Lose 10 Pounds of Ugly Fat... Cut Off Your Head

I wrote this back in... January? Since it's wayyyyy out of order and possibly kind of "so what?" without context, I didn't share it at the time. But alien_writings requested a recent thing in Brendan voice, so here it is. Concrit and questions are cool, just be gentle because I'm really weird about sharing my things lately.



There’s a storm coming but I’m the only one who can feel it.

The sky above is clear, blacker than black and filled with stars except for the thin strip where the light from the border lamps washes it out. Nightbirds call out to each other, blissfully unaware. A cool breeze blows, sighing over the sand dunes and filling my nose with the sweet, almost sickening scent of flowers that only open in the dark.

Inside me, though, a wind’s whipping up. Kalen doesn’t notice any more than the birds do, and that only makes me madder. He’s my brother, my best friend as far back as I can remember. It’s always scared the shit out of him, the way the rage takes me. Used to be he could sense it creeping up, smell it on the air like ozone.

Not anymore.

Now it’s like I don’t even exist, like nobody does. The fact that he hasn’t noticed I’m here right now pretty much says it all. He’s only thirteen but he’s already being scouted--practically has been since birth. Kalen’s that good, so good that he skipped a grade and started Academy last fall when I did. He outranks me already, along with everyone else in Year One and half of Year Two. I train twice as hard as him for maybe half the results.

Part of that’s my own fault. I’m always letting my temper get the best of me, rushing into things half-assed just like I did tonight. If I’d been thinking clearly, I never would’ve picked this stupid tumblebrush as a place to hide. It’s prickly and its branches keep poking me through the pajama pants I didn’t have a chance to change out of. My legs itch like crazy and the dry branches rustle loud enough to blow my cover every time I move enough to scratch.

Kalen, though, he always keeps a level head. Which is why he should’ve caught me by now-- why he would’ve, if he weren’t so different these days. No one but me seems to see how he’s changed. He’s quit hanging out with me and the other guys and hides out all the time in his room, building his stupid robots. He’s always been into that junk, but now it’s all he does--except for whatever it is he’s up to when he sneaks out late at night.

Up until now, I was hoping he’d turn out to be meeting one of the girls from school to make out or something. Except girls throw themselves at his feet all the time and he pretty much ignores them, so I figured maybe it’d be one of the guys from school instead. I was okay with that, really. Some people might look at him funny if they found out, but he’s still my brother either way. Either way, I’d have gone home laughing and I wouldn’t have to worry anymore.

Too bad that’s not going to happen.

Kalen’s waiting for someone, all right, fidgeting and running a hand through his hair every so often. But the way he’s staring at the chainlink fence in front of him, I don’t think it’s anyone from this side of the border, let alone someone from school. The hairs on the back of my neck rise and I’m suddenly too warm despite the breeze. I don’t want to think about what business he’d have with someone from the Other Side, why he’d go against everything we’ve both been raised to believe in--

A figure, tall and freakishly thin, appears on the opposite side of the fence.

“You’re late,” Kalen says.

Dead silence.

“I brought you something.” Kalen pulls a small object from the pocket of his jeans and pokes it through a gap in the fence.

The figure steps forward with a noiseless grace that gives me the creeps. There’s a flash of movement as whoever it is takes whatever Kalen’s offered and pockets it. Half hidden by the pulled-up hood of a bulky black sweatshirt, the stranger’s face looks shadowed and gaunt. It’s hard to make out features, to even tell if it’s a guy or a girl. Not that it matters--male or female, this long-limbed... person obviously isn’t one of us.

My jaw clenches and so do my fists, tight enough to be painful.

“You got anything for me today?” Kalen holds out a cupped hand.

So quick that it’s barely more than a blur, the stranger’s own hand moves. Something about the size and shape of a waveless earpiece glints in the weak lamplight as it slides through the chain links and drops into my brother’s open palm.

My brother.

A pulse beats below my eye as I watch Kalen’s back. It’s what I do, what I’ve been doing since I was old enough to stand, not that he appreciates it. All my life I’ve been a lightning rod for Father’s fury, bearing the brunt of it so Kalen doesn’t have to. Weathering his rages so they won’t so much as ruffle my brother’s golden hair--and for what? So he can sneak out here and trade information with the enemy?

