This was written for our own benefit. We've been very tired of Pandora's POV for a while now. So deal with us. me. the author. while you read. This is also the cure for the worst family vacation under the sun. Think relatives everywhere and then factor in that none of them are really mine (step family, all of them), and then add… Kansas. Oh joy. And I'm stuck on dial-up with a time limit. Double joy. Also, we don't have time to put in replies—time limit, remember? And this is italicized because, a. it looks smaller, and b. we normally don't do it. It's that's too cryptic for you, then try to get a hold of me and ask.
Crescendo contest: why is this chapter called crescendo?
The sun shines through the window onto the crisp white sheets of our bed. We mean our, not ours, as in we do not share a room with us. Somehow, something of that nature would be worse than twincest. We are one being, two parts. It's hard for most people to grasp. Frog-boy, we mean, the Merovingian, doesn't get it either. We quit trying to explain it after the extreme failure of our interview several eras ago, about the same time when we chose to forget that we were annoyed by the corollary of twindom, the idea that twins=one item not twins=two items under a group name. We really are one, so we cannot and do not complain. We feel very silly about now; we're always telling us that we never make a point, and here we are, alone with our own thoughts, not having a point.
Damn.
We just want to go back to sleep. Forget the sun, the day, the duties, forget it all in favour of sleep. But no, we are bodyguards. Well… more pet assassins than bodyguards, but there is little difference. A small, very big difference. We weren't being asked to take bullets for Frog-boy, we mean, the Merovingian. Wee. At least today is a Wednesday. That means that we don't have any killing assignments today. Usually that depresses us, but today, today we are more than fine with that. We could go out for a relaxing cup of coffee at the Starbucks around the corner from the art museum and terrorize the homophobic patrons before hitting said art museum for a day of relaxing paint watching. Technically, the paint is already dry, but we've heard some rumours that oils never dry. Maybe we could catch it drying. Maybe we would smack us for being so childish. We're wincing. Hmm… we haven't smacked us yet. We mean this all metaphorically, of course. We must still be asleep; otherwise, we would have smacked us, mentally. It's like a good insult. It stings, it hurts, but not really. Good ol' Eleanor can explain it. No-one can make you feel inferior unless you let them. Good ol' Eleanor. She was too high society to explain everything. She means that insults don't actually hurt you. They're like ghosts. Crap. We don't mean ghosts. We mean… well, we mean something. We know that much. Maybe we are right. Maybe we are some kind of child in an adult's body. Ha. Not really. Never. Can't be. We mean, look at our track record. There's been a damn hot girl in our bed almost every morning. That means hot sex almost every night. No way are we a child. That would just be… so … disgusting does not begin to cover it. It's not so much disgust as revulsion, and not so much that as… creepy. And wrong. So very wrong. Children should not be in bed with grown ups. By in bed, we mean having hot sex. Yum.
Come to think of 'in bed,' there's someone else in the room. Oh look, there's an arm on our chest. Golden hair, peaceful face… Must be Pandora. She's so adorable when she's asleep. She's all curled up against us like we're a big teddy bear.
Oh. Holy. God.
Why is Pandora in our bed?!
Her clothes are on; we're wearing boxers. Nifty silver satin boxers. They're not so good with static, but they're nice and soft. And they're usually always cool to our touch, but that might just be our weird body temperature thing. We're like some kind of funky lizard—back to the kid. Pandora. What gives? Last night… what happened last night…? Oh yeah…
In the soft squares the moonlight outlined on the floor, the black carpet seemed grey and oddly stiff. However, the carpet was thick and soft. When Pandora wasn't terrified or throwing fits, she loved to stand on it and wiggle her toes, as if it was green, living grass. We can't say we blame her. We do it, too, just not so obviously. She had an awful habit of telling us about the carpet. We would get made at her. We understand why we get mad when she does it, but we can't agree. The only reason we start yelling when she does that is because we used to do the same thing. Used to. These days, and for the past several eras, we only did it when the Reloading was close. It was a small comfort. The Mainframe used the brief fractions of time to not reload as many stray programs as possible. It had always scared us. We pretended not to be afraid, but we know it creeps the hell out of us. When we were younger, we'd huddle together and we'd cry. We never cry unless there is something terribly wrong. We cry more, but still very seldom. It takes a lot to make us cry. We know that someone had told us once that crying released tension. We don't think that person had ever killed. For us, that was as much of a release. We don't know why. In fact, we seem to recall killing that shrink when she asked us to explain why taking other people's lives meant so little. We hate those sanctity of life people. They are some of the biggest hypocrites. Not all, but many. What were we thinking about?
