The Four Brothers - Ch 2

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Chapter 2 – Four Of A Kind, Full House

Mr Osworn launched into the same spiel he always started his interviews on “Osworn’s Hour” for the Independent Observer as he hit the Record button on his smart tablet. The brief notes on the interview subject, some friendly chatter, making sure to get a good shot of the interview subject. He had done it for Harry Kamila in the Oval office, he had done it for Kalinskyy in the bombed out ruins of Governance House in Kyiv after a particularly nasty attack by Russia had left nothing of worth but a relatively stable wooden floor and two whole chairs, he had even done it for Meng Huangdi on the fifth anniversary of the overthrow of the Chinese Communist Party. Some might say he was lowering himself applying all that special nous to comforting Marcus Manners and gingerly prying him open for new interesting facts about things everyone thought they fully knew.

Marcus breathed deeply for a moment. Some folks were just jealous. He had gotten to where he was now by the hard way and nobody would be allowed to deny it. Osworn’s Hour made good choices about who was important and who was interesting, and they were only wrong once back in the Despotic Years that broke America briefly before its reformation as the New Union,.

“So how would you like to start, at the beginning of all this?” Mr Osworn handed Marcus the mike the same way he had done so many times over the past decades.

Marcus had a pretty good idea as he held the old party photograph. “The first thing you have to understand is... at the the time we started, all four of us were totally fucking stupid and incapable of knowing where our limits were.”

Mr Osworn blinked. That was a pretty candid description coming from one of the four Men of Arendtcore. Still, there must be something in it. He raised one of his hands and did it – the silent beckon that always seemed to inherently solicit his subjects to go on...

----

It had begun with a botched attempt at extortion. Literally high-school grade, as someone might have unkindly put it.

Even with a year or two extra of college life from being an underperformer, Marcus had been, to put it kindly, a bit of a weedy person. His undergraduate course in arts did not help/. Most folks would have grown out of it by the end of senior high school and remained vulnerable only to psychological bullying. And here he was, magically hovering right up against an ivy-covered brick wall because someone had used his strength to overwhelm him and lift him against it. Admittedly it was a jock. One of those guys who got into Minneapolis Institute of Technologies (MINT) by virtue of brawn (of which athletes had a lot), rather than brains (of which they had a an almost disqualifying lack, like in many colleges)

“Marky, marky, marky.... you should comply and give me the money I want.” He didn’t know the guy’s name, only that his ace performances in footballl wallpapered over a number of sins and demerits in his studies. At some point, it would show and he would end up on his bum without qualifications and in a dead-end job that made use of his stupidity and strength. Probably. The draft sometimes picked this kind of guy and delayed that kind of fate, or it might never happen because they got another mentor to wise them up and help them invest in a more sustainable lifestyle.

That was very cold comfort to Marcus. Come to think of it, he never did find out who this guy was in the end, even years later, when the Arendtcore company had made some seemingly out-of-joint investments in genealogical research firms (it had a purpose, but he could think about it later on if it was important.)

“Well, you see, bro.... us scholarship guys should learn to stick together. I know, different kinds of scholarships. Thing is, I don’t get much money. If they need money from me they send my sponsor at CHEAPO the invoices and he pays them direct. I get only money when I work Pizza on weekends..... matter of fact, if you would so kindly liberate me so I could start my Friday shift...” Marcus flustered a little. This was not how he had wanted to end Friday on campus. He was always cutting it close between ending sculpting tutorials, cleaning off the clay, and showing up to work the oven and load the boxes. He did not need this any other day of the week, but today was especially not a day for this kind of bullying.

“I don’t think you understand. I WANT MONEY. YOUR MONEY. NOW. GIMME.” His aggressor bellowed and raised a brawny fist up. Forget not getting paid for this Friday night’s pizza parlor shift, how was he even going to afford the hospital bill?

Marcus Manners squeezed his eyes shut. But the punch never landed. When he opened his eyes again about a minute after the suffering should have started, the jock was lying cold on the grass, his flunkeys screaming as they ran off in the distance save for another in a similar state of hors de combat.

A slightly-built person in a professional blazer stood atop the knocked-out jocks, dusting themselves off as their chin-length hair swished a little in the breeze. “And next time, maybe don’t pick a fight with people just because you think they’re your inferior!” They yelled in a slightly high-pitched, almost feminine voice.

Marcus’ first thought after that was “wow, pretty lady.” The next thought was “Did I make a mistake saying that aloud”, as he had apparently said that aloud.