My vision goes funny, like I’m seeing everything through a rounded lens. Blood roars in my ears.

“What’s wrong?” Kalen asks. He sounds far away.

I open my mouth instinctively to answer, but he’s not looking at me. His attention is fixed on the stranger, who grips the links of the fence and peers through it with narrowed eyes--eyes that flash an unnatural yellow as they lock onto mine. My bowels turn to water.

We stare each other down for a long moment. All of a sudden, the stranger looks away, stumbling backward jerkily and sneezing twice into one sleeve. I blink. It’s a surprisingly human sound. The figure straightens up quickly. It--he?--looks directly at me.

“Storm’s coming,” he says. “Best be inside when it does.”

A chill races through me even though I’m burning up inside. He feels it, same as I do--the thunderheads gathering, the deadly current thrumming in my veins. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, my throat closes up--

“What?” Kalen glances up at the sky. “But it’s not even overcast.”

The stranger disappears, there one minute and gone the next.

My heart speeds up and a familiar gray haze comes over everything. I’m mad enough to kill but I don’t know why. The memory of how I got here, where “here” even is--they’re just… gone. I don’t recognize the person in front of me, facing the fence, but I know I want to beat the shit out of him.

The wind howls, loud enough to hear over the thudding in my ears. Sand swirls around me, blotting out what’s left of my vision. There’s an ache at the back of my throat, a dull sense that something’s not right. The storm’s supposed to be in me, not out there. I should do some deep breathing, maybe pray or try to calm down. Figure out what’s going on.

I don’t care. I close my eyes and let the storm roll in.

“Brendan.”

I blink, startled by Kalen’s voice. My fingers lose their grip on the glass of milk I’m holding. It shatters on the kitchen floor. I look down at the white puddle spreading over the smooth stone tile, the broken shards sparkling in the morning sun.

“Shit,” I mumble, bending to clean up the mess. My head’s fuzzy and my body doesn’t want to do what I tell it to do.

A gentle hand touches my arm. “Let me do it,” Kalen says.

Numbly, I nod. As I watch him pick up the pieces, moving with his usual grace, the weirdest feeling washes over me. My skin prickles with chill-bumps and my mouth goes dry. Something’s not right, but I can’t place what it is.

Kalen stops suddenly, looking up at me with blameless blue eyes. “You okay, bro?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” I scratch the back of my neck, trying to put my finger on what’s bothering me.

His forehead scrunches up. “You spaced out big-time, right before you dropped your glass.”

“Huh.” I rub my eyes. They’re swollen and heavy. “I just… you ever feel like you’re forgetting something really important?”

Title: Wisdom
Prompt: Memories and Brother/Sister
Bonus? No
Word Count: 664
Rating: PG-13 for a couple f-bombs.
Original/Fandom: Original (Cliffton)
Pairings (if any) None
Warnings (Non-Con/Dub-Con etc): None
Summary: Brendan and Kalen used to be closer than twins. Now, things are different.



"Ashlynn Farrell likes you," Brendan says.

I shrug without looking up from my half-assembled robot. People always like me now. Inside, I'm still the weird kid they beat up in Second Year. Outside, I'm one of them. I fit in - it's what I do. It's like breathing.

"No, I mean she likes you," Brendan insists.

"So?" I'm much more concerned with making these lasers work than with some silly girl.

"Half the kids in tenth year want to date you. The rest want to be you. And all you care about are your stupid robots and those weird insurgents you keep sneaking out to meet. What a fucking waste." Rage bakes off him in waves.

"How did you - " Taken aback, I put down my tools. "You're not going to tell anyone, are you?" The thought alone makes my mouth go dry. Even speaking against the War is treason. If anyone finds out I've been meeting people from the Splinternet, people who harbor the same doubts I do...

"Don't worry, little brother," Brendan sneers. "I won't tell anyone you're not who they think you are."

A wave of relief washes over me.

