Hello! So I've been obsessed with TMR lately and uuuHH here we are. I've got a LOT of muse for this so expect an update at least once a week. Also, if M/M relationships aren't your cup of tea then you probably won't like this story. It doesn't happen for a while, but elements will be there. This is a semi-SI twinfic, and I'll let you guess the endgame ships, not that they'll be happening anytime soon! ;)
It takes an embarrassingly long time to realize I've died and I don't know where I am. The memories are like fragments, splintered and disjointed like a puzzle with a few of the wrong pieces. Dying seems traumatic enough to do that, I think, though it's not like I've got previous experience. The world comes into focus slowly, black fading to colored masses, and then from there the colors separate into their own shapes. I feel like I've both been asleep for a long time and not long enough.
I died.
I think; I remember. The feeling of limbs tingling with numbness and darkness (so final) creeping across my vision. The feeling of dying is there in stark relief, echoing in my chubby, infantile limbs. But the actual reason for my passing escapes me, as do a lot of details about who I once was. ( I was someone else once, though. That much is certain. )
And yes, I said infantile. ( In case you missed it. )
Because I'm a baby now. A tiny, blubbery mess of uncoordinated limbs with zero control of my basic bodily functions. I don't know where I am, who I am, or what I am - because when people die they don't come back, definitely not like this! Right? I'm almost positive. There isn't much I remember about my first self in terms of personal facts, but general information remains clear. I can remember how to read, use computers, ride a bike; useless facts in comparison to the gaping hole left in my memory, leaving the question of who I am. No name, no gender - sure, I'm aware I'm a dude right now, but was I before?
For so long I was in the dark, floating and unaware of my own existence. Then the veil was lifted and I am left floundering, dropped in a new environment with no explanation.
My freak out lasts all of an hour, as my mind and body seem to settle, feeling coming back to limbs and vision fully clearing.
It's hot.
As I adjust to the sudden return to the living, it's the first thing I notice. I'm inside, staring at a dirty white ceiling and surrounded by bars - a crib, my mind supplies - but it's hot. Almost uncomfortably so. I'm only wearing a diaper, but it's almost too much. It feels like an oven in the room and when I clumsily turn my dumb baby neck I can see that the single window is boarded shut. Nailed, actually. With boards. The observation is worrying. As is the unkempt appearance of the room. I can tell the walls used to be a shade of blue, but they seem to be in disrepair, and there's dust everywhere. There's even piles of sand in the corners and I can hear strange howling from outside. I pray it's the wind. It feels like a horror movie, the very atmosphere grating on already fraying nerves.
So the noise in my ear scares the ever-loving shit out of me, drawing a strangled cry from heavy lips. Chubby fists flail as I whip around, eyes wide with startled terror - only to settle on a small form.
Another baby.
How did I miss that!?
Tension seeps from my frame, I'm relieved to find that it's not some monster come to kill me in my vulnerable state. The baby beside me makes a sleepy noise, button nose scrunching as they slowly wake. I'm greeted by a lovely pair of brown eyes, brimming with childish innocence and the disconnect of a mind not fully developed. Cute. I make a noise in return, almost unconsciously, and get a gummy smile and a weird, half-smack on my arm as a response. It smarts a little, but I can't bring myself to care. Babies are so . . . Cute. There's that word again. It's not leaving anytime soon.
"Oh," a soft murmur from a corner of the room. I freeze, startled once again. The baby beside me reacts as well, obviously thrown by my negative reaction, and cries out.
"Sh, sh," coos the voice. It's a woman, and I turn to finally glimpse her as she approaches. Dark hair, dark eyes, stress lines on her face and care in her smile. Mother, I think, because she has the same eyes as the baby beside me.
"Don't cry, Stephen." She says to the fussy baby, "There's nothing to fear."
I have a name for my baby friend. Stephen. Is Stephen my brother? I think so. Something innate tells me that the boy is mine, a part of my soul. The woman - mother, I remind myself - brushes a careful hand down Stephen's back to soothe him.
"Please," she suddenly whispers, a tone of weary desperation in her voice. "Be quiet like Michael, please."
My name is Michael.
My name is Michael and I almost don't care because I'm suddenly hit with a wave of terror. There is something unnatural going on, something that doesn't make sense and I know with horrible, terrible clarity that it's bad. Mother is scared, the room is decrepit, there are noises I can hear through the walls and boarded window, and it's too hot.
Where am I? I think, unsure if I truly desire an answer.
My name is Michael and my brother's name is Stephen. We're twins, and almost a year old. After a week I know that much. My new birthday is still a mystery, as is the world outside. Mother never takes us out, and I'm not sure if I really want to know what's out there anyway. It's hot enough inside, I dread to think what the heat is like in the sun. Being breastfed is awful and scarring and I try my best not to think about it, as there are no alternatives unless I want to starve. I'm certain there is nothing like formula in the house. There isn't much of anything, actually. It's quite obvious that food is scarce and water is a treasured commodity. The world is different from what I remember, but perhaps there is a reason for that.
There is a lot of time to think about it, with only Stephen and our mother for company. One theory is that I'm a botched reincarnation and it was like a million years in the future. Another was alternate universe, but I'm less sold on that one. It has to be some time in the future. Or rather, 'future' in terms of my relative 'present'. Because I am here now so this is my present. My current time. It's weird to think about - and honestly I can think about it all I want, but I know I won't get a solid answer until I'm older and able to see what is outside.
We have a father, Stevie and I. At least, I assume that the man is our father. He appears twice in the week and never for long, with severely tan, sunburnt skin and haunted hazel eyes. I don't know where my father goes or why he constantly looks so haggard, but the answer seems to lie in the world beyond the walls.
