Milo could hear them. It wasn't new. The walls had always been this thin. He'd heard the same argument for as long as he could remember. It didn't matter.
"Don't give me that look, Howard! He's my son, too, and I'm not just going to stand aside and, and..." She finished with the sound of the pan clattering in the sink. They'd eaten taco salad for Sunday lunch. Milo had been late. That was why they were fighting. Probably.
His dad hardly ever raised his voice. "We're doing the best we can for him. You heard him; he's connecting, making friends."
"Sure, and look what a lot of good that's doing. Now he wants to go to the Isles with some bug-child. The Isles. It's bad enough here with him running headlong into danger. Now he wants to go rooting around where it all comes from." She was getting upset. Her voice shook. And it went up a little at the end of sentences. That meant she was upset.
Oliver pulled one of the headphones out of his ears. He kept his eyes on the game in his hands. His thumbs were quick. Strong hand-eye coordination. "If you're gonna get away, now's the time, My. They'll wind down before too much longer. No telling when she'll let you go after that." Oliver was a year younger than Milo. And ordinary. He belonged on the couch where they sat.
Milo nodded. "Bye Oliver."
Oliver kept the front door's hinges oiled. They both snuck out of the house sometimes. Dad's voice drifted from the kitchen as Milo closed the door, "He doesn't have a choice."
They didn't understand. Maybe no one did. The woman followed too closely. He reminded her that she would get hurt. There were still enemies in the building. He would find them all. But she needed to leave. It would be easier without her. He pushed another one into a wall. Furniture rattled in adjacent rooms.
He pointed the woman to the exit. She said something. He missed it. It didn't matter. Mom thought he was being forced to do what he did. Dad did, too. He couldn't explain it right. Nothing made him do anything. This was what he was for. One of them tried to hide behind a door. He picked up the door and swatted the man to the floor.
When Atlas Shrugs
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Milo Black
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"Temperature?"
"Ninety-nine, two."
Uncle Alec pulled two aspirin out of one of his pouches and passed the pills to Milo without slowing their flight. Milo had been sick again. Mom made him stay in bed one day. She checked on him every ten minutes. He couldn't leave and come back that fast. Then she made Uncle Alec promise to ask, so he did. Promises are important, like telling the truth about the future. A broken promise is the same as a lie. He made sure Milo understood that when he was very young.
"She doesn't understand. We shouldn't follow her rules. She isn't strong enough to make us."
Uncle Alec stopped and waited for Milo to stop, too. During training time sometimes it was more important to talk than to fight. "She's afraid, Milo," he said. "People are scared of things they don't know. She's more scared because she does know. She wants you to belong to her like other children belong to moms, like Oliver belongs to her. She knows you don't and it scares her. It hurts her."
"I didn't cause it. I can't change it."
"No, it isn't your fault and it isn't fair. But if there is anything I can do that makes her hurt less, I will do it."
Uncle Alec made a promise. That was why he did what she asked. "Oh. Ok. I will, too."
"Ninety-nine, two."
Uncle Alec pulled two aspirin out of one of his pouches and passed the pills to Milo without slowing their flight. Milo had been sick again. Mom made him stay in bed one day. She checked on him every ten minutes. He couldn't leave and come back that fast. Then she made Uncle Alec promise to ask, so he did. Promises are important, like telling the truth about the future. A broken promise is the same as a lie. He made sure Milo understood that when he was very young.
"She doesn't understand. We shouldn't follow her rules. She isn't strong enough to make us."
Uncle Alec stopped and waited for Milo to stop, too. During training time sometimes it was more important to talk than to fight. "She's afraid, Milo," he said. "People are scared of things they don't know. She's more scared because she does know. She wants you to belong to her like other children belong to moms, like Oliver belongs to her. She knows you don't and it scares her. It hurts her."
"I didn't cause it. I can't change it."
"No, it isn't your fault and it isn't fair. But if there is anything I can do that makes her hurt less, I will do it."
Uncle Alec made a promise. That was why he did what she asked. "Oh. Ok. I will, too."
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Milo Black
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"Will you help me walk?"
