Information


Bro has a minion!

my man the Angler Beaver




Bro


The Scribble Rreign
Owner: seraph

Age: 8 years, 1 month, 3 weeks

Born: June 14th, 2014

Adopted: 1 year, 9 months, 1 week ago

Adopted: October 25th, 2020


Pet Spotlight Winner
April 18th

Statistics


  • Level: 1
     
  • Strength: 10
     
  • Defense: 10
     
  • Speed: 10
     
  • Health: 10
     
  • HP: 10/10
     
  • Intelligence: 0
     
  • Books Read: 0
  • Food Eaten: 1
  • Job: Unemployed


Brock lives a happy life in blissful ignorance. He will never graduate from his program of study, find a wife or land that perfect job.

He's a time anomaly, one of many, stuck in an everlasting loop, the perpetual campus dude who has unknowingly pursued the noble quest for knowledge for the last 60 years. What could be less dangerous than a drunk frat boy?

Okay, more like pursued the mysteries of parties and beer pong. His ever-shifting party of friends know him as Bro.
He wears the name (and the occassional splashed beer-stain) as badges of honor.

* * * *

"Yo, Bro. Wassup?"

He's slumped in one of the mismatched chairs that some brother of Beta Rho Omicron picked up for cheap at a rummage sale. His cautious motion squeezes a little more stuffing out of the bottom cushion as he makes a sound halfway between a question and a moan.

Last night's party was boss. This morning's hangover is anything but.

"You got your essay ready to turn in at three, right? Professor Brighton is a dragon, dude. I hear she like actually cooks students who flunk in a big stewpot. Then she serves them up on orientation day in the fall, as a warning to new students."

Another half-formed groan from Bro. While Jordie was a blast at parties, his imagination was always way too active at ridiculous hours of the morning. No wonder he was majoring in English.

Bob made a sound like air escaping from a balloon. "She's a dinosaur, not a dragon. The only way she could hurt a student is if she sat on them."

They guffawed at the image he'd presented but the harsh reality of 30% of their grade was setting in. The next half hour was as close to silent as a frat house ever gets, that silence broken only by the frantic tapping of laptop keys and the occasional muttered curse.

Bro gnawed on some stale french fries somebody had forgotten to claim from the community fridge. Bro made a face as somebody put the coffee on to percolate. He couldn't stand the stuff. He'd been tempted into trying it once...he couldn't quite remember when. It was the alluring promise of a morning of full alertness that prompted him to step outside his routine. Huge mistake. Motor oil and boiled armpit sweat, that's what the stuff tasted like. He crammed a few more fries down the hatch and pounded out the last few sentences of his conclusion. A third grader could argue around his premise but it wasn't like he'd ever been an A student.

Stepping out into the sunlight took all the effort of a wide receiver running the ball 80 yards to score a touchdown. The sun was a merciless beast.

The cool darkness of the lecture hall was a mixed blessing. On the plus side, it reduced the ferocity of his headache. Unfortunately, it presented an hour and a half of Victorian Literature that gave him a headache of a different kind. He'd taken the course at Jordie's suggestion, promised an easy gen ed fill-in with old Professor Doddson.

Doddson had retired suddenly, leaving them with the possibly dragon, possibly dinosaur but definitely some kind of reptile known as Professor Brighton.

There was a tiny smear of ketchup on the last page of his essay. He tried to wipe it away with the corner of his shirt and only made it more noticeable. Shrugging, he chucked his paper on the growing pile. At least he had something to hand in this time.

The walk to his next class was more pleasant. The sun was high in the sky now, creating great shade on the campus green beneath the huge oak trees. A trio of girls walked past, rolling their eyes when Bob wolf-whistled. There was one, a redhead with lots of freckles, that caught Bro's eye. He liked freckles.

Maybe he'd see her at the party.

His next class was a specialized course, one considered vital to his program of study. Philosophy 301: The Elements of Philosophical Discourse. They sat around and talked about a lot of theoretical crap, never being called out for sentence structure or poorly drawn conclusions.

Unknown to Bro, this was in fact his 16th program of study. Among his past subjects were thermodynamics, engineering and art history. It was all part of the anomaly, an inescapable loop he was unaware even existed. A creature that can't die has to be cointained somehow, preferably in a non-threatening shape.
His condition had been discovered long ago by a temporary professor... one suffering the same fate, clashing with Brock's timeline, making both realise the horrible fate they had. The government had been called; Bro's memory carefully altered so that every day would be just another day of college. The professor was never seen around again.

As long as there was beer and music every night, everything was right in his life.

He didn't see the freckle girl that night but he won the first round of beer pong. He wasn't too bummed. He'd never had much luck with girls anyways.
The party went well past midnight, the attendants drinking well past the legal limit.

Another day, another desperate scramble to do homework and another night of partying until you pass out. So goes the life of Bro.


Story by Pureflower
Profile by seraph
Art by Runes
Background from pngtree

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