"Why the fuck would you do that, though, bro? You have everything a kid could want - perfect grades, popularity, a guaranteed spot on a fighting squad. Why would you risk it all?" Brendan turns on his heel and stomps toward the door.

"It's not what I want," I call after him. "Haven't you ever wondered what we're fighting for?"

"No, and if you had any sense, you wouldn't either." His mouth is set in a thin line, lips white.

"It's just... the Other Side - they're people too," I tell him. "They're people just like us."

Brendan snorts and says nothing.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I demand.

"Who the hell are you to talk about people, Kalen?"

I just stare at him. Brendan can go from calm to angry and back a hundred times in an hour. Sometimes it scares me. He says he won't tell, but you never know. You never know what he'll do.

"It's all just a fucking game to you," he continues.

"What else is it supposed to be?" I ask. "Why do girls and dances matter when there's a War out there? A War I'm forced to fight, whether I believe in it or not."

"People matter, Kalen." Brendan throws up his hands. "For a genius, you can be so fucking stupid. I see the way you are - keeping everyone at arms' length, even me. Stop acting like you're better than me just because I want friends. You can't just go through life alone and have it be okay. No one can."

"Brendan, those people at school aren't my friends. They'd turn on me in a second, given the chance."

"I used to be your friend. Now you don't need me anymore," he says in a small voice.

"You're still my friend," I tell him. "You're my brother. Nothing can ever change that."

"Then why don't you talk to me?"

"It's better for everyone if you're not involved in what I'm doing. The last thing I want is to take you down with me if I'm caught." I sigh and rub my temples. Brendan wears me out with his anger and emotion, his constant need for reassurance.

"I'm involved now anyway," Brendan says softly. "Knowing what I know could get me blacklisted. Everyone would hate me and I'd never be allowed on a fighting team. And unlike you, I want to fight. More than anything."

"I know, Brendan. Everyone here wants to fight."

"Yeah, but I'm not 'everyone'. I'm your brother." Brendan's eyes are clear. The storm seems to have passed for now. "And I wish you'd spend more time with me, even if we are different. I'm not gonna be around forever, you know."

I nod, but my attention is already back on my workbench. Where's Brendan going to go, anyway?




This story takes place in the "Cliffton" universe I've used in a few of my other stories. If you haven't read them already and want to, they are in the Cliffton section of this post. This scene takes place before any of the others, when Kalen and Brendan are 14 and 15 years old. In the weeks he spends alone during The Vacuum Of Time, he thinks back on it and sees Brendan's words in a different light.

My palms sweat and my thoughts race as I walk down the hall. While I've run numerous groups in my two years working at the Rainey Institute, this one is going to be something else entirely.

They're going to eat me alive, I think. This isn't like running Grief Group or Anger Management. Any group leader can identify with those issues. How am I supposed to find common ground with these patients, though?

I enter the room to find my participants already there, awaiting my arrival. There are eleven of them - ten people and one robot - spread across four rows of mostly-empty seats. Here goes nothing, I think, taking a deep breath.

"Hi, everyone. My name is Sarah and I'll be facilitating this group today. It's my first time leading this particular group, so please bear with me and hopefully we can all learn together."

A dark-haired woman in the back row snorts. "What could I possibly learn from you? You're scared to death right now."

"This group will give you the opportunity to talk with others who have been in the same situation as you." I do my best to appear confident in the face of her scrutiny.

"Somehow, I doubt that." The woman shoots me a haughty glare, crossing her arms.

"Okay, then," I continue. "This is a support group for people suffering from Uncooperative Fictional Character Disorder. As I've never been a fictional character myself, I can't say I identify with what you all go through. But that's why we're here. In this session, you'll have the chance to talk about your feelings with other people who've experienced the same things you have."

Nine pairs of human eyes and one pair of electronic ones stare at me in stony silence. In one corner of the room, a man with shaggy white hair sits on the floor and picks at the torn knee of his jeans.

This is going swimmingly so far, I think.

"Um, let's all introduce ourselves. First names will suffice. Please also tell the group how you're feeling today and a little bit about why you're here."

More blank stares.

"Okay, I'll go first," I say, trying not to sound intimidated. "My name is Sarah and I'm feeling nervous right now. I'm not a fictional character, but we don't have any of those working here at the Rainey Institute. They picked me to run this group because sometimes I'm a writer."

