New forum, new year, new take.
I’ve been writing still, as much to my dismay, of what I initially started with Twiztid and the Art and Zen of Teen Babyhood.
However, most of my previous material was lost and expunged in a move. I had never planned to come back….but here I am.
This takes place after the (never completed) O.E. War, a combination (to keep me interested…) of Sci Fi, political undertones, and of course, infantilism. The point of this continuation of the Twiztid story is to end it, for good. So here’s the first part. I hope you like. I’m aware of several problems, I think, mostly due to the plot that has shaped up.
But I hope its good enough for some to like it. Let me know what you think, what I should change, etc. Oh, and I promise not to spend the better part of two years to get everything out.
And I know, if you’re familiar with my work, this seems highly derivitive. I’m really trying to break that habit, though, despite this stories lineage.
O. E. War
Super Spy Mini
based off of the fallout of ‘O.E. War Spy Mini’
She sat cross legged in a plush leather chair, a simple black dress with black hose and Gucci zip up boots, a darker shade of red. Her dark hair was pulled back as to look both professional and pleasant, because she had no idea why she found herself in front of the Director of Gibson Intelligence.
His plaque reading R. Gullful. He had beamed when she daintily took a seat and crossed her legs, she felt a nervousness that came with being readily objectified as a member of the tender gender. He cleared his throat, and the atmosphere went with it. “Mindy Prime, twenty four years old, excellent study, got through college by way of Industrial Espionage.”
Mindy smiled, a nervous tick. What was he getting at? “Well, you got me down. Not that I wouldn’t expect a director of intelligence to know all my secrets.”
R. Gullful smiled heartily, a brilliant timeless face that was meant to disarm and comfort in one straight shot. “I apologize. Its been a long time since I have worked with the young, and I have to say, timid.”
Mindy looked down, cheeks flush. “Well, thanks, I guess.”
R. Gullful tapped a sequence of characters on his desk, it at present displaying a QWERTY keyboard. Moving a large flat screen to a more easier seen stance. From Mindy’s angle: vidfeed beginning to blossom into a sequence of infotainment. A bumper at the bottom glowed red, reading ‘Above Top Secret, Compartmentalized Information’ “Gibson has weaponized some dissidents in Epson.” R. Gullful narrated; a flash of pistol butt, fleshing out slowly to a peculiar barrel that wouldn’t look out of place in a 1951 science fiction movie. “Obviously, Epson soldiers all taking the Genesis Medicine, there’s very little way of killing them outside of decarbonization.” A brief clip of one person leaning over a pile of charcoal ashes, picking some up and letting it sift out of his fingers. “And while we have protected ourselves throughly, the weapon drop being a rather untraceable arrangement, the operation is now a protracted failure.”
Mindy nodded, haltingly. What did any of this have to do with her?
R. Gullful tapped a button, the screen going blank. He unconsciously moved the monitor back to its original place, then leaned in, thumbs twiddling. “So, we obviously need to do some more ground work. Wouldn’t you say?”
Mindy shrugged, puzzled still. “I suppose so, though I couldn’t imagine how hard it’d be to get some intelligence.” She had scored information for a dozen companies, using the trickiest of methods. Hard copy to be shredded? Easy, optical scanners are small these days. She had worked contracts with a variety of people. She had studied people, slipping into an altered persona. Alter Mindy; no timidness, all business. Years of school plays and drama in college.
R. Gullful gleamed a Russianesque gummy porcelain grin. Then he leaned back. “You know,” he said, opening up a cedar box and removing from it an expensively ageless cigar. Lighting it. Can he smoke in here? Handing it to her.
Taking it, in a subdued manner, with her best sitting bow she received it and inhaled. Now coughing, him laughing. “Its a Cumana. Hard to come by, you know? I’ve not seen many ladies smoke cigars.” She cleared her throat. R. Gullful did a physical trip. “I’m sorry, this business is so steadfastly stoned and walled.”
In between coughs and puffs, she nodded in her best ‘Yes Sir!’ fashion.
R. Gullful taking a big puff, no cough. Exhaling smoothly. Leaning back in that large leather recliner. “Here you are,” he guffulled. “Smoking a cigar with a big bull.”