"Stevie, no." I scold, tugging a brittle piece of plastic from my twin's grabby hands. The fellow two year old pouts, using his impressive toffee eyes in attempt to sway his older brother.
"Mike-mike," the boy implores, making a grabbing gesture with his hand, "Gimme."
"I don't think so." I respond, still holding out hope that my brother will drop the silly nickname. I know I'm unnaturally articulate for a toddler, and sometimes I get worried glances from our mother and father, but I really don't care. In the year or so I've been here, I've gathered that the world outside is a disaster and I need everything I can to get a leg up in the whole survival game if I want to be able to protect my new family. Stephen is my pride and joy, the love of my life and the other half of my soul. I don't think I was a twin in my last life, because I could never forget a feeling like this. We are so in tune, able to sense each other's emotions and predict reactions. It's like we're tuned in to the same wavelength, separate from everyone else. Locked on the same radio station that only we can hear.
Surprisingly, I don't hate it, despite having to filter through infant emotions and tantrums not my own. Above all and no matter what, I am completely taken by Stephen. In this world I'm physically older than Stephen by a few minutes. Mentally...well, I'm not sure of the exact number but I'm definitely far older than Stephen and therefore feel much more protective seeing as I have the capacity to do so.
And as I wave the dumb piece of plastic over my head and out of Stevie's reach, I know without a doubt that I will do anything for this boy. Even brave the outdoors, though the mere thought terrifies me and I still have never seen it.
Sometimes, late at night, horrible sounds will pierce through the shoddy walls of our home. Noises like screams or guttural croaks - or even gunfire. On these nights I make sure to curl extra close to Stevie in our shared crib. We're outgrowing it steadily but that'll be a problem for another day.
The plastic is snatched from my hands by our mother, who looks at the two of us with an exasperated smile. She loves us, I can tell. But she still looks too old for her age and too scared. I know now that when she soothes us at night and tells us that everything will be okay...she's lying. But it helps, if only for a moment.
"No eating the plastic, Stevie." She scolds, lighthearted and looking happier than I have seen in a few days. Our dad must be coming home today, from his usual supply runs. She always looks happier when he's around, and I can't blame her because I know they love each other.
Stevie looks very put out by this reprimand, lip quivering and brown eyes getting impossibly wider. In my chest, I can feel the tug of an oncoming tantrum.
"No." I bop Stevie on the nose, pat his cheek with the other hand and cuddle up beside the other boy. Stevie looks bewildered for all of five seconds before he's babbling excitedly into my ear and pinching my arm with deceptively strong baby fingers. Mother looks delighted, as she usually does when I manage to calm Stevie in my own unconventional ways. We haven't been told why she prefers that we stay quiet, but I know it must be for good reason. Luckily, Stevie isn't too fussy a baby and I'm always there to settle him when needed.
If our mom worries about the fact that I'm practically half-raising Stevie, she doesn't let it show.
"Dad home soon?" I ask, keeping my sentence choppy on purpose. Mother offers a smile, tickling Stevie's tummy. He squeals loudly and one of his flailing arms hits my own. I ignore it, far too accustomed to Stevie's whipping limbs.
"Yes," she nods in response to my question, hesitation on her features. She looks at us with an expression I can't decipher, yet it's one I've seen many times before. "It's better when he's here, isn't it?"
"Yeah." Of course it is. Despite not being a constant presence, the man is still our father. His presence will always be appreciated.
"Nums?" Stevie speaks up suddenly, finally recovered from his laughing fit. His uncoordinated hands flap in some strange gesture, obviously thinking it'll help get his meaning across.
"Food." I correct, and Stevie mimes to the word obediently. There's no doubt he'll forget it within seconds. Mother is silent for a moment, lips parted and fingers tapping a nervous beat on the hastily swept floor, her legs folded beneath her.
"Of course he's bringing food, Stevie!" Her voice is layered with forced enthusiasm, unnoticeable to the youngest twin. "He always does."
She doesn't say that what he brings isn't always enough for the four of them, but I know it to be true anyway.
"Away from the windows!" Mother scolds, nervous hands pulling us from the boarded up panes. At four years old we're just tall enough to grip the sill and peer through the very bottom sliver between the boards if we stand on our tiptoes. Stevie is curious, and his thirst for knowledge grows with every day that passes. I am also quite interested in glimpsing the world outside for once, it certainly isn't healthy to stay in this house forever. Three years is already unbearable, and it can't be too bad if our father can traverse the outdoors and make it back every time.
I make a sound of annoyance, mirrored by my twin. All we'd managed to see was bright, blinding light and sand. Our eyes hadn't had time to adjust so details had been impossible to discern. Stevie huffs, tiny arms crossing and lip jutting out, not happy about being denied a view of the outside.
"I wanna see!" He mutters petulantly and I'm inclined to agree, my head nodding along vehemently with Stevie's words. We're getting bigger everyday, able to wander and open doors - our curiosity already causing trouble. She has to tell us eventually. I just need it to be sooner rather than later, before I die from cabin fever. So I take the direct route, wanting an answer despite Mother's skittish body language.
"Why are you afraid?" I ask, and my eyes (undoubtedly brown, like Stevie's) bore into hers. "What's out there? Why can't we leave?" I sound beyond my years but dammit, I wanna finally know what's going on in this hell hole!
Stevie is, for once, silent. His posture mimics my own and not for the first time I find myself glad that we operate like two halves of the same machine. With the two of us holding steady and demanding answers, it's not long before Mother's mask crumbles and her shoulders sag. I almost feel bad, realizing in that moment that what she tells us could be atrocious. There had to be a reason, after all, for why she wanted to keep us in the dark. Perhaps it was to protect our innocence? If the world was a shithole I'd probably wanna keep my kids in the dark and thinkin' about rainbows and sunshine too. But, try as I might - I'm not really a child. Mentally, at least. I hate being coddled and find myself preferring to give care rather than receive it. Being an older sibling suits me perfectly, and I like to make myself as self-sufficient as possible despite being physically four years old.
