Title: Two Brothers
Summary: We don't speak the language. We can't read the words. The menu is a troll. Half the time something wants to kill us and the other half is us trying to kill it. In short: Sword Art Online is the worst thing ever. OC Duo First-Person Narrative
Author's Note: Okay, so, as some might be aware, I am a fan of worldbuilding.
I enjoy stories with good foundations for an exciting story-place, like Highschool DxD. I like to consider the works of Reki Kawahara to be of a similar degree of Sub-Creation. However, like DxD, I do find his story to lack the necessary temperament and refinement I would usually expect from a solid piece of Paracosm (fancy word for worldbuilding). And like with the Beast of Gremory, this is my attempt at showing just how powerful, wonderful and fantastical the world that is inhabited can be.
/
START 'THE FIRST DAY'
October 28, 2022
/
Curfew was an hour ago. Jon's gonna kill me.
Well, okay, I don't mean that literally. Obviously. Just semi-literally. In the way that I have no doubt that I am going to receive my brother's 'you know better' speech by the end of this. A lecture I've grown more than used to in the last six months and could almost recite word for word. Still wasn't looking forward to it.
Now, who knows? Maybe I'm just a glutton for punishment. It's as good a reason as any for why I'm doing this. 'Cause even with knowing the shit I'm going get at home, some part of me thought going out tonight sounded fun. So fun, I forgot to leave a note saying I'd be out late. Which, hindsight twenty-twenty, goes to show the levels of stupidity a teenager is willing to go for shits and giggles.
So now, I'm outside. It's cold, damp and my socks are soaked with puddle water so my toes feel mildly frostbitten. And if that doesn't sound like the best fun ever, there's still the thought in the back of my head that's telling me that my brother's probably looking for me; calling my cell a dozen times, but curse my luck, the battery has zilch charge.
Breaking curfew, dead cell phone, and I didn't even leave a note to say where I am – all these things together make it pretty obvious that I should just go home and hope my good judgement will pacify Jon, even a little. Because the fact is, I don't even need to be out here.
At all.
I could be home; watching TV, sleeping, doing anything that doesn't revolve around trekking through mud and dirt. But when Danny knocks on your front door with six upperclassmen beside him, carrying a few cartons full of eggs and a serious grudge against a teacher, you feel a strong compellence to not say no to whatever he asks. Plus, by proxy of being one of the few who could stomach his notorious stench (think hot sauce mixed with wet dog) and might even call him a passively enjoyable acquaintance on the best of days, I was definitely one of the guys Danny wanted for his Spanish teacher revenge scheme.
And as befitting Danny's 'overly complicated nature,' his plan reflected his character.
First: find teacher's car.
Second: practice throwing game.
It was simple. Real simple. Like Danny.
And now I've been shanghaied. Which means my day is now turning into a real crapfest.
Which sucks all kinds of ass. Because school was actually pretty awesome.
Talked to Jenny – fuckin' A. Even got her to laugh at one of my bad jokes. Aced my calc test (okay, B-plus'd, but that's acing for me). And Dad gave me a call.
So yeah; today was sweet. At school, of all things.
And it's Friday. Which means weekend. Which means football (American, the good kind), video games (I'm an FPS king), and no homework until I need to binge it on Sunday (I'm thinking 11 PM is a good hour to start). And all that's likely about to go down the drain because I figured egging a teacher's car sounded like a rite of passage.
Danny said it would be fun. Said it would be a riot. To me, he might as well have said, 'hey, let's backflip off a bridge into the nearby creek and hope we don't smash our heads on the rocks below!'
And no, that's not an exaggeration. Couple days from now, it's gonna be Halloween. Police policy is that officers have to memorize the residential areas before major holidays. Requiring a number of recorded hours of patrol beforehand. And doing it at midnight when the roads were clear was the preferred time.
How do I know this? Jon's a cop. A good one, if I'm allowed to be biased. By having a cop for a brother, I kinda picked up on the idea that performing an act of vandalism right now is borderline mental.
