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He comes home. Home. An ancient dictionary defines home as the place of one’s residence. Domicile. Abode. Habitat. A place of origin. An establishment providing care for individuals with special needs. A social unit formed by family living together. The objective in various games--
[Get on with it already.]
He comes home. Home is a building with four walls and a roof. He wears a black uniform with a high collar. He carries a bag over his shoulder full of books and or groceries, either is appropriate for the scene. He walks into the kitchen because the kitchen is the most important place for his purposes. He leaves the bag on the table because that is where bags are left.
“I’m home,” he says, because he is the Son, and that is what Sons say. Son scratches his leg with one of his feet and scratches his pale, slightly windblown hair. Impatience is expected. Impatience is, in fact, correct. Sons are restless people.
On the other side of the kitchen is another person. This person is generally female. This person is generally called Mother. This person looks up. Her hair is gathered around her shoulder in a loose braid. She smiles warmly. It is appropriate response.
“Welcome home,” says Mother. This is what Mothers say. She pulls a plate out of the oven and puts it on the table. It is covered with thick slices of milkbread, and a side of eggs and sliced flesh from a more minor species. “How was school?”
School. School is an organization which provides instruction. An institution for the teaching of children. A source of knowledge. A college or university. A group of scholars and teachers whom scribe to similar ideas--
[Don’t care.]
School is the place where the Son has come from. It is very important to the Son. It is a requirement for the establishment of the Son’s future, something Mother is very concerned for.
“It went all right,” says the Son. “I guess.”
“Just all right?” asks Mother. “You know I ask these questions because I care about your wellbeing. Would you like to sit down? Would you like to eat something? Food is very important for a young man of your age and build. Your biological functions are still in a generative state.”
“Eh, fine,” says Son. He sits down. He takes the plate. He picks it up. He takes a bite out of it and puts it down, crunching up the egg and bread and plastic and swallowing it.
“How is it?” asked Mother. Mother always likes to know that the Son enjoys her cooking. Mother cooks a lot. It is what Mother does in the kitchen.
“Crunchy,” says the Son.
“Tell me about school,” says the Mother. She leans over the table very eagerly.
“Uhhh.” The Son has to think about it. What do people do at school? It is a place where children learn. Children read. Children write. Popular subjects include history, mathematics, the study of medicine, the study of theology, the study of thermal engineering, the study of--
[Are we done yet.]
“Got into a fight,” says the Son. This is something that also happens at schools. Sometimes children are friends. Sometimes children are not friends. Sometimes children fight. The Son understands a lot about fighting.
“Did you?” asks Mother. “How did the fight go?”
“I killed some people,” says the Son, proudly.
“Really!” says Mother, because she is very proud of the Son’s accomplishments. “How many people did you kill?”
“A lot.”
“Please be more specific,” says Mother. “As your Mother your education is very important to me. How else will you become a fine member of society.”
“I dunno, like, ten or fifteen?”
“That’s wonderful,” says Mother. “I am so proud of you.”
She pats the Son’s head. The Son leans into it. The Son reaches out and drapes his arms over her shoulders. The Son leans in and puts their foreheads together. The Son looks up and tries to kiss her--
[Bzzt. Wrong.]
Mother puts her hand between them.
“Now, now,” says Mother, pushing the Son away. “That’s not how this one works.”
“But I’m bored ,” says the Son, “and we’re in a house. That’s what people do in houses, right?”
“Not this time.”
“Uggh,” says the Son. “This one’s the worst.”
“Would you like to try another one?”
[No.]
“YEAH?” says the Son.
“All right,” says Mother. “Welcome home, darling. How was work?”
“It was all right,” says Father. He puts his briefcase on the table. Fathers have briefcases 80% of the time.
“A-hem,” says Mother. “More forceful, I think?”
“It went fine.” Mother shakes her head. Father sighs. “It went very well today. Business was good. I killed fifteen people. They paid me for it.”
Mother beams. “That’s wonderful, darling. Would you like dinner?”
The plate is now a bowl of rice. The bowl of rice is covered with a thicker slab of flesh and part of a fish.
“Nah,” says Father. “I mean. Uh. No, honey, I do not feel like having dinner. We should do something else.”
“Would you like to go to the hotel?” asks Mother.