"Okay," she breathes, watching me with what looks to be regret and defeat, "Okay...you always were a precocious child, Michael. I knew this was coming, I just—" a pause, her breath hitching. Now I'm feeling uncomfortable. I wonder if she's about to cry. I'm not good with tears, and seeing your parental figure break into tears was always unsettling. Luckily she pulls herself together and drops down onto the shoddy couch shoved against the wall - opposite the window. Stevie matches my steps and we walk over to her, pulling our little bodies onto the patchy cushions and settling beside her.
"We can't go outside because it's dangerous," she begins, hands in her lap and eyes glued to the boarded window. "Years ago, the sun burned the earth and left it a wasteland."
I blink wildly, completely stunned. Of course, the possibility of solar flares destroying the earth wasn't unheard of, in fact it was sort of expected. But not for millions or billions of years! Just how far into the future am I? The thought of the world outside being a desert wasteland is scary and hard to believe. Borderlands. I bet the world is like Borderlands and there's mutant Skags and cannibals. The video game comes to mind as I try to reconcile the idea of a lush, green world with a burnt, sandy one.
"There's something else. We call it the Flare."
That sounds even less good.
"It's a disease," she continues, brushing her shaking fingers through Stevie's hair as he looks at her with faint confusion. He doesn't understand the gravity of the situation, but knows that for whatever reason, outside the walls of our home is dangerous. "There's no cure. Those who catch it - they don't recover. It's a very, very bad sickness, okay boys? So please, until you're old enough - don't go outside."
I can't help but think that our father must be very brave to wander into a world like that to find ways to provide for us. And I'm gripped by the terrifying realization that I can't defend my family from an incurable disease. It's a battle that I can't fight.
Six months, three weeks and two days later, our father comes home from one of his trips and is silent. There's a pensive look on his face as he smiles at Stevie and I, before beckoning mother into the other room. Stevie waves briefly before returning to his book, enthralled in the weathered pages of Alice in Wonderland. I'm quite proud of my little brother's progress. Stevie is exceptionally smart for a normal almost-five year old. He's even trying to forgo his childish way of speaking to sound more like me, which is adorable and leaves my chest feeling light.
A low, wounded noise echoes from where our parents had gone, and the both of us freeze at the sound. Stevie meets my eyes, our matching gazes reflecting worry between us. Simultaneously, we rise from our seats at the crooked kitchen table and meet in the middle. We reach out and hold hands, grounding each other with familiar grips. Stevie takes the first step and I follow, trepidation growing as we approach the opening to the living room.
Mother is wrapped around father, her back to us and her face buried in his shoulder. Father is stony faced, gaze downcast and jaw clenched. His arms are around her as well, and on his wrist where his sleeve is riding up are pulsing black lines under his skin.
Father has the Flare.
We turn five, but there isn't much celebration. Stevie is mildly oblivious, despite knowing that there is something wrong with his father. It's hard to hide, especially since the man no longer goes out as often, and mother now leaves the house instead on occasion. I am terrified. Despite having never seen an infected person before, I know what illness looks like and those disgusting, growing black lines are hard to hide when they begin to spread. Our father doesn't really touch us anymore. I wonder if it's spread through contact. Or maybe even bodily fluids.
We probably all have it already. I think, one terrible, fearful night. There's more howling outside the walls today, tapering during the day only to rise in an awful cacophony when night falls. Those sounds scare me more than I'll ever admit. Because they aren't just meaningless sounds I can pretend are the wind. It's people making those wretched screams, people who've been infected. The gunshots I've heard over time are what happens to the lucky ones. I think I want to be shot if it ever comes down to it. There could be nothing worse than losing your mind to the Flare.
"Psst, Mikey." a whisper in my ear, my brother's hand poking into my stomach. I tilt my head towards my twin, tearing my gaze from the boarded window in our room. Only faint moonlight shines through it now.
"Yeah, Stevie?" I whisper back, catching Stevie's prodding hand in mine and holding it tight. Stevie lets me, used to our easy and comforting touches. We're five years old and we've never seen another person outside of our family. We have no one but each other, and no pressure of society to dictate how little boys should act. So we grow softly, like gently budding flowers, rather than brashly like weeds. We don't rough-house, instead we like to read and draw and tell silly stories. ( Or rather, I tell Stevie a bunch of stories I remember from my past life, and my younger twin listens eagerly ).
"Is daddy gonna die?"
I jolt, sure my ears are tricking me. But Stevie just looks at me with wide, neutral eyes, like he already knows the answer to his question. "Why would you ask that?"
"B'cause. He's getting sicker 'n sicker. And you know what mommy said about…" Stevie trails off, frowning and squinting.
"The Flare." I breathe, body tingling. I hate talking about it, hating thinking about it and it's stupid inevitability.
"Yeah. That." he pauses, like he doesn't want to ask but he has to. Because Stevie is so, so desperately curious about everything. "Does daddy have the Flare?"
There's no beating around the bush here with someone like my little brother. He's too bright for his own good and a right nag when he wants to be. "...yes."
"Is daddy gonna die?" he asks the dreaded question, one that's been on my mind for a while now. Mother had told us that there was no cure, not that it killed you. All I really knew was that it did something awful and turned you into a thing rather than a person. A disease of the mind, she'd explained, though the symptoms are pretty physical as well.
"I don't know, Stevie. I really don't know." I sigh, desperate hope in my chest. I can only dream, but deep inside I know that what's happening to our father will not have a happy ending. "I hope not."