If there was ever a time to commit an act of vandalism, now would NOT be ideal.
But enough with that other shit. Right now, let's get to the good stuff.
Like Danny's throwing me to the mud, face first.
/
TB – E
/
"Duck!"
I would have probably followed what Danny said even without the fingers pressing into the back of my neck, pushing me down beside him. Sweaty, chicken finger sized digits which felt more like they were trying to crush my neck than drive me to the ground.
Still, I managed to get my mouth shut before my nose dipped into the mud. Or, at least, I hope it was mud. Smelled bad, regardless.
Anyway, the patrol car passed without somehow noticing the eight of us.
"Okay, clear!"
Look at Danny, trying to be all squad commander. I would have almost laughed at how hard he was trying to be sneaky with his six-and-a-half-foot frame and almost three-hundred pounds of fat if I weren't trying to wipe the (hopefully) mud from my mouth.
"Come on, E! Up and at 'em."
New voice. Not Danny.
Jared, another upperclassman. Senior.
Obnoxious. Loud. Batshit crazy.
Looking at him, there's not a lot to say. He's short, lacking in much resembling hair, and if he claimed to have eaten anything in the last month, I'd call bullshit. If Danny had an opposite in the looks department, it was Jared.
I don't try to think why Jared looks like he does. I have my suspicions, but I keep them to myself. Like Danny, he has a temper, and accusing him of any sort of flaw was an easy way to get his squirrely-ass all over you.
Beware. He's fond of the sucker punch.
"Aww, E's got a little something on his lips! It's all gooey and dark and – OH, THAT'S SICK! E TOOK A MOUTHFUL OF-"
Yeah, I'm gonna stop it there.
First off, I don't think it's that. Pretty sure. Second, to avoid confusion, my name's not 'E.' That's just Jared being Jared; crappy at remembering anything resembling a noun or putting a face to it. And having known him for the last eight months, I'm just too tired to remind him. Mostly, I consider it a small miracle he even remembered the first letter; in the first five months, I was C, J, W, Y, and Q.
And now I'm 'E.'
But don't call me E.
My name is Ethan. Ethan Miller.
Simple, easy to remember. Something I don't think needed a nickname. Not once in my sixteen years did I ever think my name was a difficult one. Jared may look opposite from Danny, but that's where the differences end. Those two don't have a pair of brain cells to share between themselves.
But I won't tell them that. I like having teeth.
"Piss off," I say after I got most of the wet something off my face, "I've seen what you've put in your mouth. This is nothin'."
Jared laughed – high and irritating. "I ain't ever put that in my mouth, asswipe!" The guys around laugh. Either at the prospect of what I might have just taken to the mouth or because our very own Seth Brundle didn't argue my point.
"Would you all shut your assholes?" Danny spoke up. "Jared, are we close or what?"
Jared needed a second to think on what Danny was asking. "Oh! Yeah yeah! Yes. Just, uh…" He took a second then pointed. "There! That's his place!"
I look to where that skeleton finger of his aimed. Across the road with lights out and no life to be seen is a nice looking two-story house. Decent paint job, nice trimmed hedges, cleanly cut grass – once upon a better time, I lived in one just like it.
And there was a car sitting on the driveway.
"Hoohoohoooo!" Danny belly laughs. "Yeah, boy!" He trots across the road, foregoing his poor attempt at stealth. His enjoyment must have been contagious to certain frequencies of stupid, 'cause Jared and a few others didn't even try and hide their giddies. The Gollum lookalike even did a little happy step and jiggle all the way over, hollering and reaping the benefits even before the deed was done.
But even as the group of upperclassmen made their way over, I stood back.
Looking between them and the car.
/
TB – E
/
Okay, I may be having some doubts to this whole thing.
I mean, this is straight up property damage. That's a level of hoodlum I haven't reached yet.
