"What do you want for your birthday, Miley?"
The girl rolled her eyes - she hated being called like this. It was weird, but she enjoyed her real, though so strange name. Mytrice, damn it. Her father gave it to her. Maybe it was the only allowed thing he did for her except material help - there were no more opportunities.
"Don't sulk! You know that nobody wants to be laughed at".
"Mother, I don't care. I like my name".
"How can you like it?! Girls should have normal names, not these hybrid-like ones!"
That's forever. Her mother was mad about "normal". "Normal girls love shopping, and you must too". "Normal girls spend time with their friends, and you have none". "Normal girls don't sit in the corner all day long". Mytrice only sighed, having a tornado of these phrases in her head again. Now she and her mother were at mall - in two days it was Mytrice's eighteenth birthday. Terrible obligation.
"Mother, I don't want anything. I have everything I need".
"Really, if I didn't know you, Miley, I'd think you're a diehard. Look, all your T-shirts are too worn. You definitely need some new ones".
Torture begins, thought Mytrice. She hated shopping. In her opinion, her own clothes were all able to show, no shame, but her words had no result. Or maybe did... Mytrice still didn't have any boyfriend - she thought that having a crush was a shame. And time theft. That public licking that "sweeties" called kissing and loving... all inside Mytrice shook like jelly. Lo-o-ove! More like "the passion of tailless monkey", as she read in one book.
Mytrice's birthday was in summer, and it made this day even worse. Heat. Demanded beach walks - "you will be healthier and more beautiful, you don't live on uninhabited island!". And it was enough for Mytrice to have a short walk in a hot day to become tanned in places not covered by clothing. Mostly shoulders and face. Always that "panda effect" - white patches were around Mytrice's eyes all the time because of her wearing sunglasses.
"You should finally learn to choose clothes. Look, you're eighteen, and you still haven't bought any clothes on your own!"
"Mother, I'm not eighteen yet!" objected Mytrice. "What is this fashion of giving a year more than you are..."
She was saved from one more lecture on behaviour by a familiar voice:
"Quinn! Is that you?"
"Oh god, Judy!"
Her mother's best friend. They won't separate ways in less than half an hour, so... Mytrice felt almost relieved. She had time to come to her heaven - her favourite bookshop not far from here and search for a real present. Of course Mytrice had some little weaknesses besides books, though she didn't think spending much money was wise, especially if it wasn't your own money - she got completely nitwitted when it was about notebooks and little figurines.
And it happened luckily this time. Her father (communication with whom was restricted by her mother - she didn't want her clay for future perfect human, aka Mytrice, meet with such a good-for-nothing one, but still the girl didn't give up trials to call him and meet him from time to time, secretly of course) gave her some money as a present to her birthday, so she had an opportunity to choose whatever she wanted before it was spent by her mother for something useless like new jacket.
"Cru-el-la, Cru-el-la de Vil, if she doesn't scare you, no evil thing will..." hummed Mytrice, at last left alone and walking among labyrinths of bookshelves. "Rubbish. Rubbish. Paranormal yak. God, can't they put fine books on those shelves where they would be seen? Finally". She took the heavy "Hitch-hiker's Guide to the Galaxy" by Douglas Adams from the "Library of Classics" table and looked through it. "'Collect your own library of classics'... Books should be bought for reading at first place..."
Her attention was drawn to a mob of all ages gathered around new stand - on it there was a pyramid of quite large dark blue boxes, covered in colorful letters and with plastic windows in them. At least Mytrice could see the top of it - it was high. Maybe some new toys - they were sold here too, as well as jigsaw puzzle collections, figurines, attributes for fans of certain fictional universes, DVDs and such-like stuff. True heaven, at least for Mytrice... And she was right: when she came close it was seen those were new toys and fan-attributes and the same time - three 30 centimeters high plushies were placed at the top of the box pyramid, but they weren't seen clearly because of instantly moving people in front. Mytrice's unusually tall height didn't help here.
"Excuse me, sir, what are these?" she asked the shop crew member not far from there, but far enough to be heard clearly - the crowd was buzzing like a beehive.
"New sets of plush toys based on popular book and film topics are going to be launched. This is the first trial, the sales began yesterday, but they came out to be unusually successful - those plushies are literally swept away from the shelves".
"Ah. Thank you". Mytrice tried to look at the stand once more and realized the topic was one of her favourite ones - "Doctor Who" series, and three plushies on the top were describing diminished and cartoon-like (but still too attractive - it rarely happened that a cartoonized character from non-animated movie would be such) Ninth, Tenth and Eleventh Doctors. "How much they cost?"