"Me too." Stevie breathes, his frame tense beside my own. There's something else wrong, I can feel it. I don't even have to be his twin to know, with the amount of anxious energy he's giving off. "Mikey…"
"Yes, Stevie?" I answer, both resigned and curious. Stevie tucks himself closer to my side, and we fit together like puzzle pieces. ( We are, after all, two pieces of a whole. )
"Are you going to die?"
Ah, the tragic inevitability of death. We all discover it at some point in our childhood, and at that moment generally become fearful at the prospect of it and the idea of living on a time limit. I can only answer honestly, hoping to end this conversation as swiftly as possible. I don't want to think about death. Not now. "One day, Stevie, because no one lives forever."
"Yeah." he hums, because he's not dumb, "But not anytime soon, right?"
"Right." I agree, though I've no way to know for certain if I'm telling the truth. No one does. Life is unpredictable. The whole world could be hit by another solar flare tomorrow and we could all die. We just don't know. Yet I whisper promises and reassurances to Stevie because it's all I can do. After all, we might not die tomorrow.
I'm in the kitchen when the front door explodes open with incredible force, a short scream flying from my throat in surprise. Immediately, I duck behind a counter as my mother screams and screeches and the sound of heavy boots thunder across our dusty, dirty floors.
"Stop! Stop! Leave him alone!" I hear my mother shout, her frantic cries pulling me back into an upright position. But it's not until I hear my little brother that I leave my hiding spot.
"Mommy! Mikey!" he screams, and I fly out of the kitchen as fast as my little legs can carry me, armed only with a blunt pencil. There is a group of people in our living room and foyer, Stevie is in one man's grasp and our mother is being held back by a few others. They look like soldier, dressed in black uniforms with high-tech guns and helmets. There's a patch on their shoulders that reads 'WICKED'. I don't think about it too long, brandishing my pencil in a distinctly threatening manner despite it probably not being seen as such.
"What are you doing!" I screech, "Put my brother down!"
They ignore me, of course.
"There's two of them," one of them points out the obvious, "Twins." He sounds oddly happy and astonished by that fact.
"Well, grab him and let's go. We still have a few more houses to hit." Another says, to mine and my mother's dismay.
"Please, no! Don't take them!" She begs, and her body trembles like the hands on her arms are all that's keeping her on her feet.
"They need to be tested," Masked man #3 says, in an attempt to soothe the situation. "If they're immunes then they could be vital in finding a cure." Then he shrugs one shoulder. "If they're not then you'll get them back."
Stevie shakes in the man's hold, eyes searching out mine. We stay silent, peering at each other as one of the men approached me and picks me up. There is nothing we can do against these people, not when they've got armor and guns. Our mother sobs again, finally sinking to her knees.
The man holding Stevie speaks, "You know who made that, right?" He nods to the single light bulb hanging dangerously from the ceiling. Even though we don't give him a response he continues, "We should call these two Thomas and Edison."
"I have a name," I hiss, narrowing my eyes at the guy from over my own captor's shoulder. "It's Michael! And his name is Stephen! You can't just rename us like dogs!"
"Relax, kid." The asshole holding me says unconvincingly. It doesn't help my mood or shake the worry I feel after the jerk's comment.
The group takes us out of the house, and I catch my first glimpse of the world outside. It's scorching, and my skin already feels like it's baking in the sunlight. I hunch and shield my eyes, unable to make out much but dilapidated buildings and sand, so much sand. It hits me, as they drag Stevie and I to an aircraft of some sort, that I might never see my mother or father again, and never know what the outside of our house looks like. It's far too bright and too late to look back and see it.
We're put on a plane. Or at least, some kind of plane - helicopter hybrid. In all honesty it looks like some kind of machine you'd see in a space movie. A man calls it a Berg. It's a stupid name, I think, bitterly and without much reason. There are two other kids on board with us, a girl and a boy. The girl looks to be older than us by a few years, the boy is probably closer in age to us. Stevie can't seem to choose what to stare at, he's never seen so many people in his entire life. That fact makes me cringe, and I place a hand atop his. He turns his hand to interlace our fingers, gripping my hand for stability that we both desperately need. The kid around our age is crying. Great, heaving sobs that wrack his tiny frame as he mewls pathetically for his mother. The display makes me uncomfortable and I feel awful about it, deep inside, but I turn away. I have Stevie to take care of, who peers at the other two kids with thinly veiled curiosity before his wide brown eyes map the shiny, metallic interior of the Berg.
Maybe we won't be immune. I muse, my own gaze examining the pristine layout of the ship. It's a wild contrast from the dirty, desolate home Stevie and I were born in. Then again, if we're immune . . . the Flare won't kill us.
And that was a fate that terrified me. I didn't even know that much about the disease, but the very concept of dying by illness or whatever was not how I'd like to go. Prolonged pain and suffering from an incurable disease? I'd rather take the bullet and kill myself, end it on my own terms. But if we were immune, Stevie and I, then that was one less thing I needed to protect him from.
The downside to us being immune, of course, was that our parents were most definitely not. Father would die soon, he maybe had months remaining. Mother likely wouldn't be far behind, because if the soldiers thought she was immune they would have taken her too ( I assume ) and therefore . . . the only logical conclusion is that she wasn't. I wasn't old enough to take care of Stevie on my own, with no knowledge of the outside world or how it worked or where to get food and water. We'd die. I had no allusions to that. I didn't know where these soldiers were taking us, or what they planned on doing to us if we were immune, but I know without a doubt that they'd most certainly need us alive. Being immune was our best chance of survival, not just from the Flare, but from starvation and exposure as well. Being brought back home meant death, no matter how furiously I'd try to prevent it. This world was not kind, and it did not grant miracles to little boys. Not now.