The professional whipped around on hearing what Marcus’ mouth blurted out, marching forward with a surprising amount of menace for a... guy? Girl? Individual of indeterminate gender? In a well-tailored suit. “AGAIN. It’s always the same mayhem everyday about the same goodamn thing!” Their voice was still high pitched, subtly Japanese-accented as they offered Marcus a hand to dust off and get up. “I am a GUY. My pronouns are He/Him. I’ll take They/them in a pinch, but for the love of god. STOP. CALLING ME. A GIRL!” Their face had a look of exasperation, but even then, Marcus still thought the same thing.

“Yup, she is definitely a girl”.

He at least had the smarts to keep his mouth shut and nod as if in understanding.

Their face softened as they looked Marcus over. “You didn’t get hurt too badly by that idiot, did you? I would have taken action earlier, but I wanted to establish probable cause before starting with the judo and what-not...” A brief pause, as they realise they haven’t done a proper introduction... for some reason, she seems too occupied to fix that properly, instead offering a business card.

Marcus took the card and studied it. It read “AYMEE ICHIGO, Freshman Year 2056, Undergraduate / Business and Legal Actions (MINT)”...

The subtle off-white coloring of it, the tasteful thickness of it. Oh my god, it even had some sort of Japanese family logo, presumably the icon of her family, done as a watermark across the front and imparting a slight glow when held up to the light...
Marcus proceeded to shoot himself in the foot again with his stupid mouth. “Isn’t Aymee a girl’s name?” This earned him a sudden pull at one ear from Aymee.

“What Aymee is,” they hissed, “is a name my grandfather honored me with, as well as proof they might not be too good with what names actually make sense for a guy... Please, please, call me Ichigo-kun or Ichigo-san or some maleish thing. PLEASE.” Aymee let go quickly of Marcus’ ear – she had only intended to shock him briefly to get some attention, not cause injury. The aching still wouldn’t go off fast as she watched him nurse the slight redness. “... “I’ve figured out a few things in the minutes I waited before acting though. Mind if I borrow your phone?”

Marcus blinked. Aymee rolled their eyes. “I just need to make two calls on it.” Marcus blinked again. Still, he handed over his cheapo CHEAPO phone. It had barely enough grunt to do the things all smartphones were now expected to do, and only a generously connection to processing power in the CHEAPO cloud kept it from being a totally useless phone for anything else. Still, you wouldn’t play Legends of Lords on it. The roundabout times turned a game that demanded low lag into a kamishibai show done closer to 30 seconds per frame than the 30 frames per second so many young adults demanded for games.

Aymee started weaving some sort of magic. More to the point, they looked through the phonebook app and dialed out to a certain pizza parlor and began to natter on for a few minutes, even as they fished in their shirt pocket for another card. Marcus noted with a slight discomfort that Aymee had some decent heft around her chest, but seemed pretty athletic or slim, but definitely a bit tall. An inner voice seemingly nodded and observed. “Yup, definitely a girl, this one. And what a beaut of a pair of tits.” as Aymee cut the first call and made a second.

“Yeah, I’ve been delayed some, Seamus. Yes, I wouldn’t miss it for the world bro. You know that’s not how brotherhoods work... I’m bringing someone you might be interested in. Yes, I know we don’t get to just drag random trash into the brotherhood this one, I’ve been watching him since the school year started- even before Rahul did... you know, that thing.”

Wait, Ichigo has been shadowing him? Marcus did a double take. Just why the interest? He would soon find out as, the call ended. “Sweet, two through the door, keep the house turrets from cooking him with non-leths, okay?” Aymee smiles in a way that raises concern in Marcus as she grabs his arm and hands back his CHEAPO phone.

“Two things,” Aymee announced to him sweetly as they started dragging him, pausing only to pick up their classwork briefcase. “First, congratulations on your weekend off this weekend. Fully paid of course.”

“Hang on, I need the money from that job, you can’t just declare a holiday from it and leave me dry, where will I find the money. Bloody heck, I don’t even have paid time off at the pizza parlor! That’s not how this works! THAT’S NOT HOW ANY OF THIS WORKS!” Marcus yelped as Aymee exhibited a sort of strength far beyond their lithe frame... or was it the Judo at work?

“Not normally, no.” Aymee nodded pleasantly as the sight of a brawny... woman?... walking past while dragging a slightly larger guy on apparently a reluctant date of sorts drew attention from the few students and faculty still wandering the campus. “But in our family, we say that a good legalist can persuade a fierce tiger to cut its own throat using a baseball bat.”