With what I hope is an encouraging nod, I address the petite blonde girl sitting in the front row.

"Hi, my name is Sam?" It sounds like a question rather than a statement. She fidgets in her chair and falls silent. A young man of Asian descent with a long ponytail is seated beside her. He grabs her hand and gives it a supportive squeeze, and she speaks again. "Um, I'm feeling depressed and I'm here because I stared at my best friend's butt during an important plot point."

Sam's friend twitches and almost falls out of his chair.

"You what?"

"It... it was an accident," Sam mumbles. "I didn't know it was you." Her friend looks disappointed.

"Um, I'm Daisuke," Sam's friend jumps in before I can ask any more questions. "Right now, I'm feeling, well... kind of shocked. I'm here because I lived in a fantastical world for a year and a half and refuse to talk to anyone about what happened while I was there."

Sam keeps shooting Daisuke nervous looks when she thinks he isn't looking. Daisuke examines his fingernails.

Thanking him, I glance at the two young men seated in the second row. Both are well-dressed, one young and blonde and the other slightly older with dark hair and glasses. They are engaged in a furious make-out session and oblivious to anyone else in the room. I clear my throat, but they don't appear to notice. I'm about to move on to the next participant when a condescending female voice speaks up from the back of the room.

"The pretty yellow-haired one is Jazz and the perverted one is Savin. They're a couple of idiots." It's the dark-haired woman who called me out at the beginning of the session.

Jerking away from his partner, Jazz looks at the woman with alarm. Savin gives her a cursory glance, then resumes kissing Jazz with impressive fervor. Jazz continues to eye the woman for a moment, then shrugs and returns his attention to Savin.

Sighing, I move on. In the third row of seats, a group of four men in their teens or early twenties sit with a feminine-looking robot. I catch the eye of an olive-skinned boy with shocking blue eyes and blonde hair. He offers me a shy smile.

"I'm Kalen, and I am feeling... overwhelmed? I'm here because I committed an act of terrorism by sneezing, thereby turning what was supposed to be a serious story into a new genre called 'goofy dystopia'." Kalen nudges the robot, who is sitting to his left.

"I'm CallaBot. I have no idea why I'm here. Robots don't need therapy." She glares at me, eyes glowing as if lasers are about to emanate from them. Feeling a trickle of sweat roll down the small of my back, I do my best not to flinch. CallaBot turns to the large muscular young man to her left, who appears to be sleeping, and punches him hard in the arm.

"Wake up, numbnuts!"

"OW!" The brawny young man jerks awake with a shout. "Why'd you do that?"

"It's your turn, Shit-For-Brains." At least the fembot is glaring at him instead of me now.

"Um... hi? I'm Brendan."

"Name. How you're feeling. Why you're here. It's not rocket science, seriously." A young man with Mediterranean features and long dark hair stares at Brendan with a disdainful expression that rivals CallaBot's laser eyes.

"Shut up, Devin!"

"Whatever, you troglodyte."

"What?" Brendan looks puzzled.

"Exactly." Devin smirks.

"Can we get to the point already? This is getting boring." The dark-haired woman in the back row stands up. "I'm Jordine. I do what I want. Period."

Jordine points at Brendan. "This one doesn't follow orders."

Gesturing at Devin, she continues.

"This one cracks jokes at inappropriate times and loses his sense of humor at crucial moments. And the one next to him, Wes, thinks that real life is exactly like an episode of NebulaQuest, a fictional 'neurovision' show." She punctuates the word "neurovision" with sarcastic air quotes.

"How did you know all that? Are you some kind of mind-reader?" Wes is staring at Jordine with rapt adoration.

"Yes." Jordine doesn't even spare Wes a glance. She directs her piercing gaze to the white-haired man in the corner, who is still paying no attention to anyone else in the room.

"And this one." Her words drip with disgust. "I don't even know where to begin. He has a perfectly good proper name, but insists on being called The Straw Man instead, making all references to him awkward and ungainly. When his Author wants to write him, he's nowhere to be found. At times when the Author has a million other projects, he begs to be written, promising to behave, only to run away at inopportune moments. Besides all of that, he has no concept of time and his thought processes look like something Salvador Dali vomited up once."