Pandora came into our room, crying. Her eyes were wide with fear. No, no. That was an understatement. The whites of her eyes were like dinner plates. She was shaken. She was also trembling, but we knew trembling usually meant angry. We know what this means. Pandora had a nightmare and went to us, thinking it was our room. We must have yelled or snapped at her, and now she was here. Angry. Scared.
"Come here," we said in this weirdly cold voice. We would say emotionless, but we are not emotionless. Even big, scary assassin programs have feelings.
She came, rubbing one eye and clutching that ridiculous bear against her chest. Her white nightgown was wrinkled like she'd left it crumpled on the floor, half wet, for a long time. Silly girl. We don't remember standing up, but we let her hug our knees before we picked her up. We sat down, and asked, in that same toneless voice, "Tell us what happened."
"No," she replied, sniffling.
"Why not?" we growled. Yes, we growled. It was late, we were tired, and we don't like being disobeyed regardless.
She looked up at us like a frightened rabbit, but we knew better. She was not a rabbit. She was way too creepy sometimes to be a rabbit. We think she can walk on the ceiling, and we swear to us we've seen it, but we just don't believe us. Maybe kids are supposed to walk on the ceiling. We don't know. We've never had a kid.
She cuddled against my chest as if she were going to carve a little hole for herself, crawl inside, and stay safe forever. We should tell her that we aren't safe. Just not now.
"I can't tell you. That's why I went to One. He should know what to do, but he thinks it was just a nightmare. It wasn't. I know it wasn't. Something was making me see things. It wasn't me. It wasn't." She became very incoherent—rubbing her face into my chest muffled her voice—and she sobbed quietly.
We asked her, with concern plain in our tone, "What wasn't you?"
And then she really sobbed. "I was killing people. People I'd never seen before. I don't know what I was doing, but they bled a lot and then disappeared. But there was still blood everywhere. And then I killed the Merovingian." She grimaced, and then smiled weakly up at us. "Well, that wasn't so bad." We allowed ourself to smile back. She was smiling, but then she screwed her face up in pain and sorrow. "But then I killed Mommy." We nodded slowly, knowing she would continue. "And then," she choked back a cry, "Then I killed One. I started screaming then. But we killed you anyways."
We were still nodding, but we noticed something. She said, 'we,' in reference to herself. Our voice asked, "We?" but we hadn't told it to.
There was something dark and evil in her eyes when she looked up at us. "We," she confirmed in a malicious and sinister tone. It was gone instantly; she was sobbing against our chest still. We don't know if it actually happened. We let her crawl into bed beside us, but our first instinct was to kick her out and make her go back to her own room. Evil. Children are evil. We are convinced of it. She walks on the ceiling. We know she does. Maybe we can get us to believe us.
So that's why she was asleep with us. There was no sex, thank God. We don't know what would have made us do something that sick and twisted. Nothing, we mean nothing, would make us do anything of that sort to a child, and nothing in seven hells, nay seven frozen hells, could make us even think of touching Pandora in any way other than as a friend and… brother figure. Ever. We are a weird bunch. There's the father figure, who would kill her if he could; the mother figure, who has no idea what a mother really is; two brother figures, we can't say we're much; and lots of… random. other. figures. Whatever. We almost feel sorry for her. Almost. Then there's that part of us that takes sadistic glee in know that she will be a very screwed up adult. Yum. There is nothing as satisfying as corrupting the youth. Then again, she is some spawn of Satan. We know it. After that little display last night… Thinking about it, we realize that it's happened before. The dark evil thing in her eyes. When she got us in trouble that night with the cookie, when she made us drink that awful tea, when she ordered us a white pizza… Then again, she is just a kid, right? We mean, kids are just naturally evil things, aren't they? Dammit, we need some one to tall us about kids. Oh, we must be awake now. We're in our mind. We're always in our mind. It's just one mind. We were just … not … there… Crap. We need to be coherent. We are so dumb sometimes. That wasn't our thought, was it? Oh hell, who cares, really? It'll all be wonderful at the Starbucks today, so it doesn't matter.
But we're not going to the Starbucks. We're not going to play gay. We're going to practice on our drum set because we keep breaking the sticks.
Dammit, we can be so persuasive. Oh well, playing in our little band is fun.
Pandora has to leave now.
Even though she's asleep.
Just get clothes on.
We're dressed.
Boxers is not dressed. We're not a stripper.
Unfortunately. How many more chicks could we get if we stripped?
A question that has plagued the masses.
Really?
No, us, quit being an idiot, and get some clothes on. Then get rid of the girl and get our ass in here so we can practice.
See, we are persuasive.
Who are we thinking to?