22 Not So Extensive Enterprises Chapter 3: BlueYellowMagentaWhite, a g. i. joe fanfic

This one got a little out of control. You may notice something about this fic, and that is that it is 15,000 words. No drabble to be found here.

But it will be folded in to the series, and it will be Chapter 3.

I have as many mixed feelings about this fic as it's possible to have, and it has quite literally driven me crazy, so it's time to finish it. All attempts at humor aside, this fic (along with some medication adjustments and IRL drama) screwed with my brain. A lot. Is the best art created from a place of pain? DUNNO, but this thing was!

Anyway. Debbie Downer is Downer. On with the story.

It's my take on one possible way Xamot got the scar. Takes place in a somewhat anachronistic past (if you believe the boys are in their mid-late 30s in 1985-1987, then they'd be 18 in the late 1960s or so, and this ain't no late 1960s).

My thinking, from day one, was as follows: Who is the one with the scar, who is always (in Sunbow anyway) rescuing the one without the scar? Are we really to believe that is a coincidence?

Notice that most of the last names in the fic are in honor of various voice actors. All of whom are wiiiizards. ;D

They were the men for the job, Klipschorn knew at once. As the saying went, they just had that "special something", indefinable yet undeniable. Barely twenty by the shine of their doe-like eyes, maybe younger. Probably younger. Eighteen. Pliable with youth but cocky with the sudden onset of adulthood and all its freedoms.

They stood before him in matching suits. Hands clasped behind their backs. Heads raised just enough to denote a respectful confidence.

"Mr. Klipschorn, thank you for allowing us to meet with you," one of them said.

"We believe we have much to offer your organization," the other one continued.

"On this upcoming expedition in particular," the first one finished.

Oh... boy.

Did they... always do that?! Klipschorn couldn't help being a bit disgusted. Men for the job or not, the "sweet little boys in their matching outfits, finishing each others' sentences" thing would get old. Fast. His men simply wouldn't put up with it.

Though he allowed himself a private little grin at the "expedition" euphemism. A talent for subtlety. Another essential when working for Klipschorn.

"Yes, well, uh..." he had no idea what to call them, "Gentlemen, this is indeed a project very near and dear to my heart. As you no doubt know-"

He realized with a start that these kids probably did know. They had come from some island or other, with the lean and tanned look of swimmers. And they spoke with cultured and well-educated voices. They knew what was going on in the world, which was more than he could say for the American buffoons he had recruited during his last attempt.

"Klipschorn Diamond? Whuzzat, a baseball field?"

And ow much time had they wasted trying to brief those idiots on what was what? Too much time, which was why it had all blown up in their faces.

So to speak.

Well, that wouldn't happen again here. The advantage would be theirs this time, and he would be able to keep his promise: never again. Not after this one.

So his mind had wandered, a bit. Lack of sleep was likely to blame. All told, he had hesitated maybe four or five seconds when, all at once, those strange twins flung themselves up and over in a perfect arc, and balanced on the very edge of Klipschorn's desk. Balanced on fingertip, as steady as deeply rooted trees.

"We have educated ourselves on your predicament, Mr. Klipschorn," they confirmed in unison, in remarkably steady voices.

"Oh... my word," Klipschorn murmured.

"We would like a blueprint of the facility, however," one twin said, "And any other information you have gathered during your previous attempts,"

"As the publicly available documentation omits such details as-"

"Where the traps are located."

"Of-of course. Yes, at once," Klipschorn said, signaling to a slack-jawed aide. He felt a bit slack-jawed himself, if the truth were known.

He wasn't sure if they were waiting for permission, permission, of all things, to get down from the desk. But ultimately, he did not grant it, and they didn't seem to mind. The aide returned with a floppy disk, which he fed into his desktop computer.

The twins gave no indication of fatigue.

"Can you read upside down, too?" he finally asked with a bit of an edge.

"Of course," they confirmed.

He gritted his teeth a bit, and turned the monitor toward them. A digitally generated schematic of the entire facility appeared on the large color display, with certain areas indicated in bright, flaming fuchsia. Other areas were marked with Yellow, others with blue. A few scattered areas, adjacent to (or sometimes in the midst of) fuchsia were marked with White.

"Alright, then the Blue..." one twin began,

"Public corridors," Klipschorn said. "No traps, naturally."

"Yellow?"

"Corridors leading to the chamber. No traps. Should be a, er, walk in the park for you lads."

"Yes, and then the Fuchsia..."

"Known traps we have been able to evade."

"And White?"

Klipschorn leaned back in his chair, folded his hands across his sunken chest.

"Known traps, casualties suffered."

The twins looked at him levelly, and the absurdity of looking into the face of two identical upside down men seemed to fade.

"Seems you've lost..."

"Quite a few men. How many..."

"Prior attempts have you made, exactly?"

A conversational tone, a downright friendly tone. Asking, in a roundabout fashion, about their own chances for survival, as though they were asking about a ballgame or the weather.

Klipschorn began to rock back and forth thoughtfully. A dark shadow of regret settled against his aged features.

"Seven."

And there were eight White spaces.

"I've told my wife that this is the last. Well, really, she told me. She just had a stroke, you see. Can't pretend the stress of all this nonsense wasn't a contributing factor. It's going to kill us both one of these days, I'm afraid."

"How..."

"...Unfortunate."

A brief spark of anger flashed through Klipschorn's eyes.

"Do you know what it's like to pay someone to risk their life for you? To give someone else responsibility for everything that matters, knowing they probably won't be able to come through? I've hired every type of man for these jobs. Goons, for lack of a better word, because make no mistake, what I'm attempting is strictly illegal. Athletes, scholars, computer hackers. Some of the best. Struck down in the face of that godforsaken facility, either physically or psychologically."

The twins said nothing.

"No, this... this will be my last attempt. I can do no more. I've exhausted my own resources, I've exhausted the world's resources. I believe I may have used more than I will even gain back when the diamond is returned to me."

Not if. Not if. Never if again.

"But I have to try. Once more. Is that selfish? It is, I know it. But it's not for me anymore, you see. My son is going to be married soon. He'll have children, children born under the dishonored, reviled Klipschorn name. I can endure it, gentlemen. I can endure the scorn, but the idea of thrusting all of this onto an innocent, unknowing child, to carry over his or her head for his or her entire life? No, I must make one more attempt. For my name, for my family, I must."

Every day of those sixty two long years showed on his hollow face.

Without a word, the twins dropped down. Their expressions were sympathetic, quietly touched by Klipschorn's tragic tale of woe.

After an appropriate, respectable silence, they spoke:

"Then, as to our payment?"

All at once, they were stoic.

Klipschorn fumbled for a moment. Snap, back to business with those men. They were keenly aware of the valuable time wasted, valuable time lost, forever.

Yes. These were the men. They wasted nothing. Not time, not words, not emotion.

"Seven million," he said after a moment. Lofty. Truth be told, he couldn't have paid them seven thousand until after the job was complete. But the job would be complete. By god, this time the job would be-

"Each?" the twins asked, a bit indignantly.

"Each?" Klipschorn repeated as though he had never heard the word. "Each! Yes. Yes, of course!" And the moon and the stars, too!

The twin on the right frowned at his brother, and nodded.

"We will require a down payment, of course, for materials and so forth."

The twins glanced at each other, nodded a few times.

"One million each should do it," they agreed.

"Ah..." Klipschorn laughed nervously. "Well, yes. Perhaps I wasn't... clear enough. Ah... gentlemen, please... allow me to clarify our, ah... situation... a bit..."

"Oh, oh, please, there is no need to trouble yourself, Mr. Klipschorn," the twin on the left said.

"We understand completely, and we are nothing if not sympathetic," the twin on the right added.

"That means a lot to me, boys," Klipschorn said, and it almost did.

They nodded, and a moment later, they had surrounded the desk. One was standing behind Klipschorn, gently leaning over his shoulder, maintaining a relaxed posture as if he were looking at something on the computer screen.

The other one was removing the disk, powering down the system, and unplugging the peripherals.

"What do you think you're-" Klipschorn certainly was in no physical condition to try to stop them, and the twin's hand on his shoulder carried with it just enough pressure to send a clear message confirming that fact.

"Down payment, sir," the one whispered. "As per our demands."

"We are being most generous, sir," the other one said a bit irritably. "We are taking only what we need. This system can't be worth more than three or four thousand. If you recall-"

"We asked for a million."

"Each," they smiled.

"But that- that's my computer! Now, I need that!"

One of them lifted the monitor, a device weighing seventy pounds if it weighed an ounce, while the other one circled around to grab the equally heavy tower.

"No, Mr. Klipschorn, we need it-"

"And you need us."

"We'll be in touch!" the twins chorused as they walked out the door, hauling hundreds of pounds worth of computer equipment under their arms like schoolbooks.

Klipschorn spent a long couple of minutes, staring disbelievingly at the dusty imprint on the desk, where his computer had sat just moments ago. He absently rubbed his shoulder, noting the exquisite pain that twin had brought on with just a simple squeeze.

They were perfect... they might have been a bit too perfect. But they would get the job done, he was sure of that. For the first time, he dared to feel something like hope.

And afterward... well, he would deal with that when the time came.

"Candy..." Tomax smirked.

"From a baby," Xamot smirked back.

The computer equipment fit perfectly in the corner of their "rented" room. When they powered it up, the lights dimmed and the window-mounted box fan slowed. Xamot dashed across the room to turn off the fan, and Tomax to turn off the overhead lamp. Thus they successfully avoided blowing a fuse, and were spared the wrath of the landlord who didn't know they existed yet (and if all went well on the job, never would know).

