* * * * *
"You? No, I don't believe so. For several reasons, if you'll allow me. One, you would be unable to find the perfect balance between work and your secret identity, thus rendering you too exhausted to do anything at all. Two, your futile desire to have a girlfriend would stop you from engaging in any kind of night time heroics, as you would not wish to tie up any potential, how do you say, 'date nights'. Three, you look terrible in any kind of leather or spandex and I am being kind when I tell you that."
"I notice that none of your reasons involve me not being crazy."
"Oh, don't get me wrong, the potential is clearly there, Leonard. I've been observing you for years. You sigh forlornly every time Han Solo swings down to rescue the princess, your shoulders slump in sympathy each time Frodo is worn down by his quest, you hacked Microsoft Flight Simulator so it has warp speed and hyperspace options. You named your favorite pencil 'Excalibur' and jammed it into one of your erasers. You very much want the life that is promised by these things. And only two forces are keeping you from losing touch with reality entirely."
"I really shouldn't ask but, oh, what the hell . . . what forces are those?"
"Me. And the fact that you are an utter coward."
* * * * *
The man was sprawled onto his back, one arm throw over his face like a movie star effecting a dramatic faint. He was still dressed in pajamas, with the rough and rumpled quality of one who had just gotten out of bed. Even in the dark Tristian could tell he was still breathing, although it was shallow and slow, the type of respiration that occurred when the body was just trying to stay alive. His mouth was slightly open with a thin line of drool running down the edge of it and onto his chin, glistening as it dried.
A quick check of his pulse confirmed the notion that he was still alive, although his pulse was extremely slow as well, more resting but very close to comatose. Carefully Tristian moved his arm aside to get a better look at his face.
It was much as he expected. The eyes were half-open, and underneath he could see the pupils moving back and forth furiously, like someone caught in a dream that refused to have any doors. Or the doors refused to let themselves be conjured. It was at odds with the stillness of the rest of his body. From the seizures? Seems odd he wouldn't be twitching somehow. Unless they managed a complete shutdown. Tristian was no neurologist, so he couldn't even explain how the man had wound up like this. He might even be putting the pieces together in the wrong order. Perhaps it was a coincidence and he had simply passed out. This could be the aftereffects of a drunken night out, although he didn't smell any alcohol. Or maybe an overdose. Apartments were tiny boxes of secret privacies. It was impossible to get the measure of someone's life in the glimpse you got between them giving you a cordial hello and shutting the door. This would all be perfectly unnatural, if not for that constant quiet whirring. Still.
The man's other arm was outstretched, disappearing under the bed. Tristian gave it a tug and dragged it out so that he could see the hand. Nothing. The fingers were curled like he had been holding something in those last few seconds but other than some mottling around the palm area, it was as unrevealing as the rest of the body. However. The noise was still present and now his ears were able to pinpoint as coming from somewhere under the bed.
"Sorry," he said to the oblivious fellow, gently shoving his body closer to the wall so he could put his own body flat on the floor. Of course, it was dark underneath but the noise was much more present, like machinery keeping the bed in place. Or the man telling him that one time about the gears that ran the world. If you block out all other sounds, you can hear them finally. And then you won't be able to hear anything else, no matter how loud the world gets. He had started crying then, begging them to make it stop, to please stop just for one second, because he couldn't bear it anymore. Mad, clearly, but Tristian couldn't remember what the trigger had been. That was going to bother him now.
The underside was of course coated in a thin layer of dust and it was all he could do to keep from sneezing. It was even darker than the rest of the room and he was tempted to ignite the sword for a little illumination. But for once he wanted to have a situation where it wasn't necessary. But amongst the landscape of dust bunnies and what he hoped weren't dead insects, Tristian saw something else. A bulkier object, still small but having trim and oblique angles. Stretching, his fingers brushed against metal. Not garbage, then.
Grunting, he slid it out, bracing himself against the bed to shift to one knee. He attached the sword to his belt so he could regard the object better, brushing some dust off it for a clearer view.
It was a toy robot. Squarish in shape, with a smaller rectangle for a head and two big eyes that stared at him with a mixture of surprise and inquisitiveness. The arms hung down straight but there were joints at the shoulder that suggested it could be posed. The front of it held various circuit type components, all part of the decoration. In proper lighting it would probably shine. It had been beamed directly from the mind of someone who had enjoyed one too many 1950s sci-fi movies. But then, why not? This whole day was feeling like one of those movies gone terribly off-track.