"I don't like this." Stevie says quietly, our shoulders pressed together. His breath tickles my ear, eyes shifting to the two kids across from us like he's nervous they'll hear.
"I don't either." I whisper back. And I don't. I really, really don't.
"I want to go home." he murmurs, brow drawing low.
"Can't." I grip his hand tighter. "We can't do anything against them and . . . if we're immune - mom and dad aren't."
Stevie sags against my side, his dark hair brushing my cheek. I'll say it a thousand times, but he's absolutely brilliant for a five year old. I'm certain he's some kind of genius, because he understands right away what I mean.
"We need to be immune." he breathes, and we glance at each other, our identical eyes blazing. We really are too alike, I think.
"Yes." I barely hear myself say it. "Yes, we do."
The Berg takes off and we ride in silence the whole time, hands clasped together. The craft doesn't make as much noise as I'd expected, which unfortunately means that the sobs coming from the boy across from us are still loud and clear. The girl offers her shoulder for him to cuddle into, though her face looks miserable and tight. She's also probably annoyed at this kid's blubbering. But I can't really blame him. He's what? Somewhere around five and was just ripped from his family? Any normal kid that young would cry their heart out. Stevie and I are lucky enough to have each other.
My brother seems to grasp that as well, his head leaning on my shoulder and our bodies pressed tightly together side by side. If we're both here, we can make it. We have to.
The Berg lands, and one of the soldier's approaches us from the front of the craft.
"Get up." he demands, and ushers us through the opening entryway and off the Berg. Sand whips around us and the sun is low in the sky, painting everything orange and red. The four of us kids stick close together, despite not having said a word to each other on the ride. We're all here for the same reason, so a sense of trust is easy enough to establish. At least, we hold more trust in each other than we do these men with their helmets and guns.
We're led to a building, surrounded on all sides by soldiers who peer around in the fading light with tense wariness.
They're watching for Cranks. It makes sense, I rationalize, and am inexplicably relieved when huge mechanical doors open and we're shuffled inside without incident. I'm not ready to see what the Flare does, not ready to see what our parents will become. And I trust these men as far as I can throw them with the duty of protecting Stevie.
There are lots of people in here, more than Stevie and I can properly comprehend. Sure, I knew what it was like to be surrounded by people ( my old life granted me that ), but it'd been five years of only three other faces. And one of those faces was identical to my own. Seeing so many people with different features and shades of skin and hair and eyes made me stop and stare. Stevie was the same, his mouth open as he gazed around in childish astonishment. A woman in a lab coat approached us, looking harried yet surprisingly gentle.
"Hello," she greets, her hair is bright red and pulled out of her face in a severe ponytail. She scans the four of us with tired blue eyes, resting especially long on my brother and I. I shift under her stare, Stevie turning from his observations to glance at me, then at the woman.
"Hello." we respond at the same time, the other two children mullish and silent. The doctor lady looks a little stunned, yet oddly pleased. I wonder if it's because we responded, or if it's because we're twins. That excitement the soldier back at the house had about us being twins wasn't forgotten. Scientists loved studying twins, that was a given fact. There were hundreds and thousands of studies and papers and experiments involving them in my universe, and it was likely the same here.
"Wonderful," she laughs a little, and it sounds more like a breath than anything. "Come with me! We're just gonna get you cleaned up and then run some tests, okay?"
Like we have a choice, I scowl, but don't say anything. Our little rag-tag group follows her, trudging through the crazy, high-tech building that looks like something out of a Marvel comic. I'm getting serious Tony Stark vibes from this place. Architecture-wise, of course. I doubt Tony Stark would experiment on children. I'm pretty sure all superheroes are vehemently against that, actually.
What does that make these people?
I shower, because what else can I do but listen to what they tell me to do? I make sure Stevie is in the cubicle next to me and finish as quickly as possible. I don't like being so naked and vulnerable in an unknown place with unknown people. We are children, yes. But to some that doesn't mean anything and I will take no chances. They've taken our old clothes though, which I have mixed feelings about. They weren't the best quality and they weren't in the best state, but they were mine.
It feels weird. The new clothes are nondescript and mute gray, with the word WICKED stamped across the back of the shirt. They're more comfortable than my old clothes, but I don't like how everything we own in connection to our lives is being taken from us. I highly doubt that if we prove to be immune we'll be seeing our clothing again.
Stuck here, wearing gray. For the rest of my life. I muse, God, I hope not.
"Hurry up, Stevie."
"I will! But the water - the water, Mikey!" he exclaims, voice echoing in the stall. He peers at me from beneath the water with bright, amazed eyes. "It's hot!"
"Yeah, it is." That's a commodity we didn't have before. In fact, the idea of a hot shower back home is an abhorrent one, with how hot the air was. The cool water was a reprieve from the sweltering heat. But in here the air is cool and conditioned, so the hot water feels new and heavenly. "Still, hurry up."
I shift, eyes flickering to where the other boy is finishing his own shower, the girl having been led to a different bathroom. He looks impossibly small and thin. It makes me want to . . . I dunno, make him something to eat. Pursing my lips, I turn back to Stevie as I hear the shower squeak off. He wraps a fluffy towel around himself, expression clearly marveling at the texture of it. All our towels had been threadbare and sometimes felt more like sandpaper than fabric.
"This is so - " he halts, unable to find the right word. His expression changes rapidly before settling on something neutral. "I don't know if I like it."
"Yeah, you and me both." I grunt, reaching forward to properly towel off his hair despite his squirming. He finally bats my hands away when his hair is practically dry and poofed in all directions. I hum in satisfaction, tossing the towel off to the side where I'd dropped my own.