In the dark, still room, the twins beheld their payment as it whirred into action, casting a sterile blue glow from one cracked plaster wall to the other. Decidedly out of place for their lives as they had been up to that point.

But right at home in the beautiful new life they were about to build.

"The first 'dollar'..." Xamot whispered,

"We've ever made," Tomax sighed.

"Shall we?"

"Let's."

The analog clock on the wall read midnight. They pulled mismatched folding chairs up to the table. Tomax popped in the floppy disk and ran the application. The map filled the screen, and the twins studied it for several minutes.

Blue. Yellow. Fuchsia. White.

Life. Life. Probable death. Certain death.

But they could move fast, and think faster. They moved as one, thought as one, felt as one. That they had not yet reached their ultimate athletic, intellectual and criminal potential at the age of eighteen was solely due to trepidation and inexperience. Not lack of ability or potential.

The fear of taking over the world was ultimately a harder thing to overcome than the actual trials that came with taking over the world.

No, they could do this, and it would be the start of something glorious. What Klipschorn could offer them, he had already given (relatively) freely: Opportunity. With that contribution firmly tucked away in their portfolios, the rest would be up to them. If they could only manage that raw, youthful, entirely natural but no longer appropriate apprehension.

Wasted time. Wasted years. To never waste again, there was their goal and motivation and ultimate objective.

Tomax and Xamot yawned in unison.

A mere second ago, Xamot hadn't been tired... or, perhaps more accurately, hadn't realized he was tired. Well, he was certainly tired now. And who had been tired first? It didn't matter. Long ago they had given up trying to distinguish from whom those natural little biological urges came. Hunger, weariness, an itch here or there. Felt at the same time, with the same urgency and the same intensity, requiring the same rectifying action to be taken by both twins in order to truly be effective. One could not eat and expect the other to be full, though he may think he was, overexert himself, and then both would grow weak.

So both needed to sleep now.

"A valuable gift it would be," Xamot said.

Tomax nodded.

"The ability..."

"For one to sleep while the other stayed awake."

"Imagine what we could accomplish."

"Easily twice as much."

"Hmm. Or half as much." Tomax grinned and softly punched his brother's upper arm, a dull tingling sensation which rippled through the both of them.

A sigh, and a final glance at the computer-generated map. An emotion that settled as optimism.

Tomax shut down the system while Xamot began to roll out the worn, threadbare blankets and flat pillows that the previous tenants had generously left behind for them to use as bedding. The twins had already sold the steel bed-frame and eviscerated box spring for scrap, leaving only a tattered full size mattress in the corner under the window.

Xamot smoothed down the blankets. The dated, mildew-smelling floral print. The fanciful, cigarette-burned geometric print. The scratchy one with cartoon dogs printed on it.

Absolutely criminal.

But only for one more night.

The slumping, uneven mattress provided little comfort, and the itchy, smelly, allergen-laden blankets caused more problems than they solved.

But that night, that last perfectly still and silent night, comfort was abundant. Apprehension melted away. The silhouetted room practically glowed with promise as the two brothers snuggled together.

A moment of companionable silence, and then two snorts.

"For my name, for my family, I must," they quoted Klipschorn together, in a mock-reverent tone.

"Honestly," Xamot scoffed.

Tomax pulled his knees to his chest.

"For that monologue alone, we should..."

Xamot kicked a corner of the blanket off of his legs. Tomax soon followed suit. He hadn't been hot a moment ago, of course.

"We should." murmured Xamot. "No jury would convict us, you know."

"No jury in the land."

"Mmm," they hummed together, "Just can't decide."

A long pause, and sleep had nearly claimed them both when the front door to the three-story building slammed.

Urgent footsteps on the rickety stairwell.

A noise in their hallway.

The brothers slept fully clothed every night, each with several strategically located concealed weapons on their persons. Both left hands went for their left thigh holsters, thoughtfully fingering the studded leather and the clasp.

Pounding on the opposite door, a man demanding "Lemme da fuck in, Thelma! It's Thursday!"

More slamming doors, an angry woman's voice from inside the apartment. Clattering dishes, muffled voices. A private situation which was none of their affair, but which jarred them both out of slumber and out of that sense of well-being.

They released their holds on the knives, but Tomax sighed deeply.

Xamot smiled, and cupped his brother's right cheek with his left hand.

"Two adjacent islands in the middle of nowhere, Brother. Connected by a bridge. Two islands, one for each of us. No one will know about them, no one will be able to locate them. They aren't on any map, Brother, because we haven't built them yet."

Tomax smiled, continued the reverie.

"Beaches on all sides of our beautiful houses. Everything new and sparkling and clean. And expensive. God. So expensive."

"The warm days, Brother. And the nights, cool and breezy, just how we like them."

"And the silence."

"So we can hear each other think."

"Mmmm," Tomax began drifting into slumber, "They can fly, too. The islands. Levitate. We can make that work, Brother. We have... people."

"But only when we want them."

"The most important thing to stress, gentlemen, is the importance of deactivating each trap once you have crossed it."

Once, not if.

"Oh?" asked the twin with the hair parted to the left, which Klipschorn had just noticed was the only real physical difference between them. He still didn't know their names.

The brothers were extraordinarily bright-eyed and energetic for six fifteen in the morning. Klipschorn didn't know how much of that was youth and how much of it was that "it" factor. But whatever it was, he would need a third or fourth cup of coffee just to keep up with the boys at rest.

Yes, he reaffirmed to himself, they are the men for the job. As long as they keep their heads about them, and that's why we're here in this briefing.

"Do not grow overconfident, forgetful and careless. If you need to get out in a hurry, you will need a clear path back through the facility. Don't forget to deactivate the traps! It's how we lost..." he hesitated for a long moment, trying to pull names from his minefield of a memory, "Messick and Stephenson. Brilliant scientists, the best critical thinkers in the field. But Messick lost a leg, and Stephenson panicked and ran right back into the trap he had just crossed."

The twins looked levelly into Klipschorn's eyes, quite impatiently.

"Well, of course there was very little left of him," Klipschorn finished.

"We think..." one twin (right-part) began,

"We can manage to remember," (left-part) finished.

Still with the sentence thing. How did they think so fast? How did they keep the extended performance up for so long, without so much as a stutter or a pause?

And more importantly, why? Klipschorn didn't have the luxury to nitpick at this stage (that would come later), but god, it was unnerving.

Of course. That was why they did it.

But how?

Later. Later.

"Just watch yourselves in there. You've studied the facility forward and back, then?"

"Thanks to your gracious gift," (right-part) said smoothly.

"Yes, well, my men are very thorough. You should be prepared for everything that place is going to throw at you."

The twins shifted a bit uncomfortably. Of course they did it in unison.

"Mr. Klipschorn, we did notice something..." (left-part) said.

"Rather odd..."

"On the schematic of the building."

"Did you?" Klipschorn asked, smacking his lips together after taking a sip of coffee. Too much sugar. Made his mouth feel like a wet sponge.

"Yes. Perhaps a mistake has been made, because on the schematic, the walls of the room..." (left-part) began,

"Or perhaps chamber is a better word, Brother?" (right-part) corrected. Corrected!

"Yes, chamber, where the diamond is held... the walls of the chamber, Mr. Klipschorn, appear to be... nothing but windows. Windows facing the outside of the building."

Oh, yes. That.

"Ah, no... not exactly windows, my dear boys," Klipschorn said a bit sheepishly.

"Then what?" both asked in unison.

"Forcefields." Klipschorn made a noise which was part-snort, part-sigh. "Transparent forcefields."

The twins exchanged a look.

"Well, just... imagine it for a moment, boys! Imagine the gall that man has."

"That man?"

"The man who... what the hell does he call himself..."

"The Commander?" the twins asked innocently.

"The Commander! The Commander, boys. Imagine the gall he has! You can see that room from outside, from down the block, over the hill. See it quite well, in fact, with that blue lighting. The bastard made sure everyone knows exactly what's in there, and that he has it. But there's no way into the room from the outside. We found that out with Ward and Bell on our first attempt. Mountain climbers, scaled Everest twice. She broke her pelvis, never walked again."

Gears had been turning in the twins' heads since Klipschorn had said the word "forcefield", and now they spoke.

"The room must be..."

"Well-guarded..."

"From the outside."

Klipschorn nodded. "Oh yes. How do you think Ward broke her pelvis? Sniper. Right through the hand."

"But in order to shoot anyone..."

"On the inside of the room..."

"Wouldn't they have to..."

"Lower the forcefields?" they finished in unison.

"I suppose they would." Klipschorn's eyes widened. "Oh! Gentlemen, are you thinking what I think you're thinking?"

"We're merely weighing options..."

"For our escape route, Mr. Klipschorn."

Klipschorn sputtered a bit.

"It's a fifty foot drop. That much rope would slow you down immeasurably."

Right-part glanced at left-part, and they stifled a laugh.

"Yes, we suppose..."

"It would, if we planned to bring rope."

Klipschorn felt his face flushing with anger.

"Now, you listen here. If you punks aren't taking this seriously, if you think this is all some kind of joke, you may as well tell me now. You aren't the only game in town, boys. There were four thousand applicants for this position, four thousand replacements who are only a phone call away-"

Two pairs of wide, shocked brown eyes.

"Why, Mr. Klipschorn, you misunderstand!"they cried.

"Do I? Well, no, don't tell me. You frequently survive fifty foot freefalls without so much as a sprained ankle between you?" Klipschorn snapped.

The twins shrugged.

"Of course you do. I don't know why I asked. You kids are incredible, you know that? I don't know how much of this is flim-flam and how much of it is just the fact that I need more coffee. I'm not sure any of it is real anymore, but I'm committed. Don't fuck me over. We leave at 9. Go, do something uncanny in the meantime. I need a nap."