Again she nodded in that polite lady like sitting bow. R Gullful slammed his hand down. “Stop it!”
Straight and hard, a blade of concentration. Anger seething…no, tasting more like nervousness. An angry, tense, teen angst. WHAT WAS SHE THERE FOR?!
“I’m sorry,” R. Gullful said. He snubbed out his cigar, in a silver ashtray. In the middle it flew an Epson flag–A rose with thorns. “You’re knowledgeable of history, right?”
She nodded, tense, but enthusiastically none-the-less. He’s breaking down, right?
“But they won’t tell you about the Civil War,” pushing himself from the desk, standing up from the plush cow leather. “Come,” he said, opening his hand in a heartfelt gesture, then using it to form a sign pointing north. “There’s a girl I’d like you to meet.”
She stood up, snuffing out the cigar in disgust. Trying not to feel angry at it. She wonders if many had the same emotions. If the cigar hated her, too. She crossed the room behind him, smoothing out the hem of her dress.
They exited. Standard government building construction. Smooth, gray walls, drabber than drab can be. It would make a Bean Counter scream for some exciting interior decoration. You know, something like coffee house paintings. Those kind of paintings goatee wearing poetry readers encrust with BS overactive descriptive reasons why one may have made the art.
Down the hall, door opened. Baby powder infected smell, a quick switch on and both a Dora the Explorer night light began to glow, and a mobile inert in its happy place above a crib. Teen girl giggle. A giggle of insanity.
Blondie baby, sitting up in a crib bed. Teenaged. “Twenty-seven, actually,” R. Gullful said. “Part of our Sarah program. We got her back after trading her for the unwieldy Alexis.”
Sarah sat up, her diaper brimming over after a morning nap. Mindy scrunched up her nose. “She’s one of your intelligence recons, right?”
R. Gullful nodded. He pressed a button on the wall, a matron walked in to speak baby talk and change the Sarah’s diaper. Pulling up her night gown, handing her a dress Sarah scootched a plastic backed bottom off of her changing table and down to the floor.
“But I’m a good girl, spy girl, I find info.” Sarah said. Unconsciously, nervous hands finding a pacifier hanging from her neck. Now in her mouth.
R. Gullful motioned towards her like Vanna White presenting the answer to a long unsolved riddle. “She was our first attempt. Their Goddess got to her. We used the best counterintelligence, took the greatest care we could. But their Goddess found her.”
Mindy smiled at Sarah, hugged her. “So what the hell am I to do with this?”
R. Gullful boffed. A semifrench accent, a boff of indeterminate origin. “History, its our teacher.”
Cross legged in a faux leather booth. Black dress thing, still wrapping around her. Manila envelope staring at her. Its tempting. So tempting. Another puff on a Cumana cigar, breathed out by R. Gullful to her straight and right. “They have excellent lasagna here, its to die for. I’ll order for you.”
Silently, taking in everything, she nodded a yes.
Food arrives, she eats silently. He rambles on.
“There was a war, years ago. Epson and Gibson, we were one and the same. You’d never know it, not from today’s history lessons in school.”
Nodding politely, ravished and still eating the tastee lasagna. “But you know, your father…he was a great Brigadier General.”
She nodded, in agreeance, a cerebral belief she had held steadfast as a little girl.
“He did well, in the politics. He’s one of the few reasons we’re now Gibson, no longer part of Epson.” He took a bite, too.
Still eating, nodding.
Now finished, quickly, from too many hours in boot camp mess hall. She had imagined as a little girl to be a soldier, like her father. Like the parents of the kids she had played with.
“Your mother, she was a loss to the war.” He slurped. She slightly cringed, trying not to dislike his table manners.
“She died, right?” Mindy now sipped an expensive one hundred year old WhiZif, after she had dabbed her face with a pale blue cloth napkin. Jaw dropped, napkin following, as he shook his head no.
“She and your father got busy again, but this time in Epson.” He took another bite, not hesitantly, in any way. “So you’re asking again, ‘why am I here?’ Thats one reason. Your father, and your mother, two good reasons.”
Sippingly nodding, hoping the booze kicks in quick. Maybe this would all make sense.
“I need you to go to Epson. And you, young woman, are one of the few that can bring back better answers.” He’s shifted into James Bond villain mode. The plot is about to be uncovered. “You remember the explosion?”