He held it out in front of him, trying to piece the scenario together. Not all of it fit together properly. The man had been holding the toy when whatever had happened to render him unconscious had come down. But why would have gotten up, picked up the robot and then walked back toward his bed? That made little sense.
Tristian looked down at the man, now turned so that his body was slightly fetal and facing the wall. "Did you sleep with it, like a stuffed animal?" It was part jest but it was also something he didn't totally understand. Maybe Leonard and Sheldon might grasp it better, but this was a world he was only visiting. In a real sense, it was where they lived.
As he thought that though, another notion occurred to him just then. Maybe two at the same time. If you block out all other sounds. The madman whose voice he couldn't shake. Then you won't be able to hear anything. And what had made him that way. No matter how loud the rest of the world gets. The haunted reflection in his wide eyes. A reflection that glinted of metal and the impossible. No matter how loud. Robots. He'd seen Dakkers, sentient robots.
Please, I can't hear anything anymore.
Suddenly Tristian realized the world had gone silent.
Except their constant
The lights on the toy's eyes flared up into a stark and garish green.
noise
Its little legs started moving as the whirring started up again
because it never stops
and the little toy said quite clearly
"He was only the first."
* * * * *
"Excuse me? I am not a-"
"Please. Pause for a second so I can say this. Before you go any further in trying to defend yourself, I just want you to know that I can have three examples to support my statement at the forefront of my cerebrum instantly and a good probability of six more coming to mind the longer this conversation goes on. Is this really an argument you want to get into?"
"Well . . . all right. But maybe I just haven't had a chance to prove my mettle."
"If you want my advice, I would finish your war against the spider you keep insisting is in the shower before graduating into bolder acts."
"It was back the other night! I don't know you never see it, I swear it keeps getting bigger every time."
"Of course it does, Leonard."
"So you're saying I can never be a hero? Heroes have all kinds of flaws, it's what makes them human. I'm not trying to be some kind of mythological archetype."
"Thank goodness for that. Being driven by vengeance because one's family has been slaughtered is a flaw, lactose intolerance is something else entirely. These differences may not seem crucial to you, but they are meaningful."
"All that should matter is how hard you to work to overcome them. But, really, what makes a hero different from any of us? I mean, okay, Joe there, Commander, Grand Moff, whatever . . . he's got the whole regeneration thing going on-"
"That's because he's secretly a Time Lord-"
"For the love of God, he is not a Time Lord. Don't look at me like that, I know you're not completely delusional. But anyway, all right, so Joe's got some sort of super-power . . . but Tristian? What about that guy?"
"The guy with the magic sword? That stalwart fellow?"
"Forget the sword, all right? Take it away, and . . . what makes him special? Nothing, right? He's just an ordinary guy. The same as you and me."
"Well, he probably can't do multi-variable calculus in maple syrup on one's pancakes. But then I suppose he would consider that his loss."
"Yeah, I imagine he would. But science-fiction is full of ordinary, average people being confronted by things they don't understand, situations that they aren't capable of handling . . . and they find a way to manage. They rise up. Daniel Boone Davis in The Door Into Summer. Kip Russell in Have Spacesuit Will Travel. All those Heinlein heroes. Even the apathetic guy with the weird diction in The Moon is a Harsh Mistress eventually found his footing. Because they had no choice. But they figure it out. Why can't that be us?"
"Because we don't like beings from another world attempting to kill us?"
"No, God, I don't. That's for sure. I'm still hearing a big band tune in my head. But . . . what if these two weren't here and we really had aliens in the apartment? And winning or losing this came down to us? Could we do it? Because right now what we're doing is hiding out in your room-"
"Yes, about that-"
"Hiding out in your room, sitting on the floor with our backs to the door waiting for this to be over. Is that what we'd do? When we realized that the aliens had gone into Penny's apartment, Tristian ran across the hall. Ran. Didn't even hesitate. He had no idea whose apartment it even was. Going there was just what he needed to do. The same way that I know the penetration depths required for a superconductor to work. It was just that simple."