“That’s not a viable form of suicide even for a tiger! And where are you dragging me?” Marcus’ panic continued as Aymee dragged him into the part of of the campus central area home to its biggest frat houses.
Aymee nods as if in agreement with Marcus’ observation about said tiger. “Maybe the baseball bat was sharpened? Or maybe enough effort was exerted under persuasion? My grandpa never did explain the point of that family saying. Anyhow, your boss is paying you for not showing up to work for 20 hours this weekend, after being faithful in turning in all those shifts for the past year...” She stops walking, looking up at a subtly decorated house.

------

Unlike many of the other frat houses that turned into celebrations of excess, this one seemed to keep its counsel – soft tuneful music, mostly closed shutters and locked front door, no drunkards barfing on the steps. The only reason Marcus didn’t assume it was a a derelict was the pair of turrets framing the front door. Further confirmation came in the form of the turrets suddenly swivelling to plant beads of red light on his forehead. Marcus’ previous panic returned, now amplified by the threat to his life.

A shrill voice cut through the air as the whirr of the turrets intensified to a pitch that suggested they were just about ready to give Marcus a painful headache. “Stand down! Stand down! That’s an order.”A dark-haired Irishman in a silly blue and white Hawaii shirt yells, holding a sort of blue cocktail drink decorated with a slice of watermelon in one hand. The turrets stopped their targeting and swiveled to view him with sort of deference and lack of aggression, like playful pets surrounding their master.

He would later learn the name of the Eldest Brother: Seamus Arendt. A 2nd-year student at the Faculty of Engineering and Electronics. And as he would later realise, possibly the first inkling that a life that had been marked by mundane repeats of his first years in college and being normal was about to end forever.

Seamus rubbed his gingery red hair, yelling away. He wasn’t drunk, just upset. “I gave the two of you express orders to chill, give Ichigo-kun a good friendly welcome... and NOT threaten her guest. Honestly, don’t make me turn you into DamnGun mecha figurines slash view-only cameras in this house. Okay?”

Displays of contrition, sad whirring noises, as if the turrets had personality...

Aymee sighed. “Seamus-sama... just let it go, nobody got hurt.” They lifted up Marcus with the ease of a bag of groceries by his scruff. “Anyhow.... you know how we’re down one artist in the Brotherhood since Rahul got tagged and bagged for shipping in keta-Nine? I found another good artist!” She had the same grin as you would find on the face of a fisherman who had actually caught the one that usually got away.

Marcus’ mouth slowly opened and closed much like that of said fish.

Seamus closed his eyes. “Ichigo-san. We don’t know that Rahul is irredeemably incarcerated and not coming back to the House. And there will always be four of us, no more than that.”

Aymee looks around past Seamus and into the house... “Well, I think six months plus Christmas holidays for a month is a long time to wait for his parole. And this boy shows so much promise!” They proudly held up Marcus like a prize win, further emphasizing how much strength they had hidden under that lankiness of theirs.

Marcus squeaked an introduction. “Uhm, hey there, Seamus. I’m Marcus.... I’m technically still in the second year of my course, Visual Arts Undergrad, two repeated years... Pleased to meet you... also why am still being treated like a fish? Someone, anyone?”

It took a few more minutes of negotiation before Marcus was safely ensconed on one side of a circular four-seater sofa. Facing him on the other side of the sofa was Seamus and Aymee...

“Well, tonight, we are moving a motion to introduce... Mr Marcus Manners, as The Artist Brother of our Brotherhood”, Seamus announced with a decided lack of pomp. “Before, we begin, is there any reason-”
“Hang on. The Brotherhood has four brothers...” Aymee suddenly cut in, raising a hand in a palm of protest. “Is there any valid reason for your younger bro not to attend, Seamus-san?”
“Nothing that comes to mind, Ichigo-san...” Seamus let out a weary sigh as he stands up, as if weighed down heavily by obligation. “Give me a moment to check his bedroom.” He slowly walks over and up the staircase, as if afraid to profane historied oak panelling with his Croc-Flops. There is a sort of mumbling, protest mixed with firm if mostly inaudible words....
Five minutes later, Seamus comes trudging down, hugging what is apparently a twin brother... like as if Seamus had discovered being an emo and went down the dark path instead of the brightness of Maui fronds and overly bright-colored cocktails, his hair left unkept by a reduced level of haircutting half hiding his eyes. As they descended, Seamus tried to reassure him of things. “I’m not being judgemental of what you work on in the weekends, Bellamy, I did tell you I was prepared to foot over enough of my pocket money to fund your needs as well, even if Dad treats you like shite. But ordinarily I wouldn’t stop you from working weekends. I just need to you do... The Ritual”

Bellamy glances at Seamus through the fronds of his hair, pausing briefly on the stairs. “We found a new artist again? This is going to be another rejection and disappointment like the last seven.”