Her hand drifted to her head, a line of hair that was just the start. Her head was studded with implanted follicles. Currently, of course, dyed jet black. Unnatural hair, unnatural body in general. “You were seven,” he continued. “Such a small girl…”
Tears marching forward, battlefield: right now. “I don’t wanna hear about it,” she said, sipping on the Zif again. She wasn’t ready for any of this. At all.
“You were brought back together, you know? You think your talents are inborn…yeah, they might be.” Continuing with his grilling, his oral torture. “Remember being seven, back in diapers?”
Mindy clutched the glass of expensive ziff. Its contents a swig away from being empty. “What am I to do with this?!” Static shot of the restaurant, everyone starring. Rosy cheeks giving way to a more timid demeanor, yet again. “I’m really sorry….”
R. Gullful nodded, seemingly disaffected by her outburst. “Its fine, I understand.” His hand touching hers, the glass feeling as if a cobra had wrapped itself around her, ready to strike. There goes the tender gender affects, AGAIN. Dammit.
She shook her head, half sarcastic. “Look, you’ve been telling me all kinds of crap since I sat down, and I still don’t understand why.”
Ahem, from R. Gullful. “You’re in a unique position, with unique gifts. I need you, humanity needs you.”
Shaking her head. “No. You’re not doing anything but making me cry, there’s nothing I can do for you. I’m an industrial spy, in my better moods, anyway.” Last swig from the glass, waiter filling it back up seconds latter. She didn’t bother to complain about it. She needed more. That more slipped down her throat quicker than expected, setting the glass down again.
R. Gullful frowned. Then budged off his dinner jacket, the black Armani slipped off like a dreadfully wet plastic over coat. Sliding up, delicately, the white sleeve of his left arm.
There it was.
A black and white icon, engraved into his skin. An I eclipsed by a C, a tiny O surrounding it as if but a guest in the piece. “I’m part of the Iconoclastic Party, we’re tired of this war.”
Mindy blinked, saying nothing.
“I have dedicated my life to the betterment of mankind, to the reunification of our people.” The waiter removed the plates, promising slices of chocolate silk pie. Mindy didn’t react. She didn’t know how to. Not right now.
Plate of confection in front of her, she took a small nibble of the pie. Swallowing another swig of Zif from a newly filled glass. Where the hell was this going?
“You ever heard the term ‘Sleeping Giant’ ?” She shook her head a definite no.
He shoved the dessert away in a gesture meant to display power more than anything else. He could skip a dessert, with nothing less than sheer will power. Did he even have to eat?
He licked his lips. “For this half a century Gibson and Epson have lived with being on the brink of another war. It wouldn’t be hard for them to invade us, we couldn’t make enough decarbonizers quick enough.” He shook his head, a passionate fever of dislike. “I’m an iconoclast; I tire of this boresome fight. We can wipe each other out till Kingdom Come, but thats not what we need. We need peace, communication and understanding. I need you to understand, so I can communicate.”
She nodded, a boozy floozy nod. The alcohol doing its thing. Her mother, still alive? Where? Epson? And if their Goddess got to the Sarah, how come he thinks she could slip through the cracks?
“I still don’t get it, I’m not a ‘real’ spy. I’m a lowly social engineer.”
R. Gullful smiled that timeless porcelain grin. “Just what we need. These girls we’ve sent were trained and trained until their personalities were subdued enough to play tricks with others. Yours isn’t. You’re a natural. People believe you as just another secretary making a call on behalf of the CEO for specific information.”
Hmming. That kind of made since. She picked up the manila envelope. His hand touched hers again, then he narrowed his gaze. “Not here?” R. Gullful nodded. “Okay.”
He paid for the meal, a sheaf of large bills being pulled from his wallet. He laid two down. Didn’t bother to ask for change. Exiting the faux leather booth, he held his hand out in a gentlemanly gesture. She bought it, and graciously accepted the help up and out. Putting on her black wool coat, grabbing her clutch she had underneath it.
The car dropped her off at her flat. She used a large silver key to unlock the front door to the building, then up the stairs and a smaller brass-like key into the door. Now opening; home.