"He's left the room again, I believe, following the latest attack. Judging from what the good Commander was cursing quite creatively about, he's wandering around the building looking for a solution. Presumably he'll find one in the nick of time just when we come back from the final commercial break and things look dire. At which point we'll make our no doubt valuable contributions to this whole scenario and justify our appearances in the episode."
"I really can't tell if you're speaking metaphorically or you actually believe we're in some kind of weird television show. No, don't answer that, the less I know about how your brain works, the better. But . . . he went out? Of course he did. Again. I barely know the guy and I bet he does that all the time. I just . . . why can't I do things like that, Sheldon? Why can't I just seize the initiative and do what needs to be done? Why am I always standing around waiting to react to things instead of making them happen? Instead of just standing up and saying 'This is how I want it to go.'"
"Ah, Leonard . . . can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Are we talking about invading aliens anymore?"
"Of course we . . . okay, maybe not."
"Ooh, I didn't think so. My powers of perception are increasing daily."
"Maybe I'm doing what my mother would call projecting. Among other things. I'm just frustrated. I'm frustrated because I'm just sitting here and I'm frustrated because I can't think of anything to do that doesn't put my stomach all in knots and I'm frustrated that any of this is even bothering me because most sane people would think that I'm doing the best possible action in this situation. But it's not good enough for me. But I can't leave."
"So you think Tristian should be sitting in here with us trading nuggets of angst disguised as witty banter?"
"No, God, no. But . . . I'd like to know why he's not."
"Oh, that I can tell you easily."
"Somehow I really doubt that but . . . what the hell, go for it."
"Why, he's clearly progressed into Stage IV."
* * * * *
Tristian took it as a positive sign that as strange as this day was going, the toy suddenly talking was still able to throw him off guard. This manifested in a literal throwing as he flung the robot across the room, aiming for the far corner with an outward motion of his arm, pushing himself into the opposite direction toward the floor. The bright green of its eyes became a diminishing twin flare as it sailed across the room, finally disappearing somewhere in the distant corner. Even the clunk of its landing was lost in the yawning absence of sound.
Easy, easy, he thought to himself, easing the sword back into his hand. He left it sheathed, not wanting to give himself away. Its not like it can shoot lasers at you. It's only a toy. But it meant they were in the room somewhere with him, perhaps not in the wires. Not anymore. Somehow they were able to get out without having to physically incorporate themselves. None of the potential possibilities of this struck him as a good thing.
Getting back upstairs was going to have to a priority now. He couldn't afford a pitched fight in someone's apartment, at the risk of it spreading and getting more people involved. But it was also possible they had taken over the floor, and every floor below him. He crept along the wall, the open hilt of the sword pointed ahead and his finger poised on the switch. He noticed that the whirring had stopped again. Did the toy break? In the dark he hadn't been able to see exactly where it landed. The glow of its gaze was missing, it had either switched off or was turned toward the wall. He wasn't about to search for it. How the hell had they been able to get into the toy? So far everything they had managed was connected to an outlet somehow, the lights, the baby monitor, even the appliances down in the basement. They weren't able to become radio waves, jumping through thin air.
Near the door now, one hand feeling around the corner. Nothing was waiting, nothing was stirring. Tristian put his back against the doorframe, rising to his feet slowly, doing his best to scan the dark. Everything had settled back into soaked and abstracted shapes, sunken into oblique cushions. A museum exhibit that had just decided it was going to be about evolution. About sudden change. How did they get into a toy? Things were only as you left them until you started paying attention to how it had all become different. It wasn't attached to anything. No, don't think like that. The room was the same. Just lying there under the bed. Walls, nightstand, bed, it was all matching the initial schematics in his brain. Everything at right angles, laid out on that perfect grid. Did I do something when I picked it up. He began to ease his way around the corner and out.
Then his foot kicked against a small cylindrical object. He jerked his foot away a second later but he still heard the rattle of its roll on the hard floor, as well as the tiny tap it made when it hit. Wait. Tristian stopped, letting himself freeze. Wait. The shape of it was clear, even against the dark. There was one way. His vision easily separated it out from the opaque surroundings, instantly filing it back into the familiar. A very simple way. So distinctive, one that he'd seen so many times in his life that it had become mundane and nearly invisible, not even worth considering.
How do you get an electronic device to work without plugging it in?
Because how often did he really pay attention to a battery unless he needed one?
So you can use it anywhere you want?