Flaming bag of poop? Done. Graffiti? Cool the first time. Drink a little beer? Did it once for kicks, hated the taste after, and Jon made sure I wouldn't do it again.
But egging? I think I need to brace myself.
Yeah, I know it's not stealing, drugs, smoking or even breaking mailboxes – stuff Danny wakes up every day for – but taking this next step feels harder than it did five hours ago (had it really been that long? Time flies when you're preparing for high-vandalism).
The reason why I decided to do this was easy: I was bored and it seemed fun. A rite of passage, I guess. A way to be one of the guys in this cobbled together group of misfits.
I didn't even wonder if this was a bad idea. Didn't think of just saying 'no, I'm good.' All I saw was a bunch of my 'friends' wanting to do something crazy. Crazy and exciting. I didn't even see the negative in that.
And I'm supposed to be the smart one.
"Ethan, you get first shot!"
I cross over with a purposeful lack of hurry.
If any of the guys noticed, they didn't comment. They just made a sorta circle around me, as if I was some guest of honor. Some offered excited smiles, pats on my back, a few quiet cheers. Danny stood as the big leader of them, opening one of the cartons and tossing me an egg.
"Now, the thing you have to do," Danny spoke up, moving to wrap a log-of-an-arm around my shoulders, "is aim for just between the door handle and the window."
He's pointing to the spot, looking enthusiastic in this whole thing now that it was coming to a close.
I'm only half listening. I'm more interested in the car. It's a nice car.
"Pieces everywhere, paintjob in the crapper, and you never forget your first throw. It's always great."
I'm not much of a car guy but whoever the teacher was took some pride in his piece. Clean, maybe waxed, not a scratch or dent in the frame. Not even so much as a bird's poop stain. I'm feeling somewhat tempted to look and see if the insides matched the out, but Danny's walrus frame makes moving closer almost impossible.
"If you go a little high, no worries; we'll only bust your chops a bit."
He would, actually. He's that guy who could remember every flaw or failure a person has and won't hesitate to remind you of it in a 'friendly' way. But give him a basic math problem, and he's stumped.
An extra thick hand smacks the back of my shoulder. Encouraging, I think was Danny's intention. I nearly fell. "Give the boy some space! Give the boy some space!" Everyone took a larger than needed step back, leaving me in the center of their wider circle.
I have the limelight. I hate the limelight.
Still, I raise my hand. The egg was softer than I remember eggs usually are. More fragile, as if I give it even a slightly harder touch it would break.
It might have also been nerves.
I pull my hand back and get into what makeshift position I think little league taught me. My eyes set themselves right at the door, right where Danny said I should aim, and took a few breaths. The cold air offered nothing to help me.
"Come on…"
"What, is he broken?"
"Fucking throw it!"
More encouragement. Funny how it isn't helping.
"Come on, E! Do it! Do it! Do it!"
Oh no.
"Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!"
Jared started a chant.
"Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it do it doitdoitDOITDOITDOIT!"
Faster. Louder. Stomping feet and clapping hands mixed in with the yells. I think the element of stealth and fear of getting caught is all but forgotten here.
Was a minute to get my head ready too much to ask?
Meh, whatever. These sorts of things are easy to stop. Especially with this group of guys. Shift myself a little to loosen up and to raise my hand a little higher is all it takes to quiet them in silent anticipation.
I only gave them a brief glance. I either did what needed doing or I didn't.
Peer pressure is a hell of a thing.
Well, I'm here now. Is this a smart thing to do? No. But shit happens. At least you can't ever call me chicken.
So, go through the steps: spread legs, focus eyes, hold breath, don't drop the egg.
Don't think. Just do. Don't think. Just do. Don't think. Just-
"Hey!"
Never mind, time to think.
"What are you doing?"
/
TB – E
/
My focus turns from car to road.