Seamus didn’t offer a reply to that.

“Christmas was ESPECIALLY disappointing. Why did Aymee recommend that imbecilic Rothko wannabe then?”

“I told you to call me Ichigo, ya dunhead!” A shriek of protest wafts up to greet Bellamy’s query. Aymee seemed pretty firm on some aspects of their identity, clearly.

“DULY NOTED.” Bellamy yelled back down, before resuming his slow descent with Seamus to sit down in the last empty spot in the sofa, next to Marcus. “So this is our prospective new Artist Brother....” he idly observed, watching Marcus with the same sort of feigned disinterest a lizard might give to a passing meal insect. “Specialization? Year? These are things we need to know.”

Marcus took a deep breath and repeated his introduction from earlier. Bellamy showed a sort of disimpressedness after he’d finished. “You repeated two years.... Ordinarily, I would say that’s underachieving, but Rahul did tell us sculpting as a specialization in art was pretty much dead. Everyone seems to want to approach it from the angle of a computer class with virtual tools and goggles and, while that’s a valid approach in its own merits, we DID appoint Rahul precisely because he brought something different to the table by being a sculptor working in actual materials rather than bits and voxels. I move to ignore the fact that you repeated a year twice. It wasn’t your fault.”

More nods around the sofa. “Any disagreements as to why Marcus Manners should not become our Artist Brother? Anyone? No?” Bellamy asked.

Aymee nudged Seamus. “You seemed to have some misgivings earlier, Seamus. Aren’t you going to share them with us?”

Seamus pondered, chin resting in hand for a bit... “Nothing serious or urgent, nothing worth going into conflict with little bro about. Voting with Bellamy Arendt in favor of Marcus’ introduction.”

Aymee sat back, watching Seamus curiously. “Some day, I swear, you’ll actually cast your vote and express some misgivings in conflict with your brother on a vote. It will be interesting to watch it happen, I say...” A short pause as if to give Seamus and Bellamy time to consider this possibility ever happening. “I sponsored his entry into the Brotherhood. Obviously I’m voting in favor of his inclusion. No misgivings to state.”

Bellamy idly observed all this happening.... “We have three votes in favor of Marcus joining us, the vote is unanimous... Welcome to the Brotherhood, Marcus... Now, Seamus bro, if you would get the newcomer hat for Marcus and a shot of our strongest drink for each of us, and we can finish the Ritual. Turret Number 3, standby to take a 3D-photo. And this time, we don’t want a repeat of what happened at Christmas.”

A turret hidden somewhere inside the living room beeped furiously as if in protest.

“Suuuure, that was an accident, shooting the new Artist six times with tranquilisers. It sure chased him out fast.” Bellamy glanced upward at the eaves.

More folorn synthetic squealing.

And then, nothing else of note or problematic nature happened. At least that was the plan as Marcus wore what was apparently a silly polka dot lampshade on his head and threw down his own shot of the ‘strongest drink in the house’. The last thing he remembered that night was hearing Seamus yelp in frustration... “I thought I told you to throw away the Everclear, Aymee – HIC! why did you keep it?’....

-------------

“Mr Manners? Mr Manners? Are you still there?” the voice of Mr Osworn rang audibly.

Marcus shook his head a little. He had fallen into a reverie. The premium rejuvenation therapy reversed a lot of aging, but it still left the patient with the memories of the years past. Sometimes, it was all too easy to slip into the past and briefly ignore the present... apparently he’d done it at a bad time. “I.... had some rejuve reverie.... sorry.”

Mr Osworn smiled and tapped on his tablet, watching his gear slowly fold back into a more compact flying pattern as if it signal an end to today’s interview. “I did ask you to go back to times long past. That can sometimes... cause reveries in folks who’ve wound back more years. Still, I think we should continue this interview next week.” He nodded as he stood up. “Besides, something important kept beeping on your communicator these last few minutes. Perhaps work-related? You SHOULD check...”

Marcus blinked a little as Mr Osworn showed himself out, pausing to thank Julie as she easied his spring warming coat onto him on the way out in the doorway to the front door. He thought about stuff... a few minutes of idling in a busy morning.