Wet and messy, as always. She long quit cursing her mother, the person she had figured was the sole reason she lived in Epson. In Gibson, she could have grown up, like her older sister. But that was neither here nor there. She laid in her teen crib, her walls an “Its a Girl!” mess of pink, Disney princess border, rock star teen idol poster inertia. Her mother entered, spewing the same dialect she had spoken in since she could understand the english language. “Is my baby girl messy,” of course, you never potty trained me. “Let me change you.” Well, I’m sure I could myself, but I don’t care anymore.
And so she was changed, no longer in her teen crib, but now lay motionless on a changing table. In a fresh diaper. Its plastic crinkled as she sat up, her mother sing songedly picking out a dress for the day. She wondered what it was like, to be a normal girl. To wear jeans on any whim, like her sister. But her mother had tired of pulling up and down pants. “Girls wear dresses to make them pretty and easier to change for their mothers.” And thats really all she had. Not like she didn’t mind it, Bay View was always humid. She had a swamp two blocks away in her expansive back yard to externalize this truth. “Come sweetheart,” her mother commanded. “I have breakfast for you.”
Sliding off her changing table she took the dress in hand, slipping it over her head and fitting it over her body. Happy her mother let her dress herself. Well, in some respects, anyway. She followed her mother slowly down the stairs. The crinkle of her diaper, alien to some, just another day for her.
Entering into the kitchen from the living room, she helped herself up into a high chair. Smiling that happy-to-be-a-mother smile, she felt the click of the food tray as her mother locked it in place. Thankfully she wasn’t entirely into it today, otherwise she’d be velcro clipped into the station, the straps wrapping around her Teen Luvs. Resentment. She could feel that. But all the girls and boys her age were in day care. Even if she was sixteen. She was told, many years ago, most people didn’t always live this way. She didn’t care anymore, because all she knew, was that she did live this way. Chu Chu Train of strained fruits, sliding down her mouth. Yummy, as always. Hot oatmeal, rounding out the most important meal of the day, her fingers as the only utensils. Lilly grew tired of this life. She had hoped that Genesis Medicine was a fraud, that one day she’d lay down to sleep and not wake back up. But she now shook the dreadful thought from her head. She knew better. Even at sixteen, she held no chance of meeting with an untimely death. No, armageddon for her soul was not tangible, even if it was a sought after desire.
She tried electrocution, by way of fork and wall socket. Mom now feeds her. Death, by industrial cleaner. She now sucks from a bottle, a sip cup an after thought. And if left alone? Oh, that was done in a large play pen, her crib bed, or her bedroom. Baby emo proofed, all of them. Her mother cried, hearing her tell of the tales of being a baby girl. She had insisted that if her sister was around, she’d set her straight. Such a lark.
Her face was cleaned. An approximation, really. But Lilly knew she was a pretty enough catch, for any guy. Even if she still used her diapers like she was a new born and was fed by her mother. Lead again, like everyday, to her play pen. Her mother closed the gate, locked it. A heart shaped pendant draped over her dress and bust, she touched it lovingly (more out of some deep felt need to make peace with it), remembering the shock it could administer if she left her play pen. She sat down on a PlaySkool coloring bench. Yellow and red, some outlandish comic shades drawn by a closet cartoonist. Renewing her need to color in a picture from a Richard Scary world snapshot.
Humming a child’s show theme. This was reality, her life, and eternity, as she knew it.
The phone rang.
Uncharacteristic, for the day. Maybe on the weekends, one of her mother’s girlfriends. Arranging a girls night out, and a play date for her, by way of twenty or thirty something watch over. Those girls, and awkward (sometimes lispy) boys, had the better deal. Paid to play with babies, and left to be an adult at the end of the night. She still was put in a cage of crib bars. Forgetting it, she decided.
Anxious musings from mother and the phone conversation. “You’ve found her?! Oh my Goddess, for sure she can come and visit! She can stay all she likes!” Click. Beaming happily, mother approaches Lilly.
“Your sister is coming! Hopefully she stays forever!”
Lilly smiled a baby fat smile. gurgled a bit for an Oscar starring role. Yes, hopefully the (censor) comes. And replaces her. She’ll see to that.