Having heard the price, Mytrice crashed from the sky back onto land - the payment for a single one would block all her buying notices. And what to say for all three... Such things should be bought together. Luckily she had a discount.
"All right, then. Can I order them?"
"Of course. You are our regular customer, and I'd be glad to help you".
They went to the counter, and the crew member (Jeremy, as his badge said - cute name) opened the database.
"Wait a second, Miss..."
"Allebloo. Mytrice Allebloo".
Some more typing. Jeremy's brows nearly met the line of his hair:
"The order has already been made and paid. But it was a week ago!"
Mytrice hardly kept her balance - what news! So... Her father was involved in computer technoligies and couldn't know a lot about his daughter's interests thanks to Quinn Flyer (her mother kept her maiden name, and Mytrice had her father's after tons of scandals). So, not him. Her mother would order only practically useful things, and plushies didn't belong to this category. Friends? Mytrice didn't have friends - she had pals. And that was right. No broken hearts, no howling and bleeding - mentally, of course.
"Maybe it was made for your namesake, Miss Allebloo?"
"It was made BY her namesake", was heard an unfamiliar voice. Mytrice turned around and saw a stranger just behind her. Tall, dark-haired, dressed in perfect classical suit and with a long umbrella under his arm, though it was too sunny day. Doesn't he feel hot? And that was strange: his ears were grey, as if carved out of stone. Skin can't be of such color. "Yes, it was me who made the order for you, Miss Allebloo".
"But how?.." Words stuck in Mytrice's throat. The stranger pursed his lips.
"I know about all incoming goods, and I had a reason to give you a present. It's your birthday soon, eh?"
"Emm... yes..."
"So why can't you get a special present?" There was now pure curiosity written on stranger's face. "Eighteen years... My my, girls will be girls".
"How do you know my age?" Mytrice enjoyed this conversation less and less.
"I told you I know a lot, and stop asking! I'll tell you two things: first, this present won't harm you. No extra payments loved to be put in, no bad quality and no arguments. And second: it wasn't my decision to give those plushies to you. Some day you will know. I promise". Mytrice opened her mouth, but the stranger prevented her question: "You wouldn't believe if I told you my name. But, as I said, I'm your namesake. Kind of".
"What a strange visit. What a strange gift. What a strange man".
Mytrice was lying on her room's floor, wondering. You can't meet such gestures every day. The stranger... he was weirdly similar to somebody Mytrice liked. But it wasn't any of her pals or relatives. Like a phantom. So familiar. Namesake... What is the male variant for "Mytrice"? Absurd. This name was created by her father and had unknown meaning. "My trust", "mine twice", "my three ice"... Mytrice chuckled - her brain was making analogies faster than a flicker. And there was one more - Mytrice All-blue. Cool color and cool description of her almost permanent state.
But not now. At last Mytrice pulled the large box from under her bed - mother had called her and told her that she could go home (those visits to friends were the best moments for Mytrice to stay alone) - and unpacked it. Three plushies. The first with short hair, all in black and with that cheerful magical smile that stayed even in this version. The second scruffy, in a brown suit and smiling more calmly, even a bit sadly. The third with chin-length hair and dreamy beaming face with blushing cheeks, dressed in that tweed suit with eternal bowtie. All three have their arms a bit up, as if they want to hug her.
Mytrice rummaged the box through, but found nothing except some all-goods info. Boring.
"Miley, I'm home!"
Mytrice quickly pushed everything back under her bed - it wouldn't be good if her mother saw her new property.
"Have you bought anything? Some more books or those stupid notebooks again? I told you that having this much paper in the house is making more trash".
Mytrice only clenched her teeth - this practical mind was popping from all holes when it came to her mother.
"No. Nothing. I didn't buy anything", honestly answered she. Gospel truth. "I think I have some ideas, but... a bit later".
"Miley, all your T-shirts are well-worn. Don't you think we should buy more?"
"A perfect way to ruin the fun", thought Mytrice. The rest of the day was dull - having got the lecture about style and clothes (unable to avoid), the girl had totally spoilt mood. She even didn't want to read her favourite books - one or two pages of each, that's all. Even watching videoclips didn't help. Neither did quotes which she liked to read. At last Mytrice simply fell asleep even without changing her clothes.
As a result of stress - and her mother was the master of causing these - she was sleeping not too soundly. Sometimes it happened to Mytrice that she woke up in the middle of the night, and it was so this time.
"What's the time?.." mumbled she, reaching to get her mobile. "One sixteen... Perfect. I can sleep on".