Jordine glares at the Straw Man, who looks up, startled. He stares at her for a moment, whimpers like a kicked dog, and shrinks away. Sam jumps out of her seat and runs over to comfort him as Daisuke eyes him with open hatred.

"This is ridiculous." Jordine snorts, rising and making for the door. "I'm leaving. Have fun exploring your feeeeeeeeeelings."

Sighing, I look at the clock. Only twenty minutes have passed. What am I supposed to do with the rest of the hour?




Author's Note: Thank you so much to theun4givables, who allowed me to borrow her characters (Jordine, Jazz and Savin) for this story.

"Kalen, it's been 3 weeks." CallaBot's voice is tinged with panic. "You have to come out sometime."

Lying on my bed, I stare at the ceiling and say nothing.

"Come on, Kalen - it's anarchy out here." My wooden door shudders as CallaBot pounds it with her metal fists.

For a moment, I consider giving in to my best friend's request. I'm supposed to be the leader of our little group, after all. How can I be responsible for anyone right now, though? I'm coming apart at the seams. I sigh and wait for her to go away.

"Seriously, Kalen," CallaBot says, "Enough is enough." I hear a low humming sound from outside my bedroom and notice my doorknob glowing bright red.

That can't be good, I think. Then there's a zapping sound, a clatter, and a stream of loud cursing from CallaBot.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Devin?" she shrieks.

Devin speaks in hushed tones; I can't make out his response. Under normal circumstances, he isn't the quietest guy, so I'm guessing he doesn't want me to hear what he's saying. Tiptoeing over to the door, I rest my ear against it.

"If he were going to do it on his own, he would have by now," CallaBot says.

"Whatever," Devin snorts. "It's not like he can stay in there forever."

"Well, he wouldn't be able to, Numbnuts," CallaBot's tone is icy. "If somebody didn't keep leaving meals outside his door."

Devin grunts and says nothing.

Huh. I was wondering who was responsible for that. Three quick knocks, a fork and knife shoved under the door, then nothing. By the time I looked out into the hall, there was never anyone there.

How would he disappear that fast? I think. He must have been using an InvisiSuit.

"Why do you insist on coddling him, anyway?"

"For fuck's sake, Calla... he just lost his brother."

"Since when are you Mr. Sensitive?" CallaBot demands.

"Shut the fuck up, okay?" Devin's voice sounds... odd. "And leave him the fuck alone or I'll deactivate you."

CallaBot must be aware that Devin's threat is an empty one. She could take him down in a matter of seconds. Even armed, I wouldn't give him more than a 5 percent chance of overpowering her. She doesn't call him on it, though - doesn't even bother with one of her signature verbal slapdowns.

I'm still wondering why when I hear the metallic clank of her stomping away down the hall.

* * * * *
"Hey dude, you up for some SimFighting?" Wes calls through my door one evening.

Same old Wes, I think wearily. Pathologically cheerful, just like always.

"You don't even have to come out," Wes says, "We can play from separate rooms."

I sigh and continue my thorough examination of the ceiling.

"Please?" Wes sounds almost desperate. "Devin always kicks my ass and I'm tired of it."

Under different circumstances, I'd smile at that. I don't have the heart to tell him I let him win.

"Dude, you know we're all worried about you, right?"

That gets to me a little. It doesn't matter, though. As bad as I feel about freaking out my friends, I'm just not ready to talk. I don't want to see their pitying looks or hear their sympathetic words. There's no way any of them can understand what I'm going through.

"Well, I guess I'll go now," Wes says softly. "I'll leave your headset out here in case you want it."

I wait until the echo of his footfalls dies away before I crack the door and grab the headset. Though I'm not interested in a SimFighting match with Wes, I am getting pretty tired of lying around and doing nothing.

Who knows? I think. A little simulated killing might take my mind off things for a while.