Obligatory Flashback, Down the Rabbit Hole
Stars, stripes, satellites. Her father was a hero, of the G.I. Joe breed. The war had ended, mutually. One could destroy the other, and that was a stalemate. She knew this from the bedtime chess plays. She won half the time, a good time she had long guessed her father to be up to. He lost well. Too well, she grew to understand. Just as fast as she understood such things, she was up to being a seven year old girl. Press releases, private schools.
But then the plasmatic bang of trauma, a bomb went off in her parents SUV. Her parents were not there, that day. Her Nanny was in the front seat. She had “quit her job,” so she was told, upon opening her eyes in the burn ICU. Quit, died, it was all the same to her. She knew that either way, Miss Pettigroe was no longer her nanny. And her parents would never let her attend a funeral. Even if they were in their death garb, two days later. She had played dumb.
She had awaken there, in that ICU. Pain wasn’t a word to describe her feelings, emotions just as inadequate. Shunned was not a word her tiny seven year old ears ever heard. She only knew that she no longer could control her bathroom usage. Her parents had feared this the most, but had put this on the back burner to seem like everything was fine. To be incontinent completely, was a sin, it had seemed, especially after the Epson-Gibson civil war. And being on the ‘right’ side of things, she was not at all welcomed in diapers at the age of seven. But thats all they could do for her, back then. A smattering of Gibson technology, spinal spider, welding her sores shut, fixing her spine so she could walk. Implants in her epidermis, she regrew her hair.
But the diapers, like the Private Schools, continued. Ever pervasive, ever a problem. By 17, it had been ten years. She felt she was destined to be diapered, and no longer cared what people thought. By 19, the end was promised. By 21, due to an implant, small and near her bladder, she could begin to use the bathroom ‘normal’ again. Almost. Still spent two hours after every meal on the pot. But she wasn’t dating then. These days, both her bowels and bladder worked well. Thankful for tech.
Shifting back and forth in bed. She hadn’t even bothered to open the manila envelope. Not yet. What was it for, and what did it matter? Some crazy intelligence director… Besides, she wasn’t cut out for this kind of thing. No matter how confident R. Gullful had been of her reputed abilities.
Sleep’s being mean. Its not willing to hang out with her tonight. Bringing her back up to the backboard, positioning a couple of pillows behind her. She clicks on the vidfeed. There, as the set top menu displays its self. She has new messages. She clicks into the messages, finds a note from R. Gullful, then a “Play Video Now” underneath it. She clicks on it. A video emerges from the static picture of the note, urging her to watch what he had uplinked especially for her.
The footage was shot with a portacam. The kind you’d buy from your average consumer electronics shop. The ones where extended warranties are a must, because, you know, you get a free cleaning of the camcorder every year with it anyway. It pays for its self.
The lighting was neon inflected, a white haze of halogen raining a bright spectrum onto a Hollywood grade, disease outbreak laboratory movie stage . In a large tube, filled with some viscous soup, a young girl hooked by wireless to a bunch of stat monitors. Breathing tube down her throat. The little girl looked familiar, because it was her.
Someone began to drone in a professionally scientific monotone, probably the cameraman. “Day 14 of reconstruction. Mindy Prime seems to be in excellent health. Her genetics have been successfully modified, and her body has taken to the cybernetics. I hope that this will only be the start of our joint operations with Epson.” The cameraman moved the lens to his face. She had known the tone already, her Uncle Josef.
She lurched up in bed. A sick stomach, spinning carousel vision. What did this mean? Was her ‘Uncle Joe’ even her true uncle? Pushing the covers aside she stood up, the LED lights around the top of her room slowly illuminated as to spare her from vision white out. Out of the bedroom, into the living room. There, on the credenza. She picks up the manila envelope and rounds about to her pleather couch, taking a seat unceremoniously. Legs collapsed in underneath. Pictures tumble out of the envelope, as well as a long document. She checks the cover sheet. A letterhead places it from Gibson Intelligence.
The information contained herein may be both surprising and worrisomely upsetting. I apologize for presenting these documents in this way. This information, should it ever come to light, would constitute an Official Problem for many. Therefore, I don’t need to tell you to be wary of communicating the contents to anyone. I will be here to answer any questions when time and secrecy allow me. Your gifts are amazing, you are full of potential. But I cannot help but yearn for a simpler life and history for you. Unfortunately, this is a wish not even the deepest conspiracy theorism could provide.