“Yeah,” says Father. “I would like to go to the hotel.”
Mother puts on a nicer dress. Father wears his suit. They walk up the stairs. They go to the hotel. An establishment that provides lodging and usually meals, entertainment, and various personal services for the public--
[You’ve got to be kidding me.]
--a hotel is a place where paired couples go to have sex. Sex is a typical function of every society on earth. Fathers and Mothers occasionally have sex. It is what produces children and various other social complications. The hotel is a building with four walls, a roof, elevators, stairs, and many doors. Father and Mother pass through three doors and an elevator. Father and Mother find the door which has a number 9. Father and Mother walk through this door. Mother takes off the dress. Father takes off his tie. Father takes off his tie. Father snarls and rips off his tie. Father pushes Mother onto the bed. Father kisses Mother on the mouth, neck, and the chest. Father kisses Mother on the stomach.
“Love you,” mutters Father. “Love you, love you, don’t go anywhere, all right?”
[Oh, gag.]
“A-hem,” says Mother.
“Come here,” says Father.
“Of course, darling,” purrs Mother, and Father crawls over her on the bed. Father takes a handful of her hair in his fist. Father shrugs out of his trousers, and settles over her, sinking onto her with a deep relieved sigh. She’s deep inside him and he’s got his face buried in her neck and finally, finally they can be one--
Mother pulls his face away from her with a sigh.
“Now, now,” she says, her hips stop moving. “I’m pretty sure it’s the other way around.”
“But I like it like this,” whines Father, shifting over her to savor the sensations. “It feels better like this. Can’t you just do it to me?”
“ Men don’t have vaginas,” says Mother, but she pauses and corrects herself. “ Most men don’t. Some do. Some don’t. The ones who are born biologically male do not.”
“I wasn’t born biologically anything,” grumbles Father, still trying to shift around and make something of wetness between his thighs. “And there’s so many versions, anyway. Binary gender is really stupid. Who cares which set I use. I can’t even remember which I’m supposed to have half the time anyway.”
“That is not the point of this exercise.”
“Then what is the point? I just want it to feel good.”
Mother sighs and lies back. “Very well,” she says. “Finish up and we can go play, Younger Brother.”
Younger Brother’s eyes light up.
“ Finally ,” he says. “Thanks, Brother. You’re the best.”
And he finishes up, gasping and grunting until he’s done. When he’s finished, he gets off, puts on his underwear, and runs out the door, down the stairs, and out into the field. A field is an open land area free of woods and buildings. It is also an area of land marked by the presence of particular objects or features, like dune fields. It can also be an area of cleared enclosed land used for cultivation or pasture, or a land containing a natural resource such as oil fields. Or an airfield.
[Or a place where a battle is fought. Don’t forget that.]
This field isn’t for battles. This field is for play. Because Younger Brother loves games. Younger Brother loves all sorts of games. There are countless to choose from. Today, he chooses baseball. Baseball takes place on a field shaped like a diamond. Traditionally, there are many players, but today it is just Younger Brother and Older Brother. This is fine, because Younger Brother likes Older Brother the best. Older Brother ties his hair back and picks up the ball. It is approximately a meter long, with a pair of bright blinking eyes--
“No, no, Brother,” laughs Younger Brother. “It’s supposed to be like this!”
He holds up a fist.
“Of course,” says Older Brother, and crumples the ball up to its proper size.
“Throw it,” says Younger Brother. “Throw it!”
Older Brother throws it. Younger Brother smacks it with a stick and sends it off into the sky, where it burns up and falls like a shooting star.
“Goal!” says Younger Brother.
“Shouldn’t that be a home run?” asks Older Brother.
“It means I win, anyway,” says Younger Brother.
[That means the game’s over.]
“Nevermind. It’s just 1-0. Throw it again,” insists Younger Brother.
[Home run. Woo. Just end it already.]
Older Brother throws it again. 2-0. He throws it again. 3-0. He throws it again, and again, until the sky is full of falling, burning things and the score is 362-0. Older Brother asks if Younger Brother would like to stop. Younger Brother isn’t tired yet. Older Brother frowns at that.
“But we’ve been doing this for awhile,” says Older Brother. “Look, it’s gotten dark.”