Oliver hit Pause and looked up at his brother standing over him in the living room. He never tried, but Milo had a way of looming. It was just the way he occupied space, absolutely still, eyes on everything. It didn't help that he was already well over six feet with at least one more growth spurt left to go, or that he could dismantle the house around them by hand in a matter of moments. This time, the eyes that never stopped looking for a threat were fixed on Oliver's. It was more direct eye contact than he'd seen Milo make in years, and the first time he'd asked for help in at least as long.
Oliver put down the controller and scrambled up onto his feet. "Sure, My. How can I help you walk?"
"Roach said I should know how to walk like a different person. I practiced. I don't."
It took a moment, blinking, for Oliver to process all the information. He knew about Roach, of course. And he knew this wasn't a joke, at least on Milo's end. He just hoped it wasn't a joke at his big brother's expense. "Um," he finally said, "okay. Let's see it. The different walk."
For as long as Oliver could remember, Milo had moved in straight lines; every muscle twitch either served to get from point A to point B or it just didn't happen, like a driver trying to wring out every last inch from tank sitting on empty. What Milo showed him next held true to that distinctly Milo trait while at the same time managing to be one of the most ridiculous parodies of his brother he had ever seen, not an easy field to win.
It went from the top down: Milo's chin dropped, eyes still focused straight ahead. His shoulders and spine slumped into an uncomfortable-looking 'C' shape. His arms hung limp at his sides. His knees flexed a few degrees too many. Then to top it off, he shifted all his weight onto his heels, toes lifted slightly in the air. When he walked, he moved forward in a plodding bounce from heel to heel, rocking slightly from side to side as he went. His arms never moved and entire body seemed to strain with effort just to keep from toppling over.
Oliver didn't laugh. He never laughed at Milo. The only fights he'd ever been in were when other kids did. Their parents never talked about it, but he had a feeling there was something... just not right, above and beyond whatever the Blessing was doing. Then again, no one really knew all that much about what the Blessing was or did; it could all be part of the same package. That was enough for Mom and Dad: blame the Blessing and tuck your head back in the sand. That was why Oliver was going to be a psychiatrist or some kind of brain doctor: so he could find out for himself. There had to be something they could do to help if they would just try.
Milo crossed the room, then turned, returned to his normal stance, and waited for Oliver to continue his lesson.
"Okay, My. What kind of walk is it supposed to be?"
"To sneak into a club. Without sneaking."
"Okay. Walk like it's a fight or a punch. Everything has to work together and it's all about balance." Oliver started into a half-strut, half-glide stroll around the room, mind racing to keep up with translating English to Milo and back. It was a point of pride that he could communicate with his brother better than anyone else, except maybe Uncle Alec when he was alive. "Your whole body is constantly moving to keep things balanced. Arms balancing legs, hips balancing shoulders, like a long wind-up to a hit. It's all loose, but controlled."
Milo watched him, taking every move in like he was sizing up an enemy. That was the look Oliver was hoping for. He'd sat in on some of the early morning work-out sessions with Uncle Alec, back before the sessions moved out into the streets. That was the way Milo had watched their uncle's demonstrations, and he had almost never needed a second look to get it right. Milo 'got' fighting like Oliver 'got' CoD.
Oliver pushed the coffee table over against the wall and started again. "Do it with me," he invited.
Unnoticed, Margie Black watched her two boys parade around the living room, back and forth, couch to TV, TV to couch, while the lunch she came to announce got cold on the table.
Oliver hit Pause and looked up at his brother standing over him in the living room. He never tried, but Milo had a way of looming. It was just the way he occupied space, absolutely still, eyes on everything. It didn't help that he was already well over six feet with at least one more growth spurt left to go, or that he could dismantle the house around them by hand in a matter of moments. This time, the eyes that never stopped looking for a threat were fixed on Oliver's. It was more direct eye contact than he'd seen Milo make in years, and the first time he'd asked for help in at least as long.
Oliver put down the controller and scrambled up onto his feet. "Sure, My. How can I help you walk?"