He dresses quickly, slipping on the plain white shoes we were all given just as the door opens. The three of us tense, Stevie straightening from his feet and grasping my hand tightly. We keep a grip on each other as we're led down a series of hallways and end up in a room that looks like a makeshift hospital. There's curtains hanging around from the ceiling that can be drawn to section off little areas with thin beds. Everything looks extremely sterile and orderly and I'm not surprised that they made us shower and clean the dust and sand from our bodies.
Next comes the hard part.
"No." I grind out, glaring scathingly at the Doctor who wants to separate Stevie and I. He's an older, balding man with light hair and brown eyes. I don't trust him.
"We go together," Stevie begins, expression mimicking my own.
"Or not at all." I finish, gripping his hand a little tighter. The Doctor glances between us for a moment.
"Fine, fine, that's okay." he acquiesces, "You can both sit up on that bed over there." He gestures to one of the hospital-looking cots, the curtain half drawn around it.
With one last suspicious glare at the man, Stevie and I step forward and march in sync to the area. Like hell I was gonna let them separate the two of us, especially in an unknown place. For all I know, they were just waiting to get us alone and I'd never see Stevie again!
I pat the sheets of the hospital bed, hoisting myself up with minimal difficulty. Stevie grunts, pushing himself up as well and settling besides me. He takes my hand again once we're both seated and we remain on edge as the Doctor approaches. Stevie has never seen a Doctor in his life, and I haven't in a long, long time. Something told me this wouldn't be a typical doctor's visit.
He started with the basics, taking our temperature and blood pressure, listening to our hearts and lungs. Then came time for the needles. Stevie recoiled beside me and I wasn't far behind, both of us eyeing the syringe with identical looks of distrust.
"I'm going to need to draw some blood from both of you, one at a time." the Doctor ( I should probably learn his name, but I'm stubbornly resolute in the opinion that I don't care ) says, eyes pinched and contrasting with the smile on his face. I really don't trust him.
"What for?" Stevie asks, his chin on my shoulder and big brown eyes narrowed at the man.
"Routine," the man begins, jaw clenching, "mostly to check your immunity status, but also for other diseases and your nutrient levels."
Stevie purses his lips, obviously not convinced. He makes no move to stick his arm out, which means I'll have to make the first leap. I'd never been fond of needles in my old life, in fact the idea of someone sliding foreign objects into my skin was absolutely nauseating, but I had to get it over with. They weren't going to let us leave without doing this, of that I had no doubt. They were too desperate for a cure to let possible candidates slip away simply because of a little needle phobia.
"Ok, fine." I huff, rolling up the sleeve on my left arm. I try not to think about what's about to happen and grip Stevie's hand tightly. He doesn't look happy about my decision but seems to have come to the same conclusion as me.
It's not pleasant. My breaths shake and sweat breaks out on my brow. My skin feels too cold yet too hot, split into two layers, one over the other. Stevie presses into my side and glares for all he's worth at the Doctor, who's switching vials as the first one fills. He takes four vials total, leaving me light headed and tingling. My sigh of relief is audible once the needle is out of my skin. I lean my weight on Stevie, providing support as he repeats my actions and winces as a brand new needle enters the tender flesh of his inner elbow.
We're immune. The Doctors are delighted. One some scale, so am I. Our chances of survival have increased, we cannot die from the Flare. It makes me feel a little lighter with the stress of that possible demise removed from the equation.
Now we just have to worry about the murderous Cranks, sun radiation, dehydration, starvation and a plethora of other dangerous causes of death. I don't mean to be so pessimistic, but the world has made it terribly hard to be positive, especially since we were children and had little control over what became of us.
We're allowed to sleep, Stevie and I put in a room with bunk beds that we ignored, cramming into the bottom bunk together. I felt comforted by the weight of him beside me, listening to his soft breaths and imagining his heartbeat in my ear. It took me a long time to fall asleep, though Stevie drifted off after a while, obviously tired from all the excitement during the day. I was too keyed up, terrified and grief-stricken. I keep thinking about how we never really got to say goodbye to our parents. My last memory of my mother will be of her sobbing and restrained by soldiers. And our father hadn't even been there. Had he come home later in the evening, only to find the door busted and our mother in tears? The two of us nowhere to be found? He would be dead soon, or a Crank. He had weeks at most.
I mourned him already, and hated WICKED for taking us from him when he had so little time left. I never wanted to see the man fall to the Flare and deteriorate over time. But if he was going to die, I wanted to spend every second we could with him, to burn the memory of him alive into my mind. They took that from us.
I don't think I slept, it felt like I blinked and then we were being ushered from the bed. They took us through hallways and strange, industrial areas and tunnels lined with pipes. There was a loud, siren-like sound and a mechanical door whirred open with many clicks and thuds. The sun spilled into the room, far too bright and hot. I shielded my eyes, hissing. Stevie made a similar sound of distaste, his hand once again held tight in my own.
A soldier pushed us forward, leading us into the Scorch. In the early light of day that sun seemed far worse, the evening rays nothing compared to the way my visible skin burned now. I felt a tremendous amount of relief when we stepped up into a train, the interior dark and cool. It was a little stuffy, but definitely air conditioned to prevent a likeness to an oven. The train compartment was lengthy and filled with two rows of double seats, separated in the middle by a walkway. Almost every seat was occupied by a child, the youngest I could see was perhaps four, and the oldest looked to be almost thirteen. A majority seemed to be between five and eight.
The weight of curious stares made me flush, steps faltering. Stevie took the lead, matching the other children's looks with his own curious gaze. I stayed just behind him, ducking out of view on occasion and keeping our hands clasped together as he led us to an open set of double seats. He let me in first, so I could be by the window and away from most of the stares. We'd never talked about being social with others, or how we thought we'd act, but Stevie seemed to know instinctively that I was shy. Something I'd never been before around him, yet he accepted it with ease. I really did love this twin bond of ours.