The brothers turned, without a word, and left the room.

Klipschorn closed his eyes. The faces of Bell and Ward and Messick and Stephenson and all the rest flashed behind his closed lids. Their file photos, black and White and grainy.

His wife's face, before the stroke.

He dreamed he was walking a tightrope across two ivory towers.

"The ultimate irony, that this place is open to the public as a museum," Klipschorn muttered to himself as the party entered the facility in separate little groups. "And here, see, here, this dedication? You see the inscription on this statue?!"

Tomax and Xamot inwardly cringed. If the old bastard was trying to act suspicious enough to get caught before the mission had even begun, he was doing a fantastic job of it.

"'Our Eternal Gratitude To All Those Who Have Contributed To Humanity's Lasting Legacy'. Their eternal gratitude to all those they've stolen from! Stealing our pasts and our futures right out from under us! Do you know what they all said about me?!"

No one answered. They were pretending to be strangers. Klipschorn whirled on the group, wild-eyed, and continued talking:

"They all said that I lost the diamond while negotiating with terrorists! Terrorists! That I put it up as collateral, and when the plot fell apart, they kept it to fund their criminal enterprises. But whose name was it all over the papers? Who just barely avoided life in prison, or deportation, by calling in generation upon generation worth of favors? Me!"

"Mr. Klipschorn, be quiet," hissed one of Klipschorn's men, Cullen.

"And when this bastard recovered the diamond from the terrorists, they called him a hero. My god! A hero. The government told him to keep it as a reminder of the importance of national security."

"Sir, come on," hissed Hoffman, another of Klipschorn's, for lack of a better word, goons. "Let's just go sit down for a minute, alright?"

"Don't treat me like a senile old man, by god!"

Don't act like one, both twins yearned to say. Instead, they strolled away from the group, carefree and enthusiastic as tourists. Which, of course, was their official cover story. They were college students from abroad, soft-spoken and overwhelmed by their First Visit To America.

The ugly gray sweat pants (for ease of movement) and outdated baggy red jackets (for ease of weapon concealment) were part of the "naive schoolboys trying to look hip and radical in America" act. The oversized dark glasses were for the same purpose, but with an added tactical advantage. They could pretend to be blind, if need be. Could call out for their guardian Auntie Helga, who was naturally nowhere to be found, explaining their presence in the wrong part of the museum!

Of course, it wouldn't come to that. But they were prepared nevertheless.

The boys pretended to be engrossed in a painting of a bosomy naked woman in a garden, and they spoke in barely audible tones.

"It isn't too late," Xamot murmured.

A long pause.

"Well, one of us had to say it," Tomax smiled.

Actually, neither of them needed to say it. Neither of them would have had to speak at all. They frequently had entire conversations in their heads, without uttering a single sound except for the inevitable laugh or two. In fact, they often preferred to speak silently when out in public, not just for the sake of privacy, but also for the sake of speed. Thoughts traveled much faster than words, and were captured and understood immediately upon inception. They could have a lengthy, detailed dialogue in a fraction of the time usually required.

But this time (and frequently when alone), they wanted (needed) to hear each others voices. Needed that little bit of the outside, of "normality".

"Are you afraid?" Tomax asked, needlessly.

They were both terrified. It was an emotion like any other shared between them, one that fed on itself and fed on the reflection from the other twin, and fed on itself again, until it was almost unmanageable.

So when Xamot lied, "No," Tomax could only nod and lie right back.

"Neither am I."

Klipschorn was being led over to a bench by Hoffman. He was yelling now, yelling quite loudly, and his "handler" had to shout to be heard. The brothers glanced over their shoulders in what they tried to mask as polite curiosity.

"Old coot," they muttered.

Cullen carefully stepped around them, bending over to use the drinking fountain. He drank for a long moment, then coughed loudly. The twins leaned down.

"Are you alright, Sir?" Tomax asked.

"Ten seventeen. Checkpoint Alpha. Boss will handle things out here, shouldn't be any security around to bother you."

"Yes, I believe I have a lozenge in here somewhere," Xamot began rummaging through his pockets.

"They don't know you're with us. Boss has become something of a joke around here, so he's playing that up to its fullest. After seven tries, you know, they think he's just a rambling old man, so he's going to act like one and cause as much of a ruckus as he can."

The twins glanced at each other. All part of the plan, then? Almost impressive.

Cullen continued,

"Proceed to Rendezvous Beta and so forth. Await contact from the Boss before entering the chamber. We have no plans to abort if things go wrong out here. It'll depend on you, so get your shit together now."

Xamot shrugged.

"No, no lozenge, I'm sorry."

"Thanks anyway, boys," Cullen coughed again and walked away.

"Feel better," they chorused.

They had eighteen minutes. They moved on to another painting, this one of a strange, large-nosed man with bright Yellow eyes and a candy bar for a mouth. A commentary on the disposable, junky nature of modern spoken language.

They would fill their island homes with similar art, if only because they could.

The first trap came at Rendezvous Beta. A bit of Yellow, then a spot of Magenta on the map, so they saw it coming. As far as traps went, this one hardly qualified as such. Rendezvous Beta had been inside the air vent of the women's restrooms, and had required a bit of "elbow grease" and a twelve foot jump straight up into a tiny, enclosed space.

Child's play.

And then there had been some real grease, as opposed to the elbow variety. Grease intended to make the intruder slip right back out of the air vent and into the toilet. Humiliating, probably not fatal. Crawling on hands and knees, the twins got a bit of a kick out of the greased floor; they slid for several feet at a stretch, picking up speed and zipping through the vents like documents through a vacuum tube. They allowed themselves the luxury of a giggle or two.

Rendezvous Gamma was not a trap, but it was a bit of a drop, a bit of an unexpected drop, and one they hit at high speed. They landed in a heavy heap, and the giggles turned into near-hysterical, adrenaline-laced laughter.

Tomax had landed on his knee, which gave an ornery CRACK as he stood up. This started Xamot laughing all over again, despite the sympathetic pain in his own knee.

There was no way, they realized, to deactivate the grease trap. So they would disregard Klipschorn's advice.

They walked down the Yellow corridor, still giggling and occasionally guffawing, when they came across the second trap.

And it was activated by the sound of the human voice.

Information that may have been more useful to them beforehand, but then they supposed senile old Klipschorn couldn't remember every little thing.

A laser beam that sliced through the dim hallway was their first clue that something was amiss. They dove to the ground as one, dodged each blast with a grunt, but the blasts kept coming until they were out of range, well down the hall.

Magenta. A trap that hadn't killed anyone.

"Voice-activated," they realized aloud, and a blast in their direction was confirmation. Best to stay quiet for awhile.

Clean, precise slits littered their jackets, and a few drops of Tomax's blood stained the floor from where the laser had nicked his ankle. It stung quite unpleasantly for both of them, but wouldn't require immediate attention, or so they thought.

Time was of the essence, or so they thought.

It did continue to bleed for quite awhile, and when the White Rendezvous Delta trap came, it was activated by the scent of human blood.

A strange robotic creature, about two feet high, zipping about on wheels. A robotic shark, for lack of a better word. The creature was all teeth, and it took a large bite into the source of the blood.

The twins screamed in agonizing unison, both immobilized with Tomax's pain. Whether silence was still an imperative or not, they didn't know. All they knew was that someone had died here.

"Do something!" Tomax cried, clumsily trying to kick the robotic shark away. The situation would have been utterly hilarious if it weren't for the pain.

"Gun?!" Xamot asked, whipping out his pistol.

"I don't know! Anything!"

Xamot shot the robotic creature, and it momentarily lost its grip. Both twins rounded on it, trying to kick it into the wall, or anything. But the deep, slow trickle of Tomax's blood into his absorbent sweatpants was irresistible for the creature, and it came back for another bite.

"Ah! GOD!"

Xamot shot again, then kicked it, and this time the creature acted in self defense, biting into the back of Xamot's knee. The blood came in a gush, and Xamot collapsed into a crouch. Tomax followed suit, clutching his own knee.

"Shit!" Xamot spat. "SHIT!"

He shot the creature at point-blank range, and it skittered a few feet away, going for its first victim again.

This time, however, Tomax was ready. He had his own gun, and he snapped his head up to meet Xamot's eyes. A brief nod, and they had a plan.

Both twins fired at the same time, and while the creature was down, Tomax used his "good" leg and booted the robotic bastard down the hall, screaming as loudly as he could in order to trigger the Beta trap.

Success, as the shark rolled directly into its eternal reward.

The smoldering remains of the creature gave off a horrendous odor, but it was over. They had not become another White.

(Yet- no that's silly-)

Before another second had passed, Tomax wordlessly crouched next to his brother, and pushed up Xamot's wet pant leg to get a look at the injury. The wound was jagged and an inch or so deep, but it was a clean incision that hadn't hit anything vital.

It would hurt them both a great deal, but they would work through it, as long as it was bandaged and they could keep the blood under control.

"Jacket," Xamot suggested, removing his own, and one of his knives with it. In a few brief swipes, he had cut a long bandage out of his sleeve, and Tomax gently wrapped the wound.

"Imagine, Brother," Tomax said, "If we had followed Klipschorn's advice about deactivating the previous traps, we would likely be dead right now."

The voice-activated laser that had unknowingly saved their lives shot lamely in their direction.

"True. Strange that he didn't mention that."

"Strange perhaps. Intentional?"

Silence.

Tomax finished bandaging.

"Very nice, Brother," Xamot said warmly. "You?"

"Yes... this last one. Messy."

Xamot cut another bandage, and wrapped Tomax's clean little puncture wounds.

"That one doesn't look good. Be careful," he whispered.