Across to the sidewalk, standing and looking over us as if we were about to commit straight murder, was the most decked out jogger I'd ever seen. And I'm talking full body spandex, knee brace, headlamp, iPod strapped to his arm – the works. One of those midnight-runners who got their high off jogging in the dark. Clean-trimmed hair, skinny from exercise, and I could be wrong but his legs even looked shaved and hairless from where I stood.
Usually, I laugh at these kinds of guys.
But now, I'm not feeling the funny.
"Son of a bitch!"
I don't know who said it but the articulation seems appropriate.
We break into every direction. All with the intention of getting as far away from that spot.
I go wide – for the back of the house. Away from the road and out of the street lights.
Sprint sprint sprint – there's no jogging here. Ignore the puddle, jump the fence, and cross the road on the other side. This was a residential area; bunch of houses lined up, one after the other, neat and orderly. With nice, lengthy streets between.
I skip over the next one and repeat my racing between houses. I don't know if the jogger was following or not, but it doesn't hurt to hopefully put a few more blocks between us.
I hear someone behind me. Or, maybe, a couple someones. I try to tell myself, odds were, it wasn't the jogger. Probably just a few of the guys deciding to run for the back of the house or thought I knew where I was going.
I'm not looking back to check that fact. Just decide that running a bit faster doesn't sound like a terrible idea.
But that's the thing about running in the dark. Worse, running in the dark while in a panic. You don't consider things that may be obvious. And I'm not talking about almost stepping into something unpleasant on one of the house's backyards or nearly running into one of the neighbor's fences. I'm talking about one of the more obvious things to do – things every parent teaches their kid one time or another.
And that was looking both ways before crossing the street.
SCRREEEEE!
I'm about midway through before I notice the brights of the car.
The brakes are loud and echo. The wheels try everything to stop their forward motion; they almost sound like they're screaming. And yeah, I know this is a residential area – more than likely, the car wasn't even tapping above twenty-five before coming towards me. But even in the middle of the road and partly blind by the gleam of the car lights, I had to give props when props were due. I practically jumped right in front of the thing (that was a pleasant thought) and the driver managed to stop a full-on collision with my ass.
I felt a major 'sorry' and 'thanks for not making me roadkill' building up in my throat when the brights of the car went off. And for a second, I can't see too well. My eyes needed to adjust. I worried that I might have just ran in front of a cop car. I'm thinking on I'd need to turn my major thanks into a polite 'evening, officer' but the rational side of my head said the car's frame was too small, old and the color-
Oh.
Oh no.
"Who that?" Someone behind me asks, but I don't answer. Barely acknowledge the fact that I was right and some of the guys were following me. The 1972 Pinto Squire Station Wagon has my utmost attention.
And I want to be perfectly clear on this: it wasn't the paintjob of the car – a faded with the years' bumblebee yellow – which got me. The older-than-my-father model isn't too glaring either, though it did say wonders about the wagon even if you couldn't place the year. Even the oxidized hood or dented bender were nothing too eye-catching.
Nah. The way the driver's door opened – that's what had me nervous.
A man steps out and looks over to me. He's older – eight years older than I am. Tall and with a definite build that left little wonder if there was a dedicated workout routine behind it. He's wearing a nice button up, tucked into his pressed jeans, while his shoes are harder to tell in the limited light but look like they fit well with the rest of his dress. His hair's a neatly trimmed black, leaving his face open, long and sharp. And those eyes are a dark hazel; I don't need light to know this, I've stared into them more times than I could count. They might have had the same shape as my dad, but the color was all mom.
I know this guy. This is my brother, Jon. Jon Miller.
He's not happy.
"Get in," he says. Didn't need to tell me twice, I'm already aiming for the passenger side. I notice only when I have the door already open that the guys behind me are going for the back of the car.
They didn't understand the order was an exclusive one. I'm not surprised. Though, if Jon had any issues with them, he didn't say.
I just got my seat belt on before the car started to move again. Jon wasn't wasting time. The guys in the back are looking through the windows to see if they were being pursued. All the while quietly whispering and laughing, as if we pulled off some great heist or crime instead of just being caught by some random guy on the sidewalk before even the first egg was-
Huh. I was wondering what the gooey something in my hand was.
