When getting to a certain age in the foster care system, all hope is typically lost. People aren't exactly jumping at the chance to house teenagers, they'd rather raise someone younger. Sometimes they use the opportunity to lie to the kid and pretend they're the same flesh and blood.
Dave's not going to knock someone's preference, or the way they want to spin the story. It's not his place. He's never had a home willing to lie to him, and probably won't at this rate. Not when he keeps getting shipped back to the system. Each and every one he finds himself placed with is the same, blurry faces. He could never remember who they were, what they sounded like, what they looked like. Dave could remember the way he felt after being left back on the steps of the Orphans' Asylum. There was always someone ready to correct anyone else who dared to call it that, though.
"Please, call it a Children's Home. I know, I know." He waves off the person holding the front door open in an attempt to welcome him back. It's the last time he'll ever be back, and even if he doesn't know them; they both know it. "I'm not a child for much longer, though. W-S-B-G. World's Shittiest Birthday Gift. I'd almost compare it to findin' piss in your apple juice, but hey. What can you do?" He sighs, a singular bag slung over one shoulder.
Whoever's next to him says something about "eccentrism", and Dave's only five percent sure the word is being used in the wrong context, but it isn't like he's listening. He has more important things to get to than stick around and be lectured on how things could work out better next time if he "just changed a few things on his end".
Dave slaps his bag down onto the bed that always stays empty when he's gone. It's like the staff just know that he'll be right back. His body follows, curling around the canvas fabric. Even if he couldn't remember the faces of the people he stayed with, his bag was full of trophies to keep a tally for him. Souvenirs of would-be parents trying to win his affections with little trinkets and gifts filled the pockets where clothes didn't.
A Gameboy Advance sat on top of a balled-up shirt, his newest boon, and just what he was looking for. The perfect escape where no one would bother him about how it "could be better next time" sat on a screen that displayed in a 15-bit RGB palette.
In Tetris, there was no disappointed stare or lecturing look. There was no one there to blame Dave for the hand that life dealt him from the start.
Dave hums along to the muted theme song. He likes how all of the colors fit together, and he has a digital representation of how good he's doing. With every digit his score climbs, the happier he feels. It didn't make him feel terrible for being proud of, and happy with himself for once.
Dave must've been too proud of himself; his hubris, his downfall.