"Could I be anything but?" Tomax grinned. He clapped Xamot on the shoulder. "Come on."

The laser fired at them a few more times, and they glanced back at it almost wistfully. They would not deactivate it.

The next few traps were Magenta, and they evaded them quite easily. Some painful acrobatics were involved, and Tomax scraped up his knuckles escaping the inevitable crushing walls of doom just past Rendezvous Zeta, but they got off relatively easily, all-told.

Of course, they couldn't deactivate many of the traps, but they didn't plan on coming back the way they had come anyway.

And then came a long Yellow passage. Rendezvous Eta, Theta, Iota, Kappa. Too long a Yellow passage, longer than had been indicated on the map.

There was a White in there somewhere. There was supposed to be a White in there. Had they passed it? Had it been deactivated? Would they get that lucky?

Of course not. And by the time they realized they had been walking through White for at least five minutes, it was too late to do anything about it.

It was almost fifty full minutes before they escaped.

Klipschorn would not have been surprised to know that it was the White where Perkins, Lang, both Lees and Cruz had gone down. Had been happy to go down, because in their altered state of mind, it was far better than the alternative.

Several minutes passed before either of the twins spoke. It was Xamot who broke the silence, in a tentative whisper cradled in a painfully dry mouth.

"If you hadn't-"

Tomax, equally tentative, shaky, but taking on the dominant role, folded his more sensitive brother into a tight, protective embrace.

"But you know I always will."

"...I know. I know."

And that was all they said. All they could really stand to say, at least until it was over and they could try to come to terms with the things they had seen and thought in that corridor.

If Klipschorn had had any idea that it was coming, he certainly hadn't given them sufficient warning.

For that, they hated him.

At least the trap had helped them with one little task: now they had made their decision about what to do with the old bastard after the job was over.

But the White had done its job well, despite the fact that they escaped alive. It had weakened them, frightened them, and thrown them just far enough off guard that it was almost inevitable that they should slip up somewhere down the road. It was just a question of where.

And now they were nervous, and now they were overly cautious, and now they jumped at every little noise.

Magenta, Magenta, White, Magenta. Two more left turns and then the "homestretch" with two Whites back to back on a winding, six story staircase.

"Messick lost a leg..." Xamot mused.

"Somewhere around here."

"Or was it Stephenson?" they asked.

Both dead. Didn't much matter, ultimately.

A dull creak from above, more of a vibration than a sound, and they dove to the ground, hissing curses. The noise passed. They were still in the basement, after all. They had heard the sound of a wheelchair or a cart, up in the regular part of the museum.

"Sound-proof walls?" Xamot suddenly realized.

"All the better to kill us with, and not-"

"Disturb the patrons."

The twins couldn't fight the overwhelming urge to hold hands. Though they clung to morbid humor and verbal bravado, the boiling fear that churned within them had distilled into something almost like resignation.

It wasn't over until it was over, but-

Magenta, they realized at once, as a wall opened up and a spread of poisonous darts were launched into the processed air.

"Amateur hour," Tomax remarked, with something almost like disappointment.

Hand in hand, the two swung each other about in a too-elaborate dance, evading darts just for the fun of it.

Just for the fun of it.

And when the last of the darts clattered uselessly to the floor, they smirked at the empty wall and bowed deeply.

Their laughter reverberated through the corridor as they turned the corner. Sometimes the world was just so funny they could hardly stand it.

"A second crushing chamber of doom," Xamot said breathlessly as they climbed onto the upper landing, and to safety.

"Almost disappointing. One would hope for more originality..."

"At this late stage of the game."

They closed their eyes and saw White.

"Messick and Stephenson, no doubt," Tomax murmured. "'Very little left of him.'"

"Good on them for..."

"Making it so far."

"Scientific minds."

They hadn't deactivated a trap in almost two hours. Naturally, this realization brought with it an animal kind of terror, one that logic did nothing to calm.

Two Whites and four Magentas left, and no way out but to see it through to the end. No communication from Klipschorn, but then Cullen had told them to expect that. In as many words.

Alone.

It was after the next Magenta (a swinging, razor sharp pendulum) that Tomax's third bandage was soaked through almost as soon as it was applied. He had reacted quickly to get his brother out of the way unharmed, but hadn't been quite so fortunate himself. The blade had hit his left shoulder, slicing under the skin and leaving an open mouth of crimson shock on the clean tan flesh. It was one of those that waited almost a minute before bleeding, but when it did...

"Tighter," Tomax grimaced.

"Above the heart, it will stop, we just need it..." Xamot frantically tore into his own jacket, no longer caring about the appearance of the bandages.

"Tighter."

They continued, both left arms all but immobilized from the pressure of the bandage. A disadvantage, but they were alive, and they were ready for the last passage: the stairs.

"The islands, Brother," Xamot whispered.

"The islands," Tomax repeated.

Knowing full well that their odds of reaching those islands were less than ever before, the twins began their ascent.

A path just wide enough for both to squeeze into side by side with very little space to react. But side by side was how they would go. No one would take point. Neither would allow the other to take any more risk than he himself was taking. A protective impasse, but the only way they knew how to function.

Adrenaline and piercing White terror were the only emotions left to them at that point, or so they thought. But then, unexpectedly, came the smothering affection and sentimentality.

Twenty-five backflips. and a White (rolling boulders, boulders of all things, indoors) and a Magenta (three stairs covered in shards of broken glass, honestly), evaded.

Quite an accomplishment. They would have been proud, if not for the pain.

Tomax hit the wall of the halfway mark, panting and clutching his bleeding shoulder. The necessary acrobatics had made all of their injuries bleed again, but Tomax's was by far the worst.

"You should have let me have some of that," Xamot said suddenly, referring to the seeping cut.

Tomax snorted.

"You have some of it."

"The real thing. You should have... We're a team," Xamot said with a distinct whine. "There shouldn't be any silly heroics, should there? No self-sacrificing. Don't... don't save me if you can't save yourself, too."

Tomax ran a hand through his hair and looked levelly at his brother.

The twins had lost count of how many times one had saved the other's life so far that day. A slightly quicker reaction here, a warning hiss here, a push there. Tomax with his naturally impetuous behavior may have been a little bit ahead by the time they reached the stairs, but really, neither would dwell on it, would they? Why, it was childish and petty to keep score of such things, and thanks were wholly unnecessary. They were one. Preserving the health of the other was preserving the health of the self, wasn't it?

Wasn't it?

Xamot exhaled shakily, fist pressed firmly against his mouth. Fighting tears.

"Brother-" Tomax painfully pushed himself away from the wall and went to his trembling twin. "Hey, hey! Now, come on, it's just a scratch!"

Xamot's emotion threatened to boil over.

"It's not about this particular incident, Brother. It's about this... instinct we have, to... put each other before ourselves."

"Not all the time," Tomax was whining now, too, also fighting tears. "Not all the time. We're very self-centered!"

"Yes... but where does the self end and the other begin, Brother?"

A long hesitation.

"I don't know," Tomax said honestly.

"With our bodies, don't you suppose?" Xamot asked, gently rubbing his own left shoulder so his brother could feel it.

"No," Tomax scoffed.

"Our minds?"

Of course not.

"Our souls?"

The faded-but-still-visible end of a long smear of blood at their feet. As though someone had managed to drag him or herself just to safety before succumbing to grievous wounds. A handprint. A hand, grasping for whatever it could find. Mechanical, involuntary movements performed in the last moments of life.

Souls? Who knew if such a thing existed?

Xamot took a deep breath, leaned his head against Tomax's good shoulder.

"Well, it has to end somewhere, Brother. We have to... to take care of ourselves..."

(Instead?)

Too.

If one survived, both survived. Neither got out unless both got out. Together, or not at all.

Together, or not at all. Neither more important than the other.

"Xamot..."

"Tomax."

A teary, decidedly unmanly hug. Hands tangled in hair, cheeks pressed together. An agreement, a promise.

"Oh, Brother," Tomax said lightly, "What would I ever do without you?"

"I don't know." Xamot smiled.

And then the floor began, bit by bit, to collapse underfoot.

They were short a White.

Basic counting skills dictated that fact. Seven Whites when there should have been eight.

And so when they stood at the top of what was left of the stairs (no way to deactivate that trap either, Klipschorn) and realized that the chamber, Rendezvous Sigma, was just through a set of unlocked automatic double-doors, they were apprehensive, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But fatigue was quickly winning, and impatience.

"The bastard..." Xamot muttered, pulling out his handset from inside what was left of his jacket. The communication device had taken a few bangs, but it still powered up when he turned the little switch.

Tomax's was smeared with blood, but it also functioned.

"We're here," they said in clipped unison.

But instead of waiting for a reply, they walked, hand-in-hand, into the room (chamber). Their guns still had enough for two shots each.

Entering the tiny, bright blue chamber, the last White was forgotten. The diamond was suspended behind glass. Almost sinfully easy-to-break glass.

Now why wouldn't they...

Use a forcefield for the diamond...

As well?

The entire situation was almost sinfully easy at this point. Though it made sense, they supposed. If anyone made it this far, they deserved to-

Ah, but the guards. And the forcefield. Yes, time was of the essence now, but they could be fast. They would have to smash the glass, rather than cut it.

"Messy," both sighed.

They surrounded the case, and Tomax suddenly snorted with laughter.

"Tina," he whispered as loudly as he dared, "Bring me the axe."

Far funnier a reference than it would have been at any other time.

They wrapped their right hands in what remained of their jackets, and held aloft their pistols.

"On three?"

They never made it to one before they became aware of a previously nonexistent set of automatic double doors whooshing open behind them.