Putting on my headset, I fire up "Splinternet Battle Mode". Random strangers aren't going to try to get me to open up. The mindless action of the fight is a good distraction. Since I'm damn good at this game, there's the added bonus of feeling like I've accomplished something for the first time in over a month. Before I know it, I've been playing for hours.

Reluctantly, I pull off my headset and collapse into bed. That's when the ugly thoughts come.

You don't deserve to have fun - not with Brendan dead.

Shivering, I pull my blanket up to my chin and try to think about something else.

What kind of monster are you? Taking pleasure in blowing people up after what happened to him?

"It's only a game!" I don't realize I've spoken aloud until the sound of my own voice makes me jump.

Was it a game to Brendan?

I close my eyes and will my brain to shut itself off.

It's your fault he's gone. You were the leader. You let him go in there.

Throwing back the covers, I climb out of bed. It's obvious I won't be sleeping anytime soon - might as well play a little longer. Hell, I've got all the time in the world now. Might as well not stop at all.

* * * * *
My eyes don't seem to be focusing very well anymore. The projected image of my SimFighting match doubles and blurs. I blink, hoping to clear my vision, but it doesn't help much.

"Shit!" I mutter as my SimFighter explodes.

My head feels a little funny. For the first time, it occurs to me to wonder how long I've been playing without a break. I remove my headset and stand up, thinking I'll just go to the bathroom and splash some water on my face. A wave of dizziness smacks into me like a fist. Grabbing a chair to steady myself, I wait until it passes.

Stumbling into the bathroom, I wash my face. When I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror I do a double-take. Not only do I need a shave in a major way, my hair is so greasy it almost looks brown instead of blonde.

Nasty, I think. How long has it been since I bathed?

Shaking my head, I punch the "on" button for my washing station. Jets of water shoot out, heated to my personal specifications. The steaming water sluicing over my body makes me feel a bit better. I stand under it for a long time, feeling some of my tension melt away.

I've just finished showering and wrapped a towel around my waist when I hear three short knocks. My stomach rumbles - who knows when my last meal was? I wait for Devin to leave so I can snatch whatever food he's brought.

Only he doesn't go away. There's more knocking, insistent this time.

"Hey buddy, you okay in there?"

Something in Devin's tone makes me want to respond, but I fight the urge. Stepping out of the bathroom, I notice a small pile of forks and knives scattered in front of the door. It really has been a while since I ate.

"Look, Kalen," Devin says through the door. "I get it if you don't want to talk. Really, I do. And that's cool. There's a lot I don't want to talk about, too. It's just..."

My unintentional fast must be getting to me, because I swear Devin's voice breaks a little.

"CallaBot tried to blast her way into your room and I told her to stop," he says.

Irritation bubbles up inside me. All I want is for Devin to stop talking so I can finally eat.

"So, um," he continues, "Do you think you could just tell me you're still fucking alive in there? Because if you're not, it's my fucking fault and I - "

My hand reaches for the doorknob when Devin trails off, but I pull it back.

"I don't want to be responsible for that too, okay?" he finishes.

Before I realize what I'm doing, I've yanked the door open. Devin almost drops the plate of food he's holding. I fumble for words - it's been weeks, maybe months, since I've spoken to another person.

"Up for some SimFighting?" I croak. "Bet I can kick your ass - I've had a lot of practice lately."

It's a really stupid thing to say, but it doesn't matter. In that moment, it's enough.



(using this story to fill the 500themes prompt "The Vacuum of Time" found here and the "nervous breakdown" square on my hc_bingo card)

I've memorized my bedroom ceiling. There's the grease spot near the center. Wes threw a slice of pizza once. Who knows why, except he's Wes. Near the window is a greenish splotch - a spill in Devin's attic lab. I analyze the shapes of those stains like a child watching clouds.

The burn mark by the door, though - my eyes skate away from it every time.

Brendan lost his temper - fired a nanoblaster. That's my brother, so hotheaded, always ready to sacrifice himself for a cause. And he did.

I don't look over there. Looking makes it true.

Goodbyes have been said, and now it's time for action. As Devin always says, this is gonna be fucking epic.