A few kids chatted, but for the most part the train ride was silent, everyone feeling a general sense of unease and despair. Stevie slumped against my side and dozed, lulled by the rumble of the train. I rested my head against his, eyelids drooping. I was exhausted from worrying all night, but I couldn't let myself fall asleep willingly, not when we were in such an unfamiliar place filled with people. They were other children, sure, but I didn't know any of them. I simply dozed, drifting in and out of full consciousness, the rumble of moving machinery and quiet voices in my ear.
It took hours, though the time passed relatively quickly as Stevie and I dozed on intervals. Stevie didn't talk to anyone else despite the tug of curiosity I felt in my gut that didn't belong to me. Instead we kept our heads together and whispered back and forth about a few random topics. He asked for a story so I quietly told him a few stories about Spider-Man. We hadn't had any comic books back at our house, only a few battered novels. Paper items were few and far between. It made me sad to think about how much the sun flares destroyed, not just people but also history. Artwork and statues and stories, all burned away to ash. Things we couldn't get back, that lay in museums or undiscovered, gone. The world was a giant sand dune and humanity lost everything but the drive to survive.
A painting, the memory was a faint one, George Washington. Massive, him in the corner and a spread of battle on the rest of the canvas. I remembered walking through a museum and being starstruck at the sight of the huge painting, spanning floor to ceiling and wall to wall. I couldn't recall the title anymore. The sheer size had impressed me. The very thought that someone had painted every inch of it boggles my mind. I suppose that too has burned under the sun. Humanity. Always fighting.
"I don't get it," Stevie mutters, eyes half open, "Why'd he forgive Harry?"
"Because he loved him. He was his best friend." I answer. "Harry did awful things, yeah, but Peter thought he deserved another chance. He couldn't give up on his friend . . . on his family."
"Oh." my brother hums, understanding. "I guess I see it now. I'd forgive you if you were Harry."
"Does that make you Spider-Man?" I tease, nudging him with my elbow. He laughs quietly, shaking his head.
"Nah, if I got to choose, I'd wanna be Iron Man!" he admits, "You're Spider-Man."
Of course, I'm delighted by the comparison, but also worried. My head is filled with knowledge of comic books ( Spider-Man extensively ) and Peter Parker has a lot of darkness and pain and rage. But he is also kind, and for the life of me I hope that that is the part of me that Stevie sees.
"Thanks." I say, still bashful at the comparison because no matter what, Spider-Man is my favorite. "I think you'd make a great Iron-Man, Stevie. You're super smart."
He grins a little, "Yeah, yeah. He's smart, but I like that he's funny too, and that he tries to be good even when he messes up. He's sad but he keeps going."
"Yeah," I muse, "He does, doesn't he?"
"Captain America is pretty cool too." Stevie acquiesces, shifting against my side. He yawns, and the movement draws me into my own yawn. "He's my other favorite, and we have the same name even if it's spelled differently."
"Steve is wicked cool." I'd be offended on behalf of Captain America if my little brother didn't love him. Then again, I adore almost every superhero under the sun.
"But Spidey is still your favorite," he points out, "And you really like that Daredevil guy. You always get smiley when you tell his stories."
I flush, grumbling a bit while Stevie laughs. "Well, he's just, cool. Ya know? Like - " I wave my hand in a weird motion, "Just. Awesome."
"Well said." Stevie says dryly.
"I don't know where you're getting this attitude from, young man!" I gasp, placing my free hand over my chest like I've been scorned. My little brother has learned well under my deadpan humor and blunt words.
"Shut up!" he laughs, elbowing me. "I learned it all from you, you're a bad influence."
"The worst." I agree, nodding along. The sound of the train muffles our voices, so I'm not worried about the other children being able to hear what we're talking about. I'm glad, because I don't want to draw attention to the two of us. I'm too tired and anxious to deal with a bunch of children who aren't Stevie. Plus, I'm pretty sure I'm just an introvert by nature, and the idea of socializing is daunting.
It's dark out when we finally arrive. The faint sunlight that had filtered through the slitted windows replaced by darkness, the only light now coming from flickering bulbs on the train ceiling. We're ushered off the train and into what passes as a station, and then from there we're kept in a tight group and pushed through a series of hallways. We're exhausted, all of us. I can see it in the way every child rubs their eyes and drags their feet.
Even Stevie, who napped on and off for a few hours, is faltering. It's only my tight grip on his hand that stops him from falling into the crowd of kids.
It starts when we arrive in a room with desks and seats and are told to sit down. I lead Stevie over to a desk near the back and shove another against it, plopping down in my own seat. I get a look from one of the weird Doctor people but I could care less, I prefer being as close as possible to my brother. I also kinda hate all the adults here, so I'm taking comfort where I can get it.
One by one kids are called forth and taken away. My frown becomes more pronounced as time passes, fear taking hold. What if they separate us? I can't fight them off, not really. The body of a malnourished five year old can only do so much. But to my relief, when the time comes they gesture for the both of us.
We're put in a room, with another bunk bed and food on a table in the center. The scent of cooked meat hits my nose and my stomach growls with a vengeance - I've been so stressed I didn't even realize that we haven't eaten all day! Stevie surges forward and stuffs a roll into his mouth, eyes going wide. More than half the food in front of us we've never seen before ( at least, Stevie hadn't ). He looks more amazed the more he eats, relishing in the taste of well-made, warm food. I sit down a little more gingerly, eating slowly.
"Don't eat too fast, you'll get a stomach ache." I abdomish, leveling Stevie with an unimpressed stare.
He swallows, taking a sip of whatever's in the cup in front of him before responding, "I know, I know. 'M just so hungry!"