And then, all at once, Klipschorn was there. Klipschorn, Cullen, Hoffman and the other one (Walker? Wilker?). Walking slowly, almost leisurely into the room.

At gunpoint, each flanked by an armed guard.

The guards were attired in an almost garish blue, their faces partially obscured by masks. Tomax and Xamot realized that they had come from an elevator (an elevator, just imagine that!), and that clearly, this was some type of ambush in the making.

White?

Klipschorn, who had, at some point, earned himself a black eye for his attempted rabble-rousing, shot a weary look at the twins.

"Oh, boys. You did make it."

"Shut up," barked the guard behind him.

"Hey! Who the hell are they?" asked Hoffman's guard.

Four guards. The irony was not lost on either Tomax or Xamot as they glanced down at the pistols (two shots each) in their hands.

A gamble? Try to overpower the guards, saving the blasts for that asshole Klipschorn?

That asshole Klipschorn who, in this light, was really nothing more than an ultimately harmless, very little old man. A very little old man at the end of his rope.

Harmless.

Harmless. Doing his best, for his family.

Ohhhh, shit. That dragging feeling of humanity.

They could always kill him later, they decided as they raised their pistols. Would likely have to. Vendettas were wasteful. They would kill him when it was necessary, when emotions weren't running so high.

Would give him a fitting death, worthy of the gentleman he was and the gentlemen they were.

"Oh, yes, we made it," Tomax said, raising his pistol.

"Hey, they've got guns!" cried one of the guards.

And the so-called guards proved utterly ineffectual in the face of real conflict. Cullen's guard made a pitiful attempt to use Cullen as a human shield, but, of course, left his own left temple unprotected.

Zap.

"Put down the gun!" screamed W?lker's guard, arms flailing.

"Which gun? You'll have to be more specific," chided Xamot. "There are two of us."

Zap.

Klipschorn and Hoffman's guards wanted to run. Wanted to forget the entire thing, rethought all their major life choices, how did they ever end up here-

Zap. Zap.

White evaded.

And Klipschorn was the picture of bombastic gratitude, of teary relief.

"Now that, gentlemen, was a hell of a thing!"

"True," the twins nodded.

"I knew you were the ones! I knew it, Hoffman, didn't I tell you?! Didn't I tell you from the first? Ha ha!"

"Sure," Hoffman shrugged, shot Tomax and Xamot an impassive glance.

Klipschorn strode up to Tomax and Xamot and, laughing, clapped them on the backs, quite hard. Pain rippled through the twins, and they grimaced. Klipschorn stopped at once when he saw the blood.

"My god! You've been wounded!"

"Well... yes," Tomax said pointedly.

"Oh, I didn't... I didn't... C-Cullen, Welker!"

Welker. That was it.

The goons-for-lack-of-a-better-word approached, medical kits in hand.

Klipschorn rested one hand on each twin's shoulders.

"Now, listen, gentlemen, you run along now, go with Cullen and Welker, out into the hall. They'll patch you right up."

"Thank you," Tomax and Xamot said in unison, but shook their heads. "But the job is not yet complete."

It struck them that someone in the guard tower should have shot at them by now. The forcefields should have been lowered. They had just killed four of the facility's men in cold blood, openly and boldly and willfully, before the eyes of anyone willing to watch.

Something was decidedly wrong.

"Oh!" Klipschorn cried. "Oh, how foolish am I?"

The sky was the limit, really.

"It will only take a second," Xamot assured Klipschorn, who was reaching into his own jacket. He pulled out what looked like a pen.

"It will indeed," Klipschorn smiled. He pushed a button on the side of the pen, and a fine blue laser illuminated the tip. He delicately "drew" a circle in the side of the glass, and the cookie-cutter circle fell to the ground and shattered.

Tomax glanced at Xamot, and both raised their eyebrows in unison.

Nifty little gadget. Why didn't he give us one?

Klipschorn hesitated, a deep breath lodged in his throat. He cradled the air around the diamond for a long (too long) moment.

"Oh, the years," he murmured to no one in particular. "The years."

His hands on the diamond. His goons-for-lack-of-a-better-word formed a circle around him, and you could practically see the dollar signs in their eyes.

You could practically see their own plans for vengeful betrayal in their eyes.

For the Klipschorn diamond would be worthless in the hands of Klipschorn, wouldn't it? How would he profit from having it? How would any of them, unless Klipschorn were to be out of the picture?

Tomax and Xamot would have competition. They unconsciously tensed, but then relaxed as they realized that now was not the time nor place for a battle royale. Too small. Too exposed. And if the men had any sense of honor at all, they would remember that not five minutes ago, the twins had saved their lives.

It would be the picture of impropriety to turn around and kill them so soon afterward.

They supposed they had a day or so.

And after all, it was sort of sweet. The old man could finally restore honor to his family. He believed that.

Let him believe it. Just for now.

In the hallway, at the top of a staircase to nowhere, Cullen addressed Xamot's cuts while Welker grew green in the face of Tomax's oozing laceration, but admirably did the best he could. And while the men were still freshly indebted to the twins, they could almost be trusted.

Almost.

Cullen had a gentle touch as he applied alcohol, iodine, and fresh real bandages. He didn't say much, but he was efficient.

"Pretty amazing, huh?" Welker asked Cullen. "Never seen anyone come back looking so good."

"Except for Blu," Cullen smirked.

"Yeah, Blu. Olympic gymnast or something. Man, was she fast. And little! Ain't got the job done, but damn near."

Tomax and Xamot cried out in pain as Welker clumsily poured iodine into the shoulder wound.

"Whoa, hey," Cullen said to Xamot. "I didn't even touch you."

Both twins flushed.

"No," Xamot stammered, "You didn't. Sorry. It just looks so..." his mouth was dry, "Awful."

Cullen didn't buy it. Not for one second. He was smart, damn smart. And Xamot had just given away a major battlefield advantage.

They would have to dispense with him first, before he could warn the others.

"Well, hey, you guys really did a job back there," Welker said approvingly. "Figured we'd cashed in our last chips."

"How did..." Tomax began.

"You get captured?" Xamot continued.

"And why did they bring you up into the chamber?"

Welker shrugged.

"Ah, they 'capture' us all the damn time. Run us in, give us fines, tell us to stay off the premises. But never like this before! Boss was raising a rumpus like Cull told you he would. Got all kinds of people hollering, yelling shit about The Commander like you wouldn't believe. Got people chanting some shit in Latin, you know? Jesus! So they was gonna run us in like usual. Wouldn't got nothin' to hold us on, like usual, 'cept disturbin' the society dames."

Welker's grammar worsened as his emotions ran higher and higher.

"So they run us down and then they see the Boss's walking-talking. Why, they figure out maybe this time they got caught nappin'! Smashed the thing right into his face. 's how he got that shiner. And next thing ya know, they're on the horn with The Commander! Talkin' about a breach, and agents, and the whole nine. I tell ya! Did I feel like queen for a day!"

"So they're on to you," Tomax asked carefully. "They know you're here."

"They know we're here! I tell ya! Sure they know! But let 'em get past you guys, huh? Let 'em try! Never seen such shootin'!"

Klipschorn entered the hall. He carried a protective briefcase in one hand. Titanium. Keycoded.

Would require interrogation.

Messy.

"Mr. Klipschorn," Xamot said.

"Boys! Please. Lewis. Lewis."

If he was waiting for their names, he would be waiting a long time. And they certainly would not use his first name.

"Sir, it would seem that the elevator was not on the schematic. Where does it lead?" Tomax asked.

"Why, into the lobby," Klipschorn shrugged. "Ironic, isn't it? Oh, naturally they needed a special passcode. Seven digit passcode, imagine that! Could have cracked it in an hour. Stephenson... but, we didn't know about it. If only we had, I imagine we would have saved a lot of-"

(Lives)

"Aggravation," Klipschorn finished.

Sloppy. So sloppy it couldn't have been...

Klipschorn smiled brightly.

"Now, what a patching job, Cullen! Why you, my good man, could have been a doctor."

Cullen shrugged.

"I got it done," was all he said.

Xamot began again, "We must go. We have been here for far too long."

Klipschorn sighed deeply.

"I agree. I agree with you. Far too long. Far too much time wasted. You know, time passes whether we want it to or not. Some would even say it stalks us, like a vulture. Tormenting us, waiting for us to succumb. Some would say time wants to eat us alive."

He smiled at Cullen and Welker.

"Well, I don't believe that anymore! For time has come through for me. Time has returned to me... my future."

Tomax and Xamot had unconsciously stepped off to one side, apart from Hoffman, Cullen and Welker. Their bandages were new and clean and refreshing, and the small doses of ibuprofen in their bloodstreams were dulling the pain just enough.

Of course their pistols were empty, but...

It wasn't the place. It wasn't the place. Outside. Daylight (if there was any left). Sleep, perhaps? No, no sleep until their competition was all dead.

Klipschorn clapped Cullen on the shoulder. Clapped him again, and suddenly drew him into a stiff, awkward hug.

"You've been with me since day one, Cullen," Klipschorn said thickly. "Day one. It means more to me than I could ever express."

Cullen, as was his fashion, said nothing.

"Boss, now is really not the time, hey?" Welker said in as cultured a voice as he could manage; he always grew self-conscious in comparison with Klipschorn's clipped accent. "I mean, the kid's right. We gotta get outta here."

"Welker, my friend," Klipschorn said, holding out one hand to his subordinate. "I owe you so much. How could I ever repay you for all you've done? I'm afraid I will never find a way."

Off to the side, those two twins exchanged a very, very significant glance.

Welker guffawed.

"Hey, I don't know about that, Boss! A manse in the Bahamas and five or six naked women'll square us just fine!"

Klipschorn laughed too heartily, and Welker joined the hug. What the hell.