But the sound sleep didn't come. Mytrice was lying with her eyes shut and body almost unable to move, but her mind was catching everything. And who knows if it was good.
Something ruffled right under her bed, as if mice were down there. But there were definitely no mice. Then what could it be?.. Mytrice decided to pretend to be sleeping though all inside her became like covered with ice. And she was right with the decision.
A childlike voice whispered, annoyed:
"What are you doing? Pushing your feet there and here!
"That wasn't me, it was him shoving, - was the reply from a different, but also kid-like voice.
A sniff followed.
"Hey you two, will you ever climb off my head?" This voice was the most mature, but still very childlike. "We can wake the extra persons up..."
Noise after which Mytrice had an image of box turning over in her head. "Yes, I am almost eighteen... but I'm scared. Natural feeling, I'm not a robot... Calm down, Mytrice, calm down. You will have to look down there all the same... but first let's listen more".
"Yew!.." Groan of pain given out by the one who began the talk. "Dang, now my head hurts... Listen, Number Eleven, did you forget that you are not alone?"
Number Eleven?
"Didn't, Number Ten, and it was Number Nine who made this..." Rumble. "Sometimes I doubt about you, Number Nine. We're supposed to be triplets, but you always tend to rule us".
"Because somebody has to do it", replied the most mature voice with such serious tone that Mytrice would snort with laughter if she wasn't afraid. Those serious childish voices are so funny... She made a nervous swallow, held her breath - and all happened unexpectedly even for her. Mytrice didn't catch how she slided down and dipped her hand under her bed - she found herself sitting on the floor, clutching something heavy and warm.
"Don't tickle me, I'll break away!" shrieked the creature, and Mytrice felt diminished - not only because of unknown, but also due to the fact her mother could wake up. Silence. Thank goodness... But it wasn't long. "Don't press me, you'll squash me! Haven't you ever held the dwarves?"
Mytrice's eyes got used to darkness, but she thought they'd better be closed - she was holding one of the plushies she got today. If exactly, it was Eleventh Doctor one, and it seemed not to be a plushie anymore. Mytrice could feel pulsing of life under her fingers, and the creature was sulking. Toys aren't made with such expression.
"I knew there wouldn't be any warm welcome, but this..." muttered the "Number Eleven". Totally him. "Pushed under a bed... You imagine how painful it is to wake in such place after sleep of dead?"
Bravery returned to Mytrice. Such a small creature couldn't hurt anyway, and she put him onto her lap.
"Sorry... I didn't mean to cause pain to you. It's long to explain... emm..." One more idea was in Mytrice's mind. "Do you think "Number" names are too long and don't fit you?"
Two small heads popped from under the bed:
"What do you suppose?"
"I suppose that such tiny and... Excuse me, guys, but you are damn cute! Gosh, it's still my imagination, that's horrible..."
"Number Nine" made a disappointed whistle, shaking his head with a shortcut:
"Don't tell such things. Imagination is horrible when it's forcibly made dirty, in clear cases it can't be such. You don't look like brainwashed".
"I meant... don't you mind if I give you real names?" asked Mytrice and began digging in her mental "hard drive", searching for versions. Why is it so complicated to think of a beautiful and fitting name? Well, the best way is not to climb in too deeply. Something short and suitable... Wait. Doctor Who. Three little Doctors. Three names. And three shorter versions. Perfect!
"Number Nine, would you mind to be called Eccly?"
Former "Number Nine" froze, his mouth curved to the side:
"Eccly?.."
"Eccleston", explained Mytrice. "I'd tell more, but it's better not to know something and think of reason yourself".
"Eccly..." The "big brother" (Mytrice had no doubt he was as the oldest here) repeated the name, as if tasting it. - What a lovely name. Eccly! Eccly! I'm Eccly! Gotta get used..."
Beady eyes of "Number Ten" and "Number Eleven" shone like street lights.
"And me, and me? - "Number Ten" climbed onto Mytrice's lap next to his younger brother and bounced with impatience, which didn't fit to his almost official appearance (thanks to this smart suit). - What will I be called, My?"
"First: my name is not "My", it's "Mytrice". And second: you'll get used faster than your older brother, Tenny".
"Tenny? Yay, I'm Tenny!.. Why Tenny? Because I'm Number Ten?"
"Because Tennant", cut Mytrice. "Finally, you, the youngest bro, will be Smithy... no, don't you shout! Of course you can be glad, but the main here is to be silent. Now, Rotcod Brothers, time to sleep - at least for me".
"Rotcod Brothers?" at the same time asked all three.