Flipping over the sheet. Table of contents. Screw it. Flipping through two more pages of contents. There, the story begins.
Goal of Project: Using a genetically modified copy of Brigadier General Prime’s late daughter, we shall create plants on both side of the Gibson-Epson conflict. While the war is no longer a heated battle, a prolonged cold war has come into affect."
Clone? She had a clone? Wait…‘late’ daughter? But she hadn’t died in the SUV explosion! Or….
Thoughts, racing. Heartbeat, rising. Breathing shallow. Hyper tension and ventilation.
Closing her eyes, getting a grip. This had to be a long string of BS. Flipping through pages, correlating with pictures. There was a Mindy, now another, and another…
How many Mindy’s was she along in this?
Attached to the last picture, a picture of her, tonight. Opening up the flat to her door. A card, plain, with “R. Gullful, 192.168.8.9.2”
She had to get in contact with him, and fast. Because her world was falling apart quicker than she could make sense of anything.
Lilly Again, Through the Looking Glass
To say that Lilly was smart was almost an understatement. Or perhaps a useless gesture. Lilly didn’t remember her earliest years, toddlerhood completely blank. But that was most people, anyway. She sat outside at the daycare center, teen babies playing on the various plastic playground products. Slides, swings, marry-go-rounds of the non-motorized manual nature.
But she sat, like she did a lot of times, alone.
She never felt right. Quite normal, sometimes, but never like she belonged anyway. She certainly didn’t belong here. Even as she felt her diaper grow warm and wet. She remembered actually going to school, back when she was ten. By about fourteen she had the equivalent of a High School Diploma. But her mother sat her aside one day after getting off the chartered school bus to explain to her that she no longer needed to go to school, and wasn’t that great?!
What then, would Lilly do with her time?
And it struck her, at that very moment, that even with all the money in Epson, her mother could do precious little to secure her a future out of teen babyhood. It was the thing here. Normalcy, they called it. A sham, for sure, but her mother was never one to go against the grain.
She started day care. And thats when things fell apart. Ever been surrounded by a bunch of drooling idiots? It was worse than a political convention. She quickly turned to the darker thoughts. First quiet whispers of just going off the deep end. Maybe even a psychological self labotomization. But as desperation kicked into overdrive, she tried a couple of ways to kill herself.
Of course, they never worked. (Thanks, Genesis Medicine!) But thats when it really got worse. Because her mother had taken her to a psychologist. She was put into a program, a program meant to soothe her, bring out the teen baby in her. She pouted, screamed, shouted. She explained that just because she had never been potty trained, didn’t mean she was a baby. Expected to do baby things, to like baby things. To behave in such a childish manner.
She sneered at the kids. She had long lost the interest of becoming one of them. It sounded good, sure, because, well, life would be just so wonderfully….dull. Normal, thats what they call it. Heh.
And now her sister was coming to visit. What joy. Her sister was 24, coming in on a visa, and definitely a defacto adult. Would her sister ever rescue her? She doubted. But it was a dream she had on more than one occasion.
Her mother had spoken of the great things her sister had done. How she had wrapped up college quick, just as quick as Lilly herself had gotten a high school diploma. Her sister was into industrial espionage. That sounded cool, actually. Why couldn’t Lilly get into that? Even here, in fact, especially here, no one suspecting a teen baby.
Nervous twitch of the eye. She had to stop, stop this line of thinking. She stood up from the plastic picnic table. Looked around again at the kiddies, at the green mesh fence keeping them in. With a disdainful sigh, she smiled as another girl motioned towards her. Darcy always seemed so oblivious to her situation, it did soothe her to know that at least one girl her age could find solace in the world of children’s television and doll houses.
Approaching the giant playhouse. She again was the last invited to the party, and again, she’d be the baby. Oh joy.
Back Across the Vast, More Questions Answered for Mindy
She looked at the Wall of Loss, standing at the Civil War Memorial. Her heels clicked on the floor, as she moved from name set to name set. It was vast. She suspected that Epson might have a memorial like this, then a long testament to the need for their Genesis Medicine. But she had learned that it was a standard thing there, now. It slowly spread over centuries to become the viral mess it was.