That first egg I had? It broke in my hand. Ha.
"Yeah, boy!" One of them – oh, that's Jared. "Fuckin' hell, this guy! This guy!" I catch the reflection of Jared shaking my brother's shoulder. A sign of his 'appreciation.' "I could kiss this guy, I really could!" Please. Don't. "Who do we have to thank, hmm?" He always asked for names. Never remembered them. That's Jared.
"He's my brother," I tell him. I wonder if he only just heard me, 'cause I'm currently practicing my being a shadow of the corner of the car. Quiet, invisible, not bothering a soul. The effectiveness is debatable.
"E's big B?" Jared asks loudly. No inside voice, apparently. "I didn't know you had a brother! Yo, Big B, we owe you. Like, major top favors and stuff." More hard pats to my brother's shoulder. As far as I can tell, Jon not even reacting to Jared's enthusiastic cheers. He just keeps staring forward, down the road, driving without response.
I don't see that as a good thing.
"Where do I drop you off?" Jon asks, and I hope he was talking to them. His tone is even, but I don't think of that as a positive. If anything, sometimes I prefer his harder voice. More of a clue to what's going through his head.
"Nah, nah, I got nowhere to go," the other guy, someone I didn't have a name for next to Jared, spoke up, "but hey, I gotta question: you legal?" What?
"In what way?" Jon asks the question in my head.
"I'm thirsty." Oh no. "I got cash. You buy us somethin' and I give you a little extra, hmm? Maybe?" The guy's tone suggests he thinks himself persuasive. I don't need to look to know Jon isn't taking nicely to the suggestion.
"Oooh, I could do with that!" Jared pulls up through the seats, pointing in some direction. "I know a nice place just down the way. How 'bout we split a little all around and have ourselves a-"
Oh God, this guy was just digging my grave a little deeper with every syllable. "He's a cop."
"Huh?" Jared. Ever articulate.
"Jon's with the police," I raise my voice a little higher. Please, Jared. For once, could you shut your pie hole and keep it shut? You're killing me.
"Wait, who's a cop? Yo, Big B, you know any cops? 'Cause I say fuck 'em, they're nothin' but-"
Oh, for the love of – "He's the cop!" Fuck being a shadow, I point to Jon and stare back at the two upperclassmen with my best 'shut it' look I could give. I could not have been more obvious. Not even Jared was dumb enough to not catch my meaning, pulling himself back from my brother and pretending to be non-existent in the rough cushion of the car. The other guy seemed to like what he was playing because he fell into a real quiet state right after; suddenly finding the car windows to be very interesting.
They could be taught. And all it took was the threat of the law to do it.
Wonderful.
Jon turns his head to look at me. Maybe it was because I yelled or because I wasn't playing shadow-in-the-car anymore.
He looks to me, but I can't say why.
He doesn't look angry. And, I mean, yeah, I said he doesn't do the looking angry thing. But there's usually a prelude of sorts. A sort of way in his posture that said, 'oh, I am pissed, but I have the face of a statue and I won't let you know I'm mad until later.' But I don't see it there.
If I had to say what look he's got sporting right now...I guess I'd call it worried.
Huh.
/
October 29, 2022
/
Jon hasn't said anything since dropping off Beavis and Butthead. Didn't even seem to recognize I was in the car. He drove and I pretended to be fascinated by the passenger door window. It was as fun as it sounds. And I'm not even going to mention the three flights of stairs we needed to walk up; every step echoing in a way that reminded me of those old movies where the inmate is being sent down to death row. With the long, foreboding background music.
By the end of it all, Jon opening the front door was just the 'final ring' in my death sentence…
Our apartment is a small one. One bedroom, one bathroom, living room and kitchen.
I got the bedroom, Jon took the couch. Been that way for three years now.