"Still," I huff, eyeing the food before us with distrust. They need us alive, so it'd be stupid of them to poison us. But I wouldn't put drugging past them. Whatever. There isn't much I could do in a situation like this, and in all honesty I need my strength if I want to protect Stevie. Eating maybe-drugged food will have to do.
"I don't like it either." he suddenly says, fork clinking against his empty plate.
I glance up at him, sliding an apple slice into my mouth. I haven't tasted fruit in years. He looks solemn, an odd expression to see on a child's face. We hold each other's eyes for a while, before his eyelids droop a bit and a yawn breaks free.
"Bed time." I say, pushing my empty plate away from me and standing up. Stevie copies my actions, his chair scraping on the floor as he pushes away from the table. We clasp hands again on our way to the bunk bed and press together on the bottom mattress like last time.
I'm so exhausted, it takes me moments to sink into a deep sleep.
We're taken for testing the next morning, after breakfast. The food left for us the previous night was gone when we awoke, replaced with fresh foods. I'd missed the taste of oatmeal and sausage, and Stevie took to it with gusto.
A soldier, gun strapped to his thigh, opens our door and leads us to a room with two desks and chairs. There's a pad on each desk, as well as writing utensils and paper.
A test. An honest-to-god test. This might actually be hell. Dread fills my stomach at the sight of the digital questionnaire on the pad. I thought I was done with school! There was only one, single good thing about the situation I'd found myself in and that was that I didn't have to go to school because there were no schools. But now, I had a feeling that was going to change and that was not a happy thought.
Ugh.
It was easy, too. Geared for someone more my physical age. I finished quickly, and surprisingly enough so did Stevie. We glanced at each other, feelings of confusion and eagerness spiraling between us.
( We passed whatever test they'd made with flying colors. It wasn't a good thing. )
"Your name is Thomas."
A man with wire-frame glasses and dark hair had come into our room, a clipboard in hand and a dead look in his eye. That was the first thing he said, gaze on my brother. Then he turned to me.
"Your name is Edison."
"Uh," Stevie scrunched his brow, confusion obvious. "My name is Stephen and that's my brother, Michael. I think you have the wrong people."
"I don't. We're giving you new designations." he says, like he's talking about the weather, like this madness makes any sense whatsoever.
"No." I glare, setting my jaw. "Absolutely not."
( We last a day. )
The next morning a man with an eerie smile comes in and asks us what our names are.
"Stephen." my brother answers, determination in his tiny frame.
"Michael." I answer as well, with the same stubborn tone.
"I only need one of you." he muses, after a pause. His slimy gaze slides from Stevie to me and back again. Something cold slides down my spine. I don't like the look in his eye.
"Take me then." I blurt out, but I know I've made a mistake the second his disgusting countenance hones in on my desperation. He lashes out and takes Stevie's arm in an iron-grip, dragging my brother from the bed.
"Let me go!" he shrieks, writhing in the man's hold.
"Stop it!" I scream, launching myself at him, fingers digging into a meaty arm. I kick and bite and scratch, until the man is roaring and smacks me upside the head so hard I drop to the floor. I can hear Stevie scream my name, but I'm too disoriented to respond. By the time I heave myself off the floor and the room ceases its spinning, I'm the only one in the room.
"No, no," I whimper, feeling the terror between us like poison. I'm off the floor and slamming against the door in seconds, bashing my fists against solid metal. "NO! LET ME OUT!"
No one comes.
"STEPHEN!" I scream, punching at the door until I'm crying from both terror and pain. I slide down against the door and heave, hands shaking before me, bruised and battered. "Stevie…."
There's a shiver between us, a struggling, surging feeling that has my brow furrowing. I've never felt this before, it almost feels like Stevie is trying to close our connection. That terrifies me, because that means they're doing something he doesn't want me to feel. He's not good at it, having never done it before. We've never needed to hide anything from each other, I don't even know if we truly can shut our strange emotional bond off.
"Stevie…?" I whisper into the silence, probing at the connection. I'm not prepared for the lance of pain that spikes through me. I cry out, jerking where I sit. "What the - "
It doesn't stop. The pain burns through me with a vengeance, ripping our bond open and forcing us to share the agony. It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts! I've never felt pain like this before, it's like everything is on fire, like my skin is being flayed open and bones plucked out.
WHAT ARE THEY DOING? My wrathful outburst echoes deeply through our connection.
MICHAEL! There's a sob of my name, and it sounds like Stevie. It should be impossible, it is impossible. But my name is in my head, and so are Stevie's cries. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
Don't, I project back, ferocious in my rage, it's them. IT'S THEM!
They're going to keep doing it. He says ( thinks? ), they won't stop until I accept the name Thomas.
It's just a name, I respond quickly, barely feeling the floor beneath my body as I writhe in pain, it doesn't matter, not really. You're still you. Please, I can't protect you.
It feels like a loss. They're shaping us into something new, forcing our hand when we don't respond the way they want. It's just a name, yes, but it's the name our parents gave us. It's all we have left that belongs to us, and now we can't even keep that.
The pain stops, but there's an ache that I can feel in every muscle of my body and mind. I lay gasping on the floor until the door opens, barely able to move my body as Stevie is dragged back inside. I grunt, raising myself to onto my knees as Stevie is dropped besides me. Like beacons, we seek each other, curling our throbbing bodies together and sighing with relief.
"What's your name?" the bastard hasn't left, instead he lingers above us, voice serpentine.
"Thomas." Stevie says, his voice a mere croak.
I turn my venomous gaze to the asshole leering down at us, defiance still heavy in my bones. My voice isn't much better, and it hurts to force the name from my throat. "Eddie."
They may have forced it upon me, but I would make it my own.