And he could see now several littering the floor at his feet, like stealthy silent bacteria. Ones he had barely paid any mind to when he first entered the room.
Anywhere at all.
Ones that he remembered now were sitting right near the charger plugged into the outlet, its blocky shape clinging to the wall like some kind of portal.
Oh, sh-
By the time he heard the buzzing it was already too late.
* * * * *
"Oh, don't start that. Don't start trying to put him into your little made-up disease."
"Why not? He fits it perfectly. All the criteria are evident."
"Come on . . . you can't just diagnose people like that. You've been in the same room as the guy for what, an hour?"
"You don't need to be a doctor to tell if the patient is suffering from a broken limb."
"Not if its a compound fracture, otherwise you need to take an X-ray and . . . oh God, the rumors were true, apparently The Merck Manual can be sexually transmitted."
"I'm sure you've just delineated the fantasies of every med school student who ever wanted to write Grey's Anatomy fan-fiction."
"What? How would you even know . . . that's it, no more Internet privileges for you. Not until you're old enough to understand. Besides, I didn't think you even knew that show existed."
"Howard barged in here once while you were away and made me watch it. I must confess, I don't know when they find the time to practice medicine amidst all the other shenanigans. I spent most of the time charting the various apparent relationships on the show. Amazingly, it looks not unlike a dodecahedron."
"That's fascinating, Sheldon but . . . but we're getting off-topic. You said Stage IV people were delusional . . . that they had a total break from reality."
"Yes, and I stand by that. You see, Leonard, you're right, Tristian is not like you or I. Definitely not like me. He is completely ordinary in every sense of the word and thus lacks the capacity to understand exactly what is happening right now."
"He seemed to have a pretty good grasp of things when he stabbed the blanket in Penny's apartment."
"Ordinary people, when confronted by the extraordinary and other matters that are beyond all normal understanding, aren't capable of processing it correctly. Thus, they have only two real options in those situations . . . they could put as much distance between themselves and the bizarre situation as humanly possible by fleeing in abject terror . . ."
"I know you've got an or in there somewhere, but I really wish you didn't."
"Or they can cope by switching off entirely and accepting whatever situation has developed as the new reality and achieving a sort of functional insanity."
"Oh, something tells me you'd know a lot about that. So you're saying just because he's not running away and screaming he's insane? I'm not quite sure he'd agree with that."
"Think of it this way, Leonard. We have without a doubt aliens in our apartment building. They have more or less declared their intent to be hostile, or even if they are not actively hostile, their actions can be construed as such. I understand perfectly how these situations work, thanks to my vast experience researching these matters."
"A Deep Space Nine marathon does not count as research. I don't care how many times you point to the message boards and insist that your commentary has been 'peer-reviewed.'"
"Thus, most people with experience instantly understand the nature of the situation, accept the abnormality of it and act accordingly."
"Like hiding in someone's bedroom hoping that someone else will take care of it for us and make it all go away?"
"See, in this case we are the ones doing the right thing. We are not hiding, we are debating, we are analyzing, we are combing the events of the past few hours for past continuity references and attempting to fit it into the framework of a consistent universe. We are categorizing and extrapolating. We are getting ready to nitpick the parts of the story that don't coincide with our vision of how the story should go and are prepared to engage in lengthy debate about those aspects of it until the sun comes up or the ISP shuts us down. We are deciding which costumes to criticize and which bits of dialogue to dissect for future foreshadowing. We'll debate how much of this is planned and how much of it is made up as people go along."
"Um, I'm pretty sure I'm doing none of those things."
"Tristian isn't treating any of this as extraordinary at all. Indeed, he's acting like this is just another day at the office and this is just some run of the mill crisis he can solve through normal means. He keeps doing the exact opposite of what normal people like us would do, hence we can only conclude that he has conditioned himself into believing this is all how the world should be in order to cope with it. A complete psychotic break."
"Or . . . or maybe this is how the world is and we just never see it."
"Good heavens, not you too."
"The thing is, Sheldon, if I follow your I'm sure very well thought out theory . . . if everyone does what you expect them to do and avoids the problem . . . who is going to stop the aliens?"
"Well, Leonard, if Heisenberg taught us one thing, it's that no situation is truly ideal . . ."