Nobody really knew why the civil war started, though historians could fight amongst themselves for days and not get anywhere on the various reasons why it might have been sparked. The most accepted reasoning was religious. Gibson had a God, Epson, a Goddess. One way or the other, she thought. Why couldn’t people worship both? Or none? Or a can of soda, maybe?
In Epson, their Goddess had appeared before their eyes a few times. And to a lot of clergy. R. Gullful mentioned the Sarah she met had her diapered demise at the hands of their Goddess.
A strong hand touched her shoulder. She twirled around to meet the ancient eyes of R. Gullful, again. His hand motioning her towards a back room, away from the crowd, where a display of medical devices used in the war had located its self. She imagined this was probably only traversed by the occasional med student.
R. Gullful closed the door to the exhibit, by way of key in the wall. It slid closed, iron tight. She looked around–no noticeable surveillance. The air cleared by his throat, again, and then he spoke. “I know you have a lot of questions, and this is one of the few places I can safely answer them.”
Her gaze locked to his face now. “Yeah, you can say that. What am I supposed to make of this? Exactly how many of me are there?”
R. Gullful’s breath faltered, he inhaled deeply. “One. At a time. Here, anyway. From what we know, your sister has only had one successful iteration.” His attention turning towards the medical instruments. “Its a wonder what we can do these days, you know?”
She approached him, crossing the feet of space, heels clicking in abhorrent frustration. “Did I or did I not die in the SUV?”
He didn’t bother to turn. His tone turned tiresome. “Of course not. You’d still be dead. That was the original Mindy. You don’t think, even with our cybernetic advances, we could bring back a body from being blasted into chunks do you?”
She shook her head, tears falling silently down the symmetries of her face. “I don’t get it, what exactly is the whole point of…of…of me?”
R. Gullful’s attention back towards her. His hand wiping away the silent tears. “You were conceived as a joint operation between the Iconoclastic factions in both Epson and Gibson. You were to be a perfect little spy, then report to Epson. Vice versa for your…sister.”
Mindy pondered. “So, what exactly happened?”
R. Gullful shrugged. “Like a lot of ideas, they’re easier said than done. You were assassinated more than once. Using brain mapping we would stitch together one long string of events, regrowing your body to its previous state. The only thing we couldn’t do is come up with a potty trained clone, the muscles not really being their at the time of being brought out of the lab. This also explains your trouble walking over the years. Why did the implants work, and then fizz out? I wish it was because of our lack of technological abilities, but that wasn’t the case.”
Mindy stepped back, mouth wide open. She had been killed. Why hasn’t she been killed this time? What, who, is keeping her alive now? She’d been potty trained since 21…she’s had three years in this round. “I…I don’t know what to say. Why am I not dead now?”
R. Gullful smiled. “Because the Iconoclastic faction has slowly infiltrated every part of the government. You’re above top secret, a cherished object.”
Mindy started to connect dots, her subconcious chiming into her conscious. “Wait, I’m the spy for Epson, and my sister’s the spy for Gibson? Why isn’t she coming here?”
R. Gullful nodded, looking away to another display case. “Thats a problem we don’t understand. We lost contact with the Gibson Iconoclastic faction. We fear they may have been wiped out, or perhaps, never really brought together with a clear strategy, like we were here. Either way, that does make things easier.”
Mindy furrowed a brow. “How does that make things easier?”
R. Gullful turned around, a large penlike device in his hand. “Because, that means the Epson sides winning. And as long as one of us wins, the war is over, and peace is obtained. Thats our goal, purely, and simply. Now, don’t be afraid.”
Mindy’s heart pace quickening. “Be afraid of wha–” Black out.
Mindy began to fall to the floor, R. Gullful caught her quickly, then turned off the penlike device. Mindy’s eyes opened, but she couldn’t move very well. “I’ve rebooted your cybernetics. You’re going to notice some stiffness in your arms and legs, this will fade. But, those devices we implanted in your body to help you control yourself…I’ve deactivated them, for now. We don’t need Gibson discovering you in Epson.” R. Gullful’s hand ran through her hair. “Come along dear, you’ve a diaper to be put into and a plane to catch. You’re going home.”