He looked down and started looking his notifications. The usual spam, low priority corporate mail calls... stuff he had long risen above and set Agents to intercept and mange for him... One thing did get past, ignored by the agents. He had long joked that the 4 in a circle, as a postmark on selected emails, made the Brotherhood look either like a bunch of Marvel comics rejects, or some weird Illuminati wannabees. But Marcus also recognized it for what it was: a note demanding so much careful handling the brothers routed it through a circuit in the Arendtcore networks not known to most of the staff who’d joined the company when it had become more than just four brothers lazing and fidding with stuff in a frat house.

What could be so important? Perhaps Seamus had found a new lawyer they could trust as deeply as they had Aymee back in the early years. He frowned a little at that thought – it brought up many memories, both good and bad. He had something to remember her by, in that regard, but some might have said it violated some supposedly ironclad rules he had always insisted on... He didn’t care, it was about his happiness, and he wanted to be happy even if it meant being wrong about something he stood for.

“SENATOR BUNDT DEAD AT 126. SKIIING ACCIDENT. EXECUTE PREVIOUSLY AGREED HANDLING, END-OF-LIFE CLEAN-UP PROCEDURES.”

Marcus read the message. Then he read it again. Then, just to be extra sure, he’d opened the Unified Press article attached to the message. Poor sod had so many years left in front of him, having started premium rejuve earlier than most people would as old money.

---
That was the thing about the rejuve.

It undid more damage the more money you could regularly stump and the earlier you began taking the pills.

But it only undid the damage that getting older caused. And even then, not all of it.

And if you were somehow exceedingly stupid, you could do something very stupid that no amount of money thrown at rejuve of any quality could fix.

Like the severe trauma of skating into a nice thick oak tree at high speed.
---

He had taken his wife, his daughter, and his son along, all of them now under tight guard by Arendtcore Security to “preserve their privacy”. Marcus frowned as he sipped the remainder of his chilled water, now slightly lukewarm after two or three hours of neglect. Bundt had saved Arendtcore by giving it a major monopoly in the early days and was a firm supporter of its operations throughout his life, but he had also forced it into a sort of devil’s bargain. He wondered briefly if it had truly been a benefit securing those licenses and monopolies from a position of being forced to abandon their planned unique selling points...

Marcus decided after a while not to do any further pointless what-ifs... One finger went to the intercom panel on the table. “Julie, hon? Can you get me the red standby suitcase? I need to make an urgent trip. Work related...”

“Certainly, dear... But you know, I did plan on celebrating your birthday this Friday... will you be back by then?” ... the honeyed tones he was so familiar and warmed up to like wildfire came on, a sort of hesitant unhappiness filtering through the crackle of the intercom.

“I suspect not, not if I want to do a proper and thorough job.” Marcus paused to let Julie take it in. Poor Julie Manners, wedded to a workaholic and perfectionist in a line of work where perfection had never truly been possible... There were things he could do to totally alleviate her boredom of course...

Marcus didn’t think for long before he decided not to do those things. If Arendtcore was going to drag him out to work so hard, he wasn’t going to let them deal with Julie easily. They were going to have to get her the reduced groceries, keep watch over her in their idyllic little home.

“I’m sorry honey... Look, I’ll make it up to you after I get back, when I get back. We’ll get a simple cake, a small sparkling tipple for two, and yes, I know you hate prepacked meals, but I’ll get some. I want you to rest when we celebrate, and I want you to give me all your time...” Marcus sheepishly went on.

“... .... Honey, the red suitcase hasn’t been unsealed since you packed it a year ago. I’ll leave it near the front door.” Julie resumed her steadforth tones, but there was still a lingering sort of disappointment. Marcus frowned at that. Sometimes, the way she was could be a curse. Usually it was more of a blessing, but not when she had to be left alone for a prolonged period, not even with Arendtcore coming around regularly to make sure she was okay and safe in his absence.

He hung up, then dialled his smartphone. He needed Arendtcore to do a few other things as well, there was no way in hell he could make the trip both ways in his usual little buggy, they would have to send something a little robust, as well as pack a certain set of kits he needed when a client requested ‘those postmortem cleanup services’....

[Motto-motto]

The atmosphere you’ve built is genuinely brilliant, it feels lived-in, layered, and quietly unsettling in the best way.

The characters really stick with you, especially the way so much is implied rather than spelled out. I finished it feeling properly intrigued and very much wanting more.

Seriously great work, I’m hooked.