* * * * *
Muscles jarred into slippery motion, sloughed off kinetics like gravity finally taking hold of the glacier and doing its best to bring him down. The incoming dot was a roaring blur at the edge of the field of his peripheral vision, all trajectories suspect. Parabolas were not on his side and even with his evasion the impact still glanced off the slope of his forehead, like being punched by a lightly clenched fist. The world turned into opaque concentric circles like condensed raindrops, his thoughts scrambled and out of order. What the hell was that? The buzzing became louder, a series of flies forming a jaw and opening wide, aimed with the goal of swallowing him whole. His head was throbbing fiercely, sending spider-lines of pain encircling his skull, right over the top and down the back, deep into the base of his neck. Forming thoughts was trying to assemble a puzzle in the midst of rapids. But he didn't need to think now, already automatic gears were shifting in his brain, angles calculated and actions extrapolated, theoretical grids overlaid in three dimensions as something beyond instinct took over.
It was coming around again, the intersecting Doppler waves giving him all the coordinates that he needed. The buzzing went low, sharpened. He was on the ground, two knees, one, crouched, his position kept shifting. Getting ready. He was not a moving target, there was no such thing in a world of constant entropy. You either progressed or you stood still. And if you stood still the world would go right over you. It was merely a matter of matching pace, and anticipating. He went low, the dust of the floor an abstract tickle that he refused to acknowledge. The buzzing went overhead again in the shape of an inverted rainbow, the wind of its passage defined more by the hollow it carved in the air. Swinging around in the flattened pitch of its arc, already guessing where he would be. He had every intention of being there.
He was rolling when it came down, the two of silently agreeing to meet at a place that had been agreed upon long before this had ever started. It was amazing how many conclusions were inevitable when you came down to it. If he had known, so long ago, he might never have even started.
The sword was in his hand, of course. It had always been there. I don't want this to be an extension of me, he had told them so early on. I don't want to be known for this. Not when there's so much else we can do. He was fighting sound, trying to swat away what refused to be solid. It was coming down and he had the sword and if it ended another way it wouldn't be his story anymore.
And if you found yourself before a locked door and in possession of the key, would you refuse to use it because it didn't suit your image of yourself? He did his best to drown out the voice, the memory of the voice. The buzzing, locked into descent, held every past syllable as inbred spines, ready to deliver all that he wanted to forget. It's only a tool.
His finger slid along the switch. The advent of the humming was an innocent sneer travelling up the length of his forearm. The room was suffused with a sunset.
Don't delude yourself into thinking its anything else.
He pivoted on the floor and the humming went up, as it had to, and met with the buzzing, as it needed to. Above, the buzzing split apart like a joint becoming unhinged and came down. Twin thuds and a brief bounced clatter marked the end of the fall.
Leaping up into a crouched and ready stance, Tristian swung the sword around slowly, letting the blade's glow pan around the room. Near and to his left, the buzzing sputtered for just a few more seconds before becoming doused completely. The crimson haze spilled in that direction, revealing the silently shuddering corpse of the front half of a small scale prop plane, the propellers still trying to turn against the floor. A twist unveiled the back end of it, slumped sadly on the other side of him.
Did I kill some of you just then? If you have no way out, can you survive? He had no one to ask. Carefully he stood up, sweeping the sword out as a kind of slow shield, coloring the air in front of him into a haze. It was only a few steps to the door, and then the living room beyond and then he was out of here. Somehow the muted brightness of it was making a burgeoning headache worse. His forehead was aching where the plane had struck it, like the sword's glimmer was forcing its way through a crack formed in his head. Distantly, he wondered if he was bleeding. This was going to be hard to explain to Joe. He needed to leave here, now.
Tristian had just straightened up when a trio of whooshings came rocketing out from the next room, splitting and attempting to flank him. The thin light from the outer edges gave him a better view this time as the first object dipped its wings and went to swat at him. Jets. This is insane. Expecting it, he ducked down and came behind it, the sword clipping the slim chunk of the engine. It wobbled and veered away, crashing into the bed with a sickening crunch that even the mattress couldn't muffle. The two remaining banked, motion-spears in the dark pointed right for his chest. He was the vampire they were attempting to stake, with their amateur tools, with whatever weapons they could find.