It's warm inside. Definitely a welcome relief to be out of the chill. The room was as I left it. The television was off, the couch still had my backpack laying at the side, and the kitchen was clear and clean. I wasn't home long enough to make a mess and Jon obviously hadn't touched much before going off to look for me. The only thing that stands out is the pizza box on the small table we used for meal times, homework, or casual lounging, along with a couple liters of soda.
Jon brought dinner home. Crap.
I go for the couch, as per custom when I royally screwed the pooch. I don't say anything as Jon puts the pizza and soda in the fridge (maybe I'd have some for lunch tomorrow). I watch him from the corner of my eyes; he doesn't react to much, but even still, I expected at least a word or two out of him by now. But I got nothing.
He reaches in to pull out a couple of bottles of water and makes his way to me. Jon doesn't drink. Or, at least, I don't think he does. Never seen him so much as sip a beer. It's just water, milk, or protein shake with him. He keeps the apartment healthy, no questioning that.
Anyway, he hands me a bottle; five hours of running around parches your throat, so I'm not ungrateful. But before I even have the cap off, Jon's already has his halfway to empty. Chugging in earnest with an apparent lack of need for breath.
Maybe he's just thirsty…yeah, I'm not buying that either.
"Ethan," finally, he speaks.
"Yeah?"
"Do you want to go live with dad?"
What? "What?" I don't think I heard him right. Nope, definitely not.
Jon purses his lips, looking down at me. I didn't see it before, but he looks exhausted. "I'm asking if you want to move back with dad."
No. No, I do not. "I'm good," I tell him, "I like it here."
Maybe that was too casual. He doesn't look convinced. "Are you sure? Because I'm starting to get mixed signals." His tone hasn't risen. He wasn't being sarcastic. He was legitimately uncertain. "You leave without telling me. You're breaking curfew. You've been hanging around those dumb…those kinds of kids. And…and what is that on your hand?"
I feel as if he was going to say more, but his eyes caught the gooey yoke. "An egg." I answer. I wasn't even going to dodge the truth. We were talking about me going to live with dad. I'm not going to give him any reason to consider that train of thought further.
Jon looks confused for a second before his eyes take one hell of a serious edge.
"You were egging?"
"No, no." I shake my head. "No one threw any eggs."
"But you were going to."
He didn't voice it like a question, but I answered as if he did. "Yes." Short, good answers. Those were key.
Jon waits a second, processing that. "Ethan," he rubs his eyes with a free hand, "do you have any idea how stupid egging is?"
Oh yeah. "I do."
"Then why the…why would you think of doing that?" Okay, I got something resembling concern out of him. I'm hoping that's a good thing. "Do you know how much trouble you could get into? What if you were caught? What would I do if I found out my brother was egging someone's house?" It was a car, but he didn't need to know that. "How do you think I would feel if I had to take my brother in? Hmm? How would that look? I'm a cop, Ethan. I have to follow the law. And it…I'd…"
Jon isn't looking too good. He pulled a chair from the small table and sat down, meeting me at eye-level.
He turned quiet. Real quiet. Just staring at the floor.
"How can I help you?" He asks after a minute of thinking. "Seriously, what can I do? I'm worried for you, man. You seem to be aiming to do things you shouldn't, and I don't even want to think of what you'll do next."
Okay, barring tonight, I haven't done anything which warranted more than a slap on the wrist. "Give me some credit," I speak up, "I didn't want to. I just…felt pressured." That sounded weak even to me.
"Peer pressure. I get it, I do. But it has to stop. 'Cause I'm scared that these dimwits are going to pull you into doing something way worse – something we can't just talk over."
I wasn't the cop here. I don't know what kinds of guys Jon's taken in, but I'm sure the possibilities of what I could do were coming to mind. I want to tell him that there was no way that I would be so dumb as to go anywhere near the levels of insanity those other guys are at. And I believe it - Danny and co. are borderline inbred hicks. But I also know that people in tough, desperate situations can make bad decisions.