"Roach said I should know how to walk like a different person. I practiced. I don't."
It took a moment, blinking, for Oliver to process all the information. He knew about Roach, of course. And he knew this wasn't a joke, at least on Milo's end. He just hoped it wasn't a joke at his big brother's expense. "Um," he finally said, "okay. Let's see it. The different walk."
For as long as Oliver could remember, Milo had moved in straight lines; every muscle twitch either served to get from point A to point B or it just didn't happen, like a driver trying to wring out every last inch from tank sitting on empty. What Milo showed him next held true to that distinctly Milo trait while at the same time managing to be one of the most ridiculous parodies of his brother he had ever seen, not an easy field to win.
It went from the top down: Milo's chin dropped, eyes still focused straight ahead. His shoulders and spine slumped into an uncomfortable-looking 'C' shape. His arms hung limp at his sides. His knees flexed a few degrees too many. Then to top it off, he shifted all his weight onto his heels, toes lifted slightly in the air. When he walked, he moved forward in a plodding bounce from heel to heel, rocking slightly from side to side as he went. His arms never moved and entire body seemed to strain with effort just to keep from toppling over.
Oliver didn't laugh. He never laughed at Milo. The only fights he'd ever been in were when other kids did. Their parents never talked about it, but he had a feeling there was something... just not right, above and beyond whatever the Blessing was doing. Then again, no one really knew all that much about what the Blessing was or did; it could all be part of the same package. That was enough for Mom and Dad: blame the Blessing and tuck your head back in the sand. That was why Oliver was going to be a psychiatrist or some kind of brain doctor: so he could find out for himself. There had to be something they could do to help if they would just try.
Milo crossed the room, then turned, returned to his normal stance, and waited for Oliver to continue his lesson.
"Okay, My. What kind of walk is it supposed to be?"
"To sneak into a club. Without sneaking."
"Okay. Walk like it's a fight or a punch. Everything has to work together and it's all about balance." Oliver started into a half-strut, half-glide stroll around the room, mind racing to keep up with translating English to Milo and back. It was a point of pride that he could communicate with his brother better than anyone else, except maybe Uncle Alec when he was alive. "Your whole body is constantly moving to keep things balanced. Arms balancing legs, hips balancing shoulders, like a long wind-up to a hit. It's all loose, but controlled."
Milo watched him, taking every move in like he was sizing up an enemy. That was the look Oliver was hoping for. He'd sat in on some of the early morning work-out sessions with Uncle Alec, back before the sessions moved out into the streets. That was the way Milo had watched their uncle's demonstrations, and he had almost never needed a second look to get it right. Milo 'got' fighting like Oliver 'got' CoD.
Oliver pushed the coffee table over against the wall and started again. "Do it with me," he invited.
Unnoticed, Margie Black watched her two boys parade around the living room, back and forth, couch to TV, TV to couch, while the lunch she came to announce got cold on the table.
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Milo Black
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Wednesday, May 30
"Howard Black," a younger, fresher Margie said on one knee. Howard - somehow never Howie, like his son would one day be Oliver but never Ollie - was still sputtering objections, of course. He was cute, adorable even, but sometimes he just didn't get it unless it was spelled out. "I've heard your warnings. God, have I ever heard your warnings. I think ninety percent of the people in this restaurant have heard your warnings. I've met Alec" - a real pleasure that had been - "and I've met your parents" - a miserable pair who never spoke a word to each other and should have divorced ages ago. Maybe without each other as distractions, someone could have spared a minute to do some parenting. Special needs weren't an excuse, they were a demand to step up. "You're not Alec. And we're not your parents. I know you want this, so keep in mind that the next question is strictly rhetorical: Howard Black, will you marry me?"
Nineteen years ago, almost twenty. Margaret Black hadn't planned on getting pregnant until the second or third year of the marriage. Instead, she spent their first anniversary as big as a house. Milo had never enjoyed waiting, not then and not now, now that he was apparently packed and ready to leave her behind forever.
"I didn't see Roach at the ceremony. Did he not graduate? I thought he was doing well." Anything to keep him there just a few seconds longer.