Dancing back, the sword wove intersecting circles ahead of him. One didn't veer away in time and the nose was sliced off. The other went unexpectedly up and then dove back down again, passing over and behind the arc of the sword. He couldn't swing that close without hitting himself and it was past caring, in a place beyond suicide. The fins sliced down the front of his chest as the hard plastic of it broke against him. Tristian gasped as he stumbled backwards and fell, feeling the scrape through his shirt. It stung more than anything else but it only further proved this was no game. Before him the jet was unable to right itself and crashed to the floor, cracking the cockpit open and sending scale model seats and controls scattering all over. Part of him, woozy from the blow to the head and slightly disoriented from the attack, expected to see the tiny parts of a pilot littered about the floor. He was smelling smoke and for a second thought the hive had set the room on fire. But no, it was just coming from the shattered planes, probably a little feature in them to make it look more realistic. They were just toys. At least nobody thought to design them with toy missiles. A mother's voice that wasn't his kept warning him to be careful or he'd put his eye out.
It was a warning that nearly came true. A flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye warned him just in time to move his head as a spiked object shot past him, skittering along the floor. Tristian swung his legs around to face the door, still staying close to the floor. Somehow the sword was failing to illuminate anything. The jet next to him was still screaming, the engines only succeeding in pushing it bare inches along the floor. A triangular silhouette not unlike scaffolding could be seen in the doorway, with a single strut pointed upward like a flagpole for a country he didn't belong in.
With a motorized whirring, another came to join it on its left, followed by another on the right, although neither of these possessed flagpoles.
A twang was the only dialogue any of them possessed. The flagpoles came up and two small objects came rocketing toward him, all angles askew, looking like frozen splatters in the half-dark. The first one he didn't even need to move for, as it fell short and skidded along the floor, coming to rest a short distance away. The other forced him to shift his weight and it thudded into the ground, a piece of breaking off and skating toward him, tapping with futile strength against his hand. The sword's light revealed a tiny arm, its molded plastic skin alight in garish crimson. The rest of the body rested nearby, crumpled and mutilated, the face turned away as if ashamed.
Really? They make toy catapults? Tristian didn't know how toy catapults reloaded, but wasn't about to stay to find out. He took the opportunity of the lull to move, rushing toward the door even as the catapults started to back away, having perhaps expected their actions to have different results. He kicked the first one he encountered, sending it spinning toward the opposite corner, the wheels trying to find traction on empty air.
"Don't worry, citizen, justice will be served," said a voice too close.
A pop made him dive backwards as a spherical projectile sailed near his head. Tristian hit the wall with the sword held in both hands, searching for the source. There was another pop, followed by the dull noise of a ricochet too close.
"Don't worry, citizen, justice will be served."
Tristian turned to see a small soldier, about twelve inches high, sitting on the shelf near his head. The painted on eyes weren't staring directly at him but one arm kept going up and down in sharp karate motions, the fingers molded together to slice through the air.
"Don't worry, citizen, justice will be served."
The pop gave itself away again. A light bap against his shoulder signaled the shot finding its mark. But this time Tristian saw where it was coming from, a high shelf across the room where two tanks, apparently of different nationalities judging by the lettering he could barely make out, kept swiveling their turrets and trying to make him a target.
"Don't worry, citizen, justice will be served."
Another catapult bumped against his ankle, all its shots discarded. Not seeing any results, it started to back up to try again. Tristian kicked it aside, sending it tumbling back into the bedroom. Somewhere too near he heard the sound of another engine firing up and preparing to take off. This was getting ridiculous, he had to stop it before all these got out and they learned how to cause actual damage. Explaining to Joe why a toy army was roaming the lower floors was not really a conversation he wanted to get into today. The man was probably irritated enough that he had run off on his own. But Tristian didn't want to be the type who waited around for people to give him orders. Nor did he want to give them. It seemed impossible for anyone to understand.
"Don't worry, citizen, justice will be served."
The tank pivoted to fire again, but two steps took Tristian across to it and suddenly the cannons were severed with a swipe of the sword. He hoped the person who lived here wasn't into mint condition toys. But already he could see other toys stirring, lights blinking on a battleship, sparks beginning to spew from the open chest of another robot. Yet another one nearby, shiny and almost transparent, began to shout out grating phrases in another language. A grappling hook fired from a space to his left, falling short even as the string attached to it began to reel it back immediately. The tinny sound of descending bombs began to fill the small room. Another foam ball came rocketing out of nowhere, bopping him in the cheek. I really need to end this.