"And Hoffman! Constant as the morning star," Klipschorn extended his hand again, and Hoffman rolled his eyes. "My right hand."

"God's sake, Boss," he muttered. But he ultimately joined the hug, just to get it out of the way.

Four men who had been through hell and back together. Four men who had finally achieved shining, golden victory. Together.

"I love you boys like you were family. For me, you see, family always comes first."

"Sure, Boss," Welker muttered.

"Family comes first," Klipschorn said again, reaching into his pocket. "Always."

And in three rapid movements, he fired his pistol into the bellies of his three closest friends and confidants. They were dead before they could understand what was happening. They hit the floor, landing in a clumsy heap.

Klipschorn bent at the waist, gazed curiously into their stunned, unblinking eyes.

Cullen. Welker. Hoffman.

White.

He knew. He knew all along that they would betray him. That they couldn't help but betray him. He certainly didn't blame them... and oh, how he would mourn them.

But there would be time for tears later. Now was the time to deal with the twins.

Now was the time, Tomax and Xamot realized. Now, before he could-

Klipschorn stood up, a civilized little grin on his face. He held the diamond in front of his chest, put his gun away.

"A dignified death. A gentleman's death. I prefer to do it that way whenever I can, especially for good men such as these. Damn good men. Never found better."

His hand went for the satchel at his side. He had at least one gun, and he was probably reaching for another.

And Tomax and Xamot had knives. Knives. Knives and their wits and what else?

"But I only had enough ammunition for three," Klipschorn said sadly.

Rummaging in his satchel. Seemingly stalling. Waiting. Waiting for them

The twins went for their matching thigh holsters. A crude plan.

You behind, me in front, get his gun, knife in the leg and the shoulder. Interrogation. As much time as it took.

The first surprise came when Klipschorn showed his hand.

He slowly extracted a small, hand-sized device. A

They froze.

"But, boys... I believe you will agree with me when I say that, ultimately, you are no gentlemen, are you?"

Frag grenade.

A fucking frag grenade.

In a narrow hallway.

Tomax let out a sniff of horror, his eyes wide.

"Still, I really do wish it didn't have to be this way. You do damn good work." Klipschorn said as he pulled the pin, he pulled the goddamn pin, just like that without so much as a second of contemplation-

Get over there

We can't

-Threw it, right at their faces for god's sake, threw it like a barbarian an animal a monster-

Brother

Brother so soon so soon so soon so

Two pairs of identical brown eyes on two identical faces, frozen in an emotion that gradually settled as acceptance.

We go out together or we don't go out at all

Tomax would have sworn in court that his brother couldn't surprise him.

Would have sworn that it wasn't possible, their link was so strong, their reaction times so immediate that to surprise each other was an absolute impossibility.

Why, they couldn't even tickle each other. Both saw it coming and their brains knew and responded as though they were trying to tickle themselves.

Imagine that, imagine it. Immediate processing, immediate response, at the same time, with the same reaction, every moment since they were born

And he would have sworn that inception of thought was concurrent with sharing of thought and

Xamot was poised to

And his eyes were almost apologetic and

Brother

Brother, forgive me

But he wouldn't, he couldn't,he couldn't be thinking of course he was inception was concurrent with processing was concurrent with reaction but he couldn't but he was he was he was he WAS

Don't you dare Brother Don't you DARE don't you DARE DON'T

Tomax hit the wall, the sensation of his brother's hands still pounding against his chest. A push, forceful enough to leave bruises. His bad shoulder took the brunt of the impact and he cried out, dropping to a crouch.

And he could only watch, as if from a great distance, as Xamot leaned forward, right into it, and took the full force of the blast that had been meant for them both.

Together or not at all, Brother

A scream. A single scream that came from two bodies.

A single heartbeat between them.

And Tomax's face was on fire. He curled into a fetal position, reopening old wounds as he cradled the right side of his face and screamed

Take me instead! Take me instead! Take me

He foolishly expected blood, and fire, and ripping and tearing and

He was unmarked. Of course he was unmarked. Of course he was

Unmarked untouched clean clean clean safe alive

Alive

Too

They were both conscious. They were both alive, Xamot's pain exploded into Tomax's face and shoulder and leg and oh god just everywhere but he was alive he was alive he was alive

Skittering across the floor, slipping in blood. His own, his brother's, Cullen, Welker, Hoffman? Didn't matter.

His chin hit the floor. His head rung.

Don't take him don't take him take me instead please please

And Tomax was on top of his brother, shielding him with his body, covering every inch of Xamot's vulnerable form in case Klipschorn decided to come back to finish the job. His hands, clutching that burning face, holding it together. His hands came away bloody.

A grinning scimitar across Xamot's right cheek. Cuts, burns, shrapnel everywhere

But somehow, in the middle of it all, impossible consciousness.

Tomax couldn't speak. Couldn't act. Couldn't do a thing but scream a now-silent scream of agony and horror.

Don't die. Don't die. Don't die. Don't die

"He's... getting away," Xamot croaked in a high voice which was not their own.

"What?" Tomax gasped. Sobbed. "What did you say?"

"Bastard... getting away..."

Tomax whipped his head around (vertigo) to look at the closed doors, knew Klipschorn was behind them now. He had run, had fled like a child. Hadn't even stuck around to see if he was successful.

He was a coward. Ultimately, the old bastard was a coward.

And Tomax knew he could catch him, with fire in his face and murder in his heart. And he would rip the man apart, literally rip him apart, slowly. And he wouldn't stop and he couldn't stop and Xamot's name would be on his lips with each-

Xamot raised a weak hand and cupped Tomax's unmarked cheek. Stroked it.

"I don't think this will kill me," he said almost casually. "Go get him."

And there was nothing in the world but the two of them. The two of them wounded and bleeding (and maybe dying, he didn't know, how could he know what the shrapnel hit) in the middle of this hellish labyrinth.

Unacceptable.

"Can you..." Tomax stopped. However he finished the sentence, the answer would likely be no. He leapt up, crying out at the all-but-forgotten pain in their legs.

The first aid kits. He snatched them up, threw the canvas straps over his shoulder. Xamot watched him curiously. Blood pooled in the indent between his eye and his nose.

"Go kill him for me, Brother," Xamot giggled a bit. "Avenge me."

He was in shock. He was in shock, and Tomax was in shock too. Adrenaline, light-headedness. Survival instinct. He had to use it.

"No," was all he said. He put his head between his knees.

"Avenge me, Brother! To arms!"

"I am not avenging a damn thing, Xamot!" Tomax snapped. "I am getting you out of here!"

Xamot paled.

"Out of here?"

"Yes! Out of here, my god, would you rather move in?!" Tomax stopped, smoothed down his hair (very self-centered) and breathed. "I'm sorry. But we are leaving."

Xamot nodded, once. His eyes were bleary and unfocused.

"Then I... I shall have to do my best to... stay awake."

"Yes," Tomax breathed. The room was still spinning. "You will."

Methodically, he patted down the bodies of Cullen and Welker and Hoffman for anything useful. More knives, a wadded up napkin, ball-point pens. A visitor's map for the museum. A crumpled ten dollar bill.

"Klipschorn," Xamot played with the name, rolling the R. "Escaped with our loot. Killed his own men."

Tomax took off his jacket, gently raised Xamot's head and wrapped the jacket as tightly as he dared over his head, tying the sleeves under his chin. "The hell with him! My god, Xamot, the hell with him!"

"But our islands, Brother. Our flying islands..."

Tomax crouched above his broken twin, leaned forward so their foreheads were touching.

"Let them sink," he breathed.

And without another word, he scooped up Xamot in his arms, damsel-in-distress style, and strode to the elevator. Klipschorn hadn't locked any doors. He had been cocky and stupid.

If only they had killed him when they had the chance.

"I can walk, Brother," Xamot said dreamily as they approached the front entrance of the museum... and then smoothly exited. Walked out as if they were regular visitors, not torn, battered, bleeding criminals licking their wounds after a job gone bad.

That couldn't have been accidental, either.

Tomax, weak as he was, shook his head.

"You aren't heavy," he said with a little laugh.

They crossed the threshold into the outdoors, and took a brief moment to regard the hazy, dusty orange sunset of August in the middle of the city. A sunset that neither of them had really expected to see again. Not really. Not truly.

They had been in that building for what had to have been eight hours. Eight hours.

And yes people looked at them funny and yes people asked them what was wrong and yes, Tomax walked right on past them without seeing or hearing or registering anything but the pain and exhaustion and determination. If people were going to call the police, they would call the police. He would deal with it.

"Brother, let me..." Xamot shifted in his arms.

"No," Tomax whined a bit.

"We're causing a scene, Brother. People are looking."

"Shh."

Xamot giggled, leaned across and waved to a slack-jawed onlooker. He pressed his cheek against Tomax's shoulder.

"The city, Brother... the apathetic American city. We have... gotten its attention."

"Wonderful. They'll put our picture in the papers."

Picture. Singular.

Inappropriate now-

Tomax wobbled a bit, bumping into a lamppost with his left shoulder. Pain jolted through them both.

"Brother-" Xamot said with quiet authoritativeness.

"No. Listen to me. I am not letting you go until we're-" Tomax frowned for a second.

Until they were where?

"No hospitals," Xamot said, licking his lips.

No, no hospitals. No, nor doctors, at least not any reputable ones. No one who would ask for identification or medical history... or money.

"No." Tomax tightened his grip on his brother's sides. "No. I can do it."

"Of course you can. You always... look out for me," Xamot sighed.

Another wave of searing facial pain that proved the contrary.