It has. They’ve created dozens of little burning stars in a deep black night sky.
“Good sons are home when it gets dark,” says Older Brother.
“Aw man,” says Younger Brother, “but it was just getting good . What’s wrong with playing around in the dark?”
“Bad things come out in the dark,” says Older Brother. “It’s not safe for children at this hour.”
“Who’s going to stop us? There’s no one here.”
“That may be. But all people are afraid of the dark. We should really--”
The sword strikes him in the back of his shoulder, he falls to his knees with a gurgling gasp. He twists around, arm scrabbling, but the android drives a heel through his head. The Older Brother crumbles. The Younger Brother crumbles. The world aroud them crumbles into white cubes. The white cubes scatter across the floor. 2B is a stain of black in an empty room. She shakes out her sword, struts across the room, and kneels. Across from her, the prisoner lies on his side. He twitches as she gets near.She runs her hand up his arm and along his face. She tips his face up, to have a look at him. He groans.
“9S,” she whispers, a slight waver in her voice. “You all right?”
9S struggles into a seated position. He only half manages it. He ends up with his forehead pressed against 2B’s shoulder.
“Thought they’d never shut up,” he murmurs. “Thanks for the assist.”
His hands are tied behind his back. His legs are bent out of shape. 2B cuts away his bindings and bends his joint back into place. His leg clicks and sparks, but it’ll move well enough. 2B pulls him to his feet. When he says, 2B pulls him into her arms instead.
“I’ve got you,” she says. His sensors tell him 2B smells like oil and flowers. Oil, from the spray of the machine’s life fluids, flowers, from whatever YoRHA uses to treat their uniforms when they’re undergoing repairs.
“Always do, don’t you,” mumbles 9S, letting his head lull against her. 2B goes tense under him. 9S doesn’t mind. He presses more firmly against her. “Can always count on it, can’t I? You’re always there for me, no matter where I go. No matter what I do…”
“Don’t speak,” she says.
“Don’t mind, you know,” he says, “I like having you around, you know? But, boy, this must be a pain for you. Always having to take care of me.”
“It’s not like that.”
“I know. You’re always so thorough about it, too. I mean, you really have to be sure I’m safe, right? And then I go and run into trouble again. Surprised you’re not bored.”
“I’m not bored,” she says, her voice strained. “9S, stop talking. You’ll be fine.”
“I know I will. I’ll wake up in the Bunker and it’ll be like nothing happened, right?”
2B says nothing. 9S laughs, weakly, dreamily. His hand is dangling limply by his side. He picks it up, slowly, purposefully.
“2B. Never told you, did I? Time with you’s like a dream. Except I always wake up before I get to my favorite part. The part where I get to… where I get to--”
He shoves the sword straight through her chest. She lets him. Her eyes are dark and unreadable.
“Thank you,” she whispers under him. Motor fluids run down her chin, and she’s still.
“2B,” says 9S, clutching her hand.
2B says nothing, lying among the flowers. 9S shakes her, slightly. Her weapons rattle, but there’s no response.
“2B,” says 9S. “Hey. It’s your turn.”
But 2B doesn’t answer.
“2B,” says 9S. “You’re supposed to kill me now, right?”
2B will never answer him again.
“Brother,” says 9S. “Please stop. I don’t like this anymore.”
2B opens her eyes, sits up, and wipes the trail of oil off her mouth.
“All right,” says Adam. “We’re done.”
Eve throws himself into his arms, sobbing heartily. Adam puts his arms around him and lets him. Tears is a natural response for humans. They do it when they’re sad, but also when they’re happy, but never more powerfully than in response to loss. He can feel that power now, as Eve clutches at him, nails digging into his shoulders so hard they nearly break skin. Adam murmurs into his brother’s hair, words he has discovered through his research might be considered comforting, then glances up across the white, empty courtyard.
“Now, how was that?” asks Adam.
Dangling from the high beams, the android doesn’t answer. It’s not that he can’t. The metal beams have pierced his side and his leg, but his vocalizers should be quite untouched.
“Was it everything you might have hoped for?” asks Adam.
The android’s lifts his head, slightly.
“A little… over… done…” mutters 9S.
“Ah,” sighs Adam. “I suppose there is no pleasing everyone.”