"Don't worry, citizen, justice will be served."
The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toy firing plastic pizza wheels at him was the last straw, especially when one came very close to his eye. A scraping above warned him just before a cylindrical spiked robot with glowing purple eyes shoved a Ghostbusters car off the shelf and toward his head. It screamed all the way down and Tristian sliced it in half with the sword almost on reflex.
"Don't worry, citizen, justice will be ser-"
With a quick flick of his wrist he ran the sword alongside the bottom of the shelves, cutting off the supports that kept them nailed to the wall. They started to fall immediately, some of them chiming or buzzing or beeping as they came down so that the room was suddenly filled with an electronic crescendo, the descending cacophony skirting the edge of an atonal, uneasy melody that even the constant crashing and crackings as each one hit the floor couldn't overwhelm.
Tristian stayed one step ahead of the destruction, striding along the edges of the room, the sword cutting a thin mark in the wall as it went along. Joe probably would have wanted me to inventory this so that he could go replace them later. The practicalities of these situations was still a facet he was unable to get used to. Perhaps this life was beginning to seem too normal. Nostalgia was being smashed apart at his feet, faces and heads and headlights shattering and spinning, unidentifiable plastic and metal shards littering the floor in an impossible puzzle. He was bringing it all down as they called to him in binary, in bloopings, in fragmented catchphrases like a child's half-remembered recollections of every Saturday morning cartoon show ever. Barnyard animals with capes, superheroes in garish masks and fixed poses, articulated warriors with arms spread apart as they toppled in a bizarre form of suicide. It was all coming down, the solid wood of the shelves acting like a series of blunted guillotines, breaking apart what the crash didn't cause first.
It didn't end so much as rumble to a stuttered halt, the last broken piece fluttering in a circle until friction finally brought it to a stillness. The ground was scattered with bones that didn't fit any kind of skeleton. The wreckage lay around him without any kind of logic, the blade giving everything a harsh cast. A toy apocalypse had occurred and he stood in the center as an orchestrator. Tristian regarded the scene for a few seconds, trying to think of some kind of flippant remark that he was pretty sure Brown could have come up with, but nothing came to mind. All he could really do was hope that he hadn't just demolished someone's childhood.
Still, it was the toys that got the last laugh, as he turned to walk away. A dark battery seated against a dark floor, probably spilled out from the cracking of one of the many soldiers in the army, found its way underfoot. Stalking into full stride, Tristian didn't see it in time and suddenly found his foot sliding out too fast, at an arc that wasn't kind to his center of gravity. The room, already fractured, took on a new cast as it tilted into the featureless stretch of the ceiling.
He landed on his back, his shoulder blades hitting hard against the floor. The sword went spinning from his hand, whirling to cut a shallow groove into the floor before rolling to a stop with its tip buried partially in the wall. Tristian let himself lay there for a few seconds, hearing the stray battery rolling away with a rattle that sounded not unlike laughter at the right frequency.
I am not telling anyone about this, he told the ceiling, the two of them making a silent but still binding pact. If Lena asks me what happened I will tell her that I fought a bunch of toys and walked home victorious. And then change the subject. His headache was starting to come back, the quiet igniting the dull throbbing again. It felt like a small lump was beginning to form as well. He'd suffered worse before, so he'd manage. Your cooperation on this is essential, so I'm glad we're in full agreement, he told the ceiling. It must never leave this room.
Sighing to himself, he rolled over onto his side, reaching for the sword. He'd have to keep it on now since he was going back to the apartment. He didn't know why they bothered with the charade, amusing as it was. Penny seemed like she could handle the truth, hanging around with those two meant this couldn't have been the strangest thing she'd ever seen. Something told him that the story of their lives, arranged in a certain way, would make for a rather comic series of mishaps.
Tristian's hand had just closed around the hilt when he heard the whirring start up again.
He froze at first, thinking it might have been just a side effect of the headache. But the sound kept ratcheting upwards, failing to grow louder but moving closer.
Swiftly, he rolled in the other direction, coming up smoothly into a low crouch, the sword held out levelly and parallel to the floor as he faced the blank hole that was the entrance to the bedroom.
The whirring suddenly stopped without ceasing, a motion held tightly in place.
Without moving, Tristian waited.
Close to the floor, two bright green circles flared into life from deep inside the room.
"Hello again," Tristian said.