to panic.

You're Dirk Strider, and your head hurts. Like, headaches aren't new, but this is pretty obviously the result of blunt force. Since the last thing you remember is a fist coming at your face, that's not all that surprising.

Someone's trying to talk to you; you decide that you should probably open your eyes and listen. Not in that order.

"Please please please don't be dead, shit, I wasn't serious when I said I was going to kill you, holy shit, I mean the whole thing with the stupid birds on the train was dumb but it's not like I seriously meant to—"

Okay, this guy is making absolutely zero sense. You open your eyes, blinking a couple times to see if you're going to have trouble focusing or anything. The only problem you're having with your sight is that it's brighter than is comfortable, since you're lying on your back staring up at the sky without your shades, that's not surprising.

Damn, you hope your shades aren't broken. That'd suck.

Your view of the sky is interrupted by the guy who's leaning over you. You're fairly sure he's also the guy who hit you, but you can overlook that for the moment. You've never seen anyone look quite that anxious before.

Or quite that cute.

"Damn, I want to buy you dinner," you hear yourself say. He just blinks in confusion, grabbing at your shoulder to steady you as you sit up. "Shit, be careful—you hit your head really hard, I didn't mean to—"

"Calm down." Things aren't spinning, which is a good sign. "You slugged me?"

"Um. Yeah, but—fuck." He hesitantly lets go of you, sitting back on his heels. "I had an excuse."

"Oh. Do I know you?" You definitely don't know him. There's no way you could forget somebody this attractive.

"No." He huffs and crosses his arms, then uncrosses them to grab your shades from where they'd fallen, holding them out to you. "I just had to deal with your 'friends.'"

"My what?" Ouch. The shades put pressure on the rising bruise where he punched you, and you decide to just hook them onto your shirt.

"The seagulls?" He rolls his eyes, then frowns in concern again instead of the annoyance he's been showing. "Wait, you didn't forget that, did you? From the whole head injury thing?"

"Nah, just didn't get what you were talking about is all." Head injury. You reach up to check the back of your head, and find a painful bump but no blood. "Uh...sorry, I guess?"

"You guess." That earns you a raised eyebrow, as he nods at the container of fries you dropped when he punched you out. "...were you about to do it again?"

Shaking your head also hurts.

The cute guy who punched you is grinning. "You totally were."

"Well, I'm not going to now."

"The gulls ate all the fries that were left, so you really can't." An even brighter, more wicked smile. "Not right now, anyway. If you do it again, you should just walk in after the birds and ride along. It was pretty fucking awesome, if you can get past the bird shit."

"Oh." You didn't even think of that. And he does have a stain on his shirt, now that you look. "Uh...sorry."

Another shrug. "I mean, I gave you a concussion, so I think we're even. Speaking of which, do you need to, like, go to the hospital or something?"

"I don't have a concussion."

"You should still get it checked out."

Today is the day of impulsive actions, and what you say next is no exception. "I'll make you a bet."

"What?" Pure confusion on his part. You just hope he doesn't laugh in your face or punch you again when you offer your terms.

"Come with me to get my head checked out. If I don't have a concussion, you let me take you on a date sometime."

He just stares at you for a second, then nods slowly. "Okay, I feel like that's mewinning, not you. What if you do have a concussion?"

You didn't think of an answer for that possibility. "You punch me again?"

"How about, no." He gets to his feet and offers you a hand up. "I'll choose the forfeit if I win. Deal?"

"Deal."

You're John Egbert, and you just spent an hour with a guy named Dirk Strider.

He has a mild concussion, because of you. However, that means you just won a bet. Your chosen prize is his phone number and a date next weekend.

And a new shirt. You're kind of planning to eventually steal one of his.