So far, there's been no trouble. Every door has opened on command, just as Devin promised. CallaBot and I creep through the corridors of the WeaponsDev facility in silence, headed for the building's center. It feels like hours before we finally reach our destination, but patience has never really been my strong suit. Pushing open the door to the men's bathroom, I'm about to enter when I notice CallaBot hanging back.

"You coming?" I ask.

"Well, it's a men's bathroom." Her tone is unusually hesitant.

"Oh, give me a fucking break!" I snicker. "We're about to destroy a major government facility, and that's what you're worried about? Anyway, you're a robot now. According to the law, you're neither male nor female."

"Fine, whatever," she says, and follows me inside.

The door has barely swung shut behind us when there's a humming sound from out in the hall. Cracking the door and peering around the jamb, I see robots approaching. My heart leaps into my throat; there must be at least 20 of them.

"Calla!" I hiss. "SecurityBots, heading right for us!"

"You stay here," CallaBot says. "I'll talk to them and convince them we're no threat."

As she disappears into the hall, I shuck off my InvisiSuit. It's fucking hot in this place, and I breathe a grateful sigh once I'm free of the extra layer of insulation. Just as I'm about to remove my wrinkled explosive suit as well, I hear a commotion outside. I open the door a tiny bit, just in time to hear a sizzling noise and then a loud pop.

"CallaBot, you okay out there?"

No answer.

Stepping out into the hall, I cough as I inhale the acrid odor of fried circuitry. Trying not to breathe too deeply, I survey the scene before me. It's one of utter confusion.

More than half of the security robots are disabled. Most appear to have been beaten or shot down. One or two are standing stock still on the edge of the fracas while another slams itself repeatedly into a wall. The remaining seven SecurityBots encircle Calla, who does nothing to defend herself as they pelt her with metal fists and shoot her with blue lasers. Even with the superior shields Kalen's devised for her, I'm sure she can't withstand much more of this.

"Calla, what the hell?" I shout. "Why the fuck aren't you fighting back?"

Her mechanical eyes, staring straight ahead, don't even meet mine.

"Devin," I say, "There's something wrong with CallaBot! How do I fix her?"

Nothing.

Devin's supposed to be able to hear me over his neurovision implant. Maybe whatever's messed up CallaBot has disrupted our communications as well. I guess it doesn't matter; any way you look at it, I'm on my own.

"Fucking hell!" I yell to no one in particular. "Now what am I supposed to do?"

Shoving my way past the SecurityBots, I grab Calla's arm. Searing pains shoot through my arm, the back of my neck, and my lower spine as the robots turn on me. While the explosive suit provides protection against instant death, it's not enough. There's a smell like barbecue; I'm pretty sure it's my own burning flesh.

"Calla," I say, looking into her blank electronic eyes, "if you can hear me, get the fuck out of here now!"

Though her gaze shows no recognition, she says, "Yes, human," and shoots off down the hall. Focused on me, the SecurityBots don't even bother to follow her. My entire body is in agony as their lasers strike me again and again.

"Devin," I try once more. "Can you hear me? I could really use some help in here."

Still no response.

I may not be a genius like my brother Kalen and his dorky pals, but I can think pretty well on my feet. There's no way for me to fight off all these robots on my own. I'm injured pretty badly and way outnumbered. If I can't reach Devin to help me disable them, I'm never getting out of here alive. There's only one good option - hold them off long enough for CallaBot to escape and then detonate my explosive suit.

Even half-dead, I'm no slouch in the fighting department. I manage to take down two of my metal attackers before the other five close in on me. Praying that Calla's made it out by now, I take a deep breath. This is it.

Today is a good day to die, I think.

Closing my eyes, I use the neural interface for the explosive suit to bring it online. My body tingles all over; the strange sensation almost blocks out the pain. Inside my brain, I hear Devin hollering at me through my neurovision chip. Communications must be up and running again.

"Why'd you do it, buddy?" Devin yells. "I could have helped you take down those SecurityBots!"

"BRENDAN!" Kalen screams in the background.

"It's too late now," Devin's voice is distraught. "There's no way to stop the explosion once the suit's warmed up."

I hear my brother sobbing. There's a whoosh, a rush of heat, an enveloping pain. Then everything goes dark.