I told myself I wouldn't be one of those guys.
And yeah, actions speak louder than words. I get that. But right now, it's all about convincing Jon not to send me off to Dad's (gives me chills just thinking of how that will turn out).
"Look, Jon, I get it. I was dumb. I was really, really dumb." Usually, I don't go into the pity/desperate mode. But dammit, I am not going to live with dad! "But I swear, it won't happen again. I-I promise, I will do better. No more stupid things." I just had to remember how much fun it was to truck through mud, in the cold, with annoying dumbasses around me. I consider that solid motivation. "But Jon, really, I am begging you here - don't send me to dad!"
/
TB – E
/
Okay, I'll admit, I'm laying it on thick.
See, the thing is, Jon's a pretty good guy. Yeah, I know, that's a subjective opinion made by a biased little brother, but screw it. I've known him my whole life; I'm entitled to make that assumption without getting gripped by the dick for it.
Anyway, when I really lay it on – anxious looks, stuttering words, puppy dog eyes – I expect that my attempt will lead to some positive results and feel a bit guilty that my twisted little mind is following through with such a trick. And, yeah, not all of what I'm doing is an act. But I am legitimately serious about not going to live with Dad and I know these little things play up to my brother's kinder side.
Does doing this make me a terrible person? Maybe.
But for the record, I never claimed to be a saint.
After my swearing of non-stupidity, Jon didn't say anything for a while. He just sat there thinking. His eyes wandered from me, to the TV, to my backpack, to anything else that caught his eye. The apartment was quiet for a good, long minute; I hesitate to even breath too hard, worried that even the slightest shift in the room's flow could push him towards a decision I really don't want.
Finally, though, the silence ended. Jon lets out a long breath, rubbing his eyes before looking to the small wall clock. "It's late," he says, not even turning to look at me, "go wash your hand then head to bed. We'll talk about this later."
That wasn't the answer I wanted. Talking about things later means I have somewhere between eighteen-to-twenty-four hours to wait until whether I was told I should be packing my bags for California or not. It's as annoying as it is nerve-wracking.
Still, I wasn't going to argue. Mainly because I am tired, and the yoke's starting to harden around my fingers.
I stood and made my way for the bathroom. I step quick and lightly.
But then, I pass the small table. And specifically, my eyes fall to the paper sitting on it.
An annoying sense of sentimentality takes over me. Before I was brought on for the Danny car-egging soiree, I did have some time to myself. And there on the table was my calc test. Before tonight, I planned to surprise Jon with it.
Against my better judgement, an idea forms. I can practically feel the words moving from brain to tongue. Some part of me is yelling that I shouldn't talk. That I should just follow Jon's order and put tonight behind me.
But I'm stubborn. I ignore that part of me and pick it up.
"Hey, um…"
Jon's head shifts to look at me.
"I got a B in calc."
This isn't a trick. I think. This is me actually trying to show something positive happened on this shitty day.
I raise the paper a little higher. "B-plus."
Jon did look up to focus on the paper. And for a long second, he didn't say anything.
What did I want from this? A good job? Thumbs up? I don't know. But I don't have to wait long for his response.
"Just go to bed."
"Okay."
I wash the yoke off, brush my teeth, and go to bed.
/
TB – E
/
Author's Note: Alright, so we haven't touched on SAO yet. Don't worry, you're still on the right track. Persevere, if you're still interested. Also, writing this story to try and keep to a more routine update schedule.
And we have been introduced to our first character, Ethan Miller. Designed around my brother as he was in his teens. My brother will be the first to tell you, he was a bit of an anxious prick growing up. Especially with me, my parents, and a whole mess of other problems we had.
Not an easy early life for him.
Also, yeah, egging doesn't seem like a serious crime. I get that. But it is vandalism and it is a crime. And with a brother who is a cop, that can be a serious offense. It's right up there with mailbox smashing or graffitiing a house - don't do it.
Next Update: 7/11/2017