It was dark when they arrived back at "their" apartment. A godforsaken hellhole that they swore they would never return to, but its safe familiarity in contrast with the events of the day sent them into a mental place that could have been mistaken for peaceful.

A neon sign on the outside of the building read only "ROOM ENT". The stale air in the room was stifling, and smelled like urine and old food.

"Home, sweet home," Tomax said. Everything had slowed down to a crawl. His pace, his breathing, the flow of time itself.

"Be it ever so..." Xamot trailed off. "Can't think of anything bad enough to call it."

Tomax very gently lay Xamot down on the "bed", covering him with the hideous dog-patterned blanket.

And it was his intention to-

He collapsed onto the floor, and instantly fell into a hot, still, dreamless sleep.

1:15 am on the hottest, most still and rancid night either of them could remember. Mouths fashioned from finest cotton balls, opening in unison to vomit on the tile floor.

Fire and a shaking belly. Uncontrollable trembling, and Tomax, half-delirious, got to his knees, leaned over Xamot's curled form.

"Brother," he said. He immediately put a hand to Xamot's head and found it slick and clammy to the touch. "Brother, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry-"

The bed was spotted with still-wet, browning gobs of blood.

"Walking liabilities, that is what we are, Brother," Xamot said in a strange, warped voice. "Couldn't stay awake."

"No," Tomax said. He leapt up, praying they had left some coffee in the rusted old pot that morning before they had left. His prayers were answered, and he chugged the bitter liquid cold, straight from the pot. Then poured some in a cracked cup and handed it to his brother.

He turned on the overhead light and the rusted old fan. Pulled the torn shade to cover the window. Returned to the bed.

"Let me," he said gently.

Xamot blinked a few times, feeling the effects of the caffeine. His heart raced and he fumbled with the buttons on his bloody shirt.

"Now, I'm no doctor," he smirked, "But I play one on television."

"Shh," Tomax hushed, stroking his brother's sticky, matted hair. "Let me, I said."

And a new wave of nausea came as he realized what he was looking at.

Most of the shrapnel had not become embedded, but a few pieces stuck out here and there, in Xamot's arms, collarbone, and just a few inches-

God, no-

To the right of his heart-

Not possible, not possible-

Tomax leaned over the bed and vomited into the blanket. Xamot, of course, followed suit, spraying the floor again. So much for caffeine.

Their heads pounded, some wounds reopened with the force of their regurgitation. Tomax clutched his head in both hands.

They were the same height, the same height exactly and the shrapnel would have hit them both in roughly (exactly?) the same places and it was a miracle, nothing short of a miracle that that piece hadn't-

And his face. His FACE-

"You... hypocrite," Tomax whispered. "You bloody hypocrite."

"Oh, Brother, I know," Xamot sighed, laying his head in his hands.

"We're a team! No stupid heroics, Xamot! No... self-sacrificing! We agreed!" Tomax's voice raised in pitch until he was practically shrieking. "Don't save me if you can't save yourself, too! What happened to that?! Lasted about ten minutes, didn't it?"

Xamot's eyes were red. Crusted blood on his cheek and down his neck and in his hair.

"But you saved me, Brother. Spirited me away to safety, cradled in your arms. The entire way."

Tomax shook his head emphatically.

"No. I didn't save you. Brother, if this piece had hit..." Tomax turned his face to heaven (what heaven?) and blinked. "If it had hit you, just... inches to the left... Do you understand?"

"Well, of course I understand-"

"You would be dead right now, Xamot! You would be dead! And where the hell would that leave me?!"

"Alive," Xamot whispered.

Tomax gaped at him in disbelief. Words wouldn't come, couldn't come. He scoffed a few times, shook his head a few times, blinked a few times. He couldn't speak-

"I'm afraid you need to get these out, Brother," Xamot said. "Soon."

Crushing reality, as Tomax realized that it wasn't over yet, not by a long shot. Xamot had saved his life, had nearly died for his trouble... and now it was Tomax's turn to return the favor or die trying (too).

Now it was time to see what he, alone, was made of.

"Okay. Okay."

He dug through the first aid kit, swearing under his breath.

"Saline," he said suddenly. "Shit. We need saline."

"Make some?" Xamot asked. "No. No..."

"Salt. No damn salt."

They frowned at each other for a long moment, and then Tomax rubbed Xamot's shoulder.

"Drugstore," he said. "Ten minutes."

"Ten minutes," Xamot repeated.

"Ten minutes," they chorused.

And I love you.

And I'm sorry.

And I will fix this.

The post-vomit euphoria put a spring in his step. And, crumpled ten dollar bill in hand, Tomax strode out into the stuffy night.

The agony hit him in the middle of the candy aisle. Xamot had always liked those soft little peppermint puffs, and oh sweet tap-dancing CHRIST

It took him a moment to differentiate between whose pain it even was. And it was ultimately useless to try to maintain a distinction.

My pain your pain my injury your injury our agony.

Ibuprofen wouldn't be enough for what was coming next. Both of them could not withstand the pain and hope to stay conscious and functional.

They needed something a hell of a lot stronger.

The drugstore had a 24-hour pharmacy, now all but abandoned. Maintained only by a single older, bespectacled pharmacist, a man who looked as if he wouldn't hurt a fly.

Well, Klipschorn had looked like he wouldn't hurt a fly either, and look how that turned out.

Tomax looked around. The drugstore was decidedly old-fashioned, with real price tags instead of barcodes. A facility which did not accept credit cards. A facility with no security cameras. Could it be possible?!

He felt for his knife. It was still there, sticky with (someone's) blood. It would do.

He approached the pharmacy, hands in pockets. He met the pharmacist's eyes, nodded.

The pharmacist took a long, hard look at him.

"Well, you look like you've had an interesting night," he said wryly. "Just these for you?"

The saline, the peppermint puffs (two bags, though Xamot would insist he couldn't eat that many, at least he would if he didn't die-) and more bandages.

"Yes..." Tomax said, reaching into his holster, producing the knife, "And as many morphine and penicillin as you can give me. Now."

"Do you have a prescription- Judas priest!" the pharmacist cried. "That's a knife!"

"Yes, it is. The morphine and penicillin. Now."

"S-son... now, let's be reasonable here. Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Like you can't imagine."

"Would you like me to call an ambulance?"

Tomax scoffed.

"If I wanted an ambulance, would I be here, robbing a pharmacy?! Do as I said!"

The pharmacist looked at him, long and hard, but with strange gentleness on top of it all.

"Now, the... the morphine I could understand, if you were an addict. I could understand... but penicillin? You know what those are for, right? Well, you must be in some real kind of trouble."

"As I said, like you can't imagine." Tomax stepped closer, and the blade gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

The pharmacist made no attempt to call for help, or to call attention to himself in any way. He looked at the spot where blood had seeped through Tomax's shirt, the desperate look in Tomax's eyes, and the clock, which read 1:44 AM.

And a two bags of peppermint puffs with a smiling cartoon candy printed on the bag.

"Your kid?" the pharmacist asked, gesturing at the bag.

"My brother," Tomax said automatically. "I will pay for those."

"He... as bad off as you?"

"Worse," Tomax's grip on the knife was growing harder to maintain. Xamot was in horrible pain at that very moment, and here he was, holding up a pharmacy, wasting time. "I need... he'll die."

The pharmacist sighed deeply.

"I don't suppose you have insurance?" he asked.

Tomax frowned, blinked a few times at the absurdity of the question.

"Do I look like I have insurance?!" he demanded, raising the knife again.

"Put that down, Son. Of course you don't, no one in this town does. Just wait a minute. Just... wait a minute..."

Whether it was fear, or a strange sort of compassion born from ignorance, the pharmacist gave Tomax what he wanted. Under the table, so to speak. Not for the first time, and not for the last time. It was just the way that town was, and no one would report him.

Ultimately, sometimes Tomax and Xamot needed other people. Not often, but sometimes. So it was nice when they came through. Restored their faith in outsiders.

"You will be the first man my brother and I hire," Tomax said, a bit giddily. "Count on it."

"Oh yeah, you goin' into business? What kinda business?"

"Taking over the world."

The pharmacist didn't miss a beat.

"Yeah, wish someone would."

Tomax burst through the door and found Xamot sitting by the window, his arms folded on the wooden sill, a dreamy expression on his face. He had opened their second to last can of orange soda and was about halfway through drinking it with a straw.

"Brother!" Tomax cried, rushing into the "kitchen". He began to unbag his goods. "Get back in bed!"

"Fresh air, Brother. The elixir of life."

Tomax snorted at that, and pulled out the illicit bottle of little white pills.

"I beg to differ on that."

Xamot turned, looked, and his eyes widened.

"Are those-"

"They are." Tomax opened the bottle and poured out three tablets. ...No, four. Well, whatever dosage was recommended, he was certain he would need at least twice that to make this work. And then even more on top of that.

And Penicillin. How much? He had no idea. Two pills to start. More later.

He was running on adrenaline right now, adrenaline and the bit of sugar Xamot had taken into his body, and for the moment, euphoria pulsed through the both of them, dulling the pain.

"You held up a pharmacy." Xamot stifled an agonizing laugh. "With a knife. You criminal mastermind."

"All for you, Brother dear." He plopped the pills down in Xamot's hand. "Back to bed."

Xamot obliged, cringing a bit as their leg pains blended together.

"What else did you bring me?" he asked, a bit like a kid at Christmas. The strange new high tone in his voice was less unsettling when he acted like a child.

"Premium salted water," Tomax smiled, setting the bottle down on the table. "For all types of disposable contact lenses. And some other things. Now... lie down."

"Tweezer?" Xamot asked.

"In the kit." God, even in such a state, Xamot was still completely on top of things.

What would he do without him?