"A perfect last name for you. Read it vice versa", chuckled Mytrice, placing a huge pillow and a duvet onto the armchair and transporting brothers over there. Tomorrow I'll make it better".
"No need, Mytrice, it's perfect". Tenny made a sound like a cat purring, wriggling to get comfortable. Then he added in a sly tone: "It will be perfect when... emm... Smithy stops pushing me in the ribs and Eccly finishes imagining that all this blanket is his own..."
"I hate you", said Eccly and Smithy in one voice.
"Mytrice! Can you hear me? Answer, Mytrice!"
The girl didn't feel her body - as if she came to normal condition after surgery, she knew what it was like. No, it was more as watching a movie in a cinema theatre with a giant screen.
Again. Familiar voice. And familiar face - a teenage girl with belt-length dirty blond hair wearing strange accessories: her necklace was definitely made of bottle lids.
"Mytrice! Say something!" Her face was pale and nervous.
"Let me, Luna!" This voice was harsh, and its owner was made of only sharp lines: thick black brows, huge hooked nose, piercing look... "Viktor Krum speaking! Mai-triss, listen! Take it serious, you can do it!"
Mytrice wanted to reply, but she was like paralysed.
"Mai-triss, the man in the shop who made an order for you is one of us. Ficts. Ve need help from you humans, and not only from you. If you recall his name you vill know more, all I can tell is vat he told you to say. "I have patch, in blink you trust. We're alike, the two of us". And one more: Rotcod Brothers vill help you. They're stronger that they seem. I'm sorry for such kaos, but it's fin. Recall, Mai-triss".
Two causes of waking up at one night was too much, at least for Mytrice.
"What a strange dream..." she murmured. "I have patch, in blink you trust. We're alike, the two of us... Senseless... The man, the order, the birthday, the dream..." She glanced at the armchair - Rotcod Brothers were sleeping soundly. Or not all of them. Tenny was curled up like a kitten (if you can imagine a kitten in such a suit), Eccly, on the contrary, was lying in a pose of starfish with his limbs thrown around, but Smithy was really not okay. It occurred to Mytrice that he was trembling and giving out tiny sobs from time to time.
"I... I'm sorry..." he wailed, but so softly that his brothers remained sleeping. "I... As if a razor was pulled through my head... Hurts..."
Mytrice carefully scooped whimpering Smithy up. In two or three minutes he stopped shaking and got better... But she had to ask.
"Smithy, who are ficts?"
Smithy's beady eyes widened:
"You got the message? "Ficts" is short for "fictional characters". Believe me or not, but all of them exist and influence you humans. I don't remember where me, Eccly and Tenny came from, but we are partly ficts too. You see, only children can spot ficts because they want to. And you still have the trust of a child, that's why we were sent to be your helpers".
"The man in my dream... He said he was Viktor Krum. And he also said I had to recall the name of the one who sent you to me and gave a hint, but..."
"That's the problem - you are not a child anymore and you have to prove your trust", shrugged Smithy. "I can't help you here, sorry. Neither can my bros".
Mytrice bit her lip, thinking. Puzzle. Nothing more. She was fond of them and now she had to solve one. She will go to the world of ficts and know it all, that was her eternal position - to know all herself. "I have patch, in blink you trust. We're alike, the two of us". Name. The man's name. Mytrice knew it. Wait. He said "I'm your namesake. Kind of". Male equivalent for "Mytrice". She had thought about it after coming home and couldn't find any.
In - blink - you - trust. Trust. Just today: "Mytrice, my trust..." Hint pointing at her name, no doubt. But blink... Blink. Moment. Second. Blink. Trice. Mytrice. Great! Half way is done. "I have patch". Synonym, there must be a synonym, if so. Patch. Ground. Property... no. "Alike, the two of us". Letters. They must have at least same beginning letters. "My". Let's come back to patch. Piece. Area. It's more complex... Patch. Patch of ground... And it struck Mytrice like lightning. How could she be so dumb?
"MYCROFT!" yelped Mytrice, having forgotten about everything in the world. "MYCROFT HOLMES, I SOLVED YOUR RIDDLE!"
She wasn't in her room anymore. In fact, she was... in nowhere. Or it seemed so to her. In a place full of grey mist, and for some reason she was holding all three Rotcod Brothers, not only Smithy. And there was somebody in front of her. A skinny man with dark brown eyes full of sadness though now he was smiling. Bitter smile it was. His hands were resting on the shoulders of two children: the black-headed girl and the boy with unruly ginger curls who was holding a small child in his arms.
"Logic. A friend and a foe", said the man. "Guess who, Mytrice".