Tomax smoothed down Xamot's hair, hesitating for a moment as he looked at the cut across his brother's cheek. It was far deeper than he had thought. Though there was no embedded metal, there was a serious risk for infection. Not to mention scarring.

"This is going to need stitches," he said.

"So is that," Xamot pointed at the bloody shoulder wound.

"That isn't my face, Brother." Tomax trailed off. "First things first. Right...now, just... relax. This..."

Won't hurt a bit?

Will hurt me more than it will hurt you?

Will hurt like the tyrannical wrath of almighty God?

"Let's have something to bite down on," Xamot suggested.

"Let us do that." Tomax rummaged around in the kit, came back with two compact ACE bandages that fit quite well in the mouth.

"Lovely," they said together.

"And, listen," Tomax said, trying to keep his tone light, "If someone is good during this little procedure, someone may find himself the recipient for some of his favorite peppermint puff candies. 2 bags for 99 cents."

A wave of tingling relaxation passed over the two of them (morphine already?), and Xamot smiled as wide as he was able.

"You rob a pharmacy, but you pay for the candies."

"It's important to keep them guessing."

"Criminal mastermind."

Tomax smiled, almost modestly.

"You too."

They bit down on the bandages.

Extraction... and then the gobs of fresh, thick, red-black blood. Glowing under the intense single bulb. Paper towels, which came as close to sterile as anything else in the house.

Saline. How much was too much? Flushing out the wounds. No such thing as too much. Alcohol, iodine. Peroxide, and the almost unbearable tickle that came with the foam. Worse than the pain. Worse, too, than the pain, was the feeling of the paper towels, the soft, tentative dabs, the rough texture of the paper, stimulating and electrifying each nerve until the ACE bandages were bitten almost all the way through and their eyes watered uncontrollably.

Tomax, almost unblinking, working well with the morphine. As careful and precise as a surgeon. Each cut cleaned and flushed and expensively dressed and we won't worry about how to get more bandages with no money. We won't worry about that right now because that could literally push us over.

The facial laceration... cleaned. Cleaned. Flushed. Covered. The best he could do. The absolute best he could do.

That is a lie.

And not a word spoken between them, and nothing but mutual comforting and encouraging nonsense thought between them.

Of course they had been bandaging and tending to each other's wounds for years, utilizing their gift to tend to each other as they would tend to themselves (no, better than they would tend to themselves, always better for the other than for themselves, why wouldn't they STOP that). They very rarely allowed anyone else to touch them. No doctors, no hospitals.

Cullen and Welker (dead dead) had been an exception, part of the game, part of the ritual.

Never again.

And the procedures were successful. No vomiting, nothing unexpected, nothing unanticipated, nothing unacceptable except for the situation as a whole, which both dutifully set all thoughts of aside.

3:22 AM.

The empty plastic sleeve fluttered to the floor, spilling out a pinch of peppermint dust; the only tangible remnant of what had, not ten minutes ago, been a full, sealed bag of candies.

Of course their taste in food was identical. Of course their need for food was identical. Identical appetites and identical preferences. They would even chew each bite the same number of times, often in unison, getting exactly the same enjoyment from it.

And then there was peppermint. A piece of the puzzle that didn't fit. Tomax enjoyed peppermint, but mostly out of necessity, because while Tomax liked it, Xamot loved it. The brittle texture, the sharp snap of coldness, the way it made his ears and nose tingle. Possibly one of the most perfect sensations the body could experience, in his opinion.

So, naturally he finished the bag. Chewing with the left side, hand clasped to the right side to keep the bandage flat. Eyes closed.

Morphine and peppermint and the firm pressure of the fresh bandages.

Bliss? Close enough.

Tomax, experiencing the peppermint and the accompanying emotions from across the room, smiled carefully. He was taking inventory of their supplies. Again.

"At least Klipschorn thinks we're dead," they said in unison. "That'll buy us time."

"Now if something could just buy us more supplies. Like money. But, oh, look. the first aid kits have candy bars," Tomax realized. "And flashlights. Why, they thought of everything."

Tomax got up from the table, crossed to the avocado-green refrigerator. The single remaining magnet read, "My grandma went to Cape Cod and all I got is this lousy magnet!"

Half a loaf of bread. One can of orange soda. Catsup. Weeks-old Chinese food in a brown paper bag.

2 vials of Compound X-17. Useless without the diamond, of course.

Vendettas.

Messy, but now necessary.

Nearly 4am, and the euphoria had begun to trickle down into a deep puddle of sleepiness. Tomax closed the refrigerator, switched off the light. Gave the squealing fan a smack.

Daylight soon, and with it, risk.

But for right now, desperately needed comfort. Arms around each other, legs intertwined, all pretense gone. Terrified children.

Not gentlemen.

They shared a dream that left them shaking, though neither could recall specifics.

They wouldn't be able to stay much longer, Tomax knew.

Footsteps outside their door, lingering for far too long. Soon would come the knocks. And the too-loud speculation. And eventually the landlord. And the police.

A fact.

Another fact was that Xamot wasn't fit to go anywhere until he was healed.

Now, which fact would cancel out which other fact?

"Fitness has variable definitions, Brother," Xamot whispered, rolling over, half-sitting up. "We must leave now. This evening. Before-"

"Yes," Tomax murmured as he returned to the bed with "dinner"; two silces of bread and two morphine tablets each.

The streetlights came on. 8:36 PM. They hadn't turned the lamp on, preferring (be honest, Brother, craving) the cover of darkness.

They ate in silence, cringing in unison with each bite.

The sound of an angry man outside the window, speaking a language which only superficially resembled English. Two other, quieter men, professional and detached.

Excited laughter next door.

All at once, Xamot spoke in a strained voice.

"What was I supposed to do, Brother?"

Tomax stood over the sink, perfunctorily washing each dish that they had used during their week-long stay. Lemon Fresh Joy and a tattered old sponge. Water that was never hot enough.

He didn't turn around. Didn't need to.

"What was I supposed to do? I couldn't..." Xamot's thoughts gave only redundant insight into what he was trying to say, or trying not to say.

I couldn't let you die.

I could let myself die, could throw myself in front of you. Could make my life that much less important than yours, perhaps diminishing us both. Leaving you alone to clean up everything, forever alone... but alive.

I couldn't let you die. But could I stop it?

The plate in Tomax's hand was clean. Had been clean for at least a minute, but still he scrubbed.

"Did you expect me to live?" Tomax asked bitterly. "To survive it, if you hadn't?"

"I didn't know. It seemed... worth the gamble."

Tomax stiffened, raising his shoulders defensively. The same plate still in his hands.

"I was ready," Tomax murmured. "Ready to die. I accepted it. We failed. We got clumsy. We would die together, we would meet oblivion together. Always together, just as always. I accepted it."

"You couldn't have accepted my decision... could you, Brother? If I hadn't..."

Two quickening hearts.

"Where does one of us end and the other begin, Xamot?" Tomax laughed, "A trick question, isn't it? There is only one. No beginning, no end. Just one. One breathes, the other breathes. One's heart beats, the other's heart beats. One lives, the other lives. Without exception. Nothing to do with emotion or will. Only nature. I do not think nature would allow me to live without you."

"Nature can be unpredictable. The human body is resilient, Brother. Regardless of what we want, it will strive to protect itself, to stay functioning."

"Not for me. Not for us."

"We don't know that."

"We do know it! I know it, so you know it! I feel it, you feel it! I couldn't live!"

Tomax finally set down the plate. He could feel Xamot behind him, lukewarm with defensive anger.

"But. Think of it, Tomax. If you had lived, gone after Klipschorn, taken him down. This could have been bigger than the both of us, Brother. The diamond, and Compound X-17, in your hands. Worth the sacrifice."

"Brother... you fool. Nothing would have been worth the sacrifice. Nothing. You know it."

"I know it," Xamot said weakly, defeated. "I do know it, Brother. I am a hypocrite."

A small glass cup with The Flintstones dancing around the rim.

"We are both hypocrites. And I suppose I am a coward, as well," Tomax rinsed the glass. "To so readily accept dying."

Xamot shook his head once, holding down the bandage with the palm of his hand.

"Oh, no. We are neither of us cowards, Brother. We both looked Death in the face without flinching, didn't we?"

They had.

"To tell you the truth, I think we frightened him."

"Klipschorn?" Tomax asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Death!" Xamot giggled a bit. "He didn't know what to do with us, so he thought it best to let us be until he figured it out. I think we'll live forever."

They both laughed, wondering at the potential underlying truth behind the jest.

"Supposing we don't test that theory too often," both twins smirked.

Tomax turned off the water, turned around.

"Well, I guess it was a good gamble, anyway," his voice was just barely audible. "We're both here."

"Well, thanks to you we're both here," Xamot smiled.

"Thanks to you," Tomax stressed. "Silly. You saved us."

Both blushed deeply, drinking from the overflowing well of mutual tenderness and admiration.

"Self-indulgent to a fault, both of us," Xamot sighed. "But it's so pleasant."

"Thank you," Tomax said simply.

"Stop it, Brother. We're together. That's what matters."

"Deja vu."

They held each other for quite awhile.

"Still... I think we are better than this," Tomax said suddenly.

"Oh, we are far, far better than this," Xamot nodded. "Mindlessly basking while there's work to be done."

"Tsk, tsk," they clicked in unison.

The twins began packing the first aid kits and the drugstore bag with whatever tools would fit, whistling a half-remembered tune from some cartoon or other.

And when the landlord and the police kicked down the door an hour later, nothing remained of their presence but the blankets and pillows in the oven (burned to cinders) and an empty bag of peppermint puffs.

They left the computer in the hopes that it would be traced back to Klipschorn.

They would be ready when it was.