"No."
"Well then," hope flickered where it hadn't for a few months. She hadn't been as horrified as she would have liked to wake up one day in late April and see her inlaws' blanked eyes stare back at her in the mirror. She'd done everything she could think of to help her son, and he'd been getting better. Roach was a godsend there, if she could just keep them together. "Don't you think you should wait for him? It's the sort of thing friends do for each other."
"He's gone."
Howard didn't register surprise - she could see now that he'd given up long before Milo was even born - just a sort of grim acceptance, as if he'd expected the worst and gotten it. "I'm so sorry, Milo. When? Why didn't you tell us?"
"February. I lied."
"No. No, no. Milo, you don't lie. You know better. A lie is a broken promise, remember?"
"Friends don't lie to each other."
The dulled sound of hundreds of voices drifted toward them in the courtyard. For the moment, they were alone as a family. Milo stood in a clear space, an under-stuffed backpack slung across his back, still in his graduation robe. Margie and Howard stood in front of him, close enough to reach out and hold him, arms at their sides. Oliver hung back, leaning against the side of a bench, affecting a front of teenage disinterest. They'd beaten most of the families out of the theater, practically chasing Milo across the darkening campus. He would have left without even saying good-bye. Realization was a brick sinking into her stomach.
"And we're not your friends." Howard's voice seemed as far away as the dispersing crowd and carried about as much meaning to her ears. She hated Howard. Hated that he'd surrendered her son before he even existed. Hated all the things he'd talked her out of that could have helped. Special schools. Medicine. Hated that he'd let her think she could do anything to stop this moment from coming. Hated that he'd ever spoken to her. Hated that he'd said 'yes'.
She would never forgive him for saying 'yes' nineteen, almost twenty years ago.
Milo was getting antsy. His body stayed as rigidly still as ever, of course. His eyes were what always gave it away. They never stopped trying to look in all directions at once, but they did slow down, looking one direction more than the rest. This time, up and East. "I can go now."
Not a question. It never had been.
"Good-bye, son," from Howard, as if he had a right to call Milo his son.
"Be careful," she said quietly, almost automatically. Her arms desperately tugged him to her, or he allowed them to just one more time. "Give Roach our love. You can both come home any time. Any time." She didn't want to let go when he pulled back, and then he was gingerly yet firmly placing her arms at her side.
"Bye mom. Bye Dad. Bye Oliver." Without a second glance, he flew.
"Milo! My, wait! Stop, dammit!"
Oliver took off after him at a run. Milo landed twenty yards away and waited, as requested. The younger brother said something quietly, intensely by the look of it, and then planted his arms around Milo, pinning his elder brother's arms at his sides. Behind Milo's back, Oliver's hands worked quickly, stuffing a small notebook into one of the backpack's pockets. When the pocket was re-zipped, Oliver let go and stepped back, running his sleeve under his nose. This time Milo flew away from them without stopping.
Nineteen years ago, almost twenty. Margaret Black hadn't planned on getting pregnant until the second or third year of the marriage. Instead, she spent their first anniversary as big as a house. Milo had never enjoyed waiting, not then and not now, now that he was apparently packed and ready to leave her behind forever.
"I didn't see Roach at the ceremony. Did he not graduate? I thought he was doing well." Anything to keep him there just a few seconds longer.
"No."
"Well then," hope flickered where it hadn't for a few months. She hadn't been as horrified as she would have liked to wake up one day in late April and see her inlaws' blanked eyes stare back at her in the mirror. She'd done everything she could think of to help her son, and he'd been getting better. Roach was a godsend there, if she could just keep them together. "Don't you think you should wait for him? It's the sort of thing friends do for each other."
"He's gone."
Howard didn't register surprise - she could see now that he'd given up long before Milo was even born - just a sort of grim acceptance, as if he'd expected the worst and gotten it. "I'm so sorry, Milo. When? Why didn't you tell us?"
"February. I lied."
"No. No, no. Milo, you don't lie. You know better. A lie is a broken promise, remember?"
"Friends don't lie to each other."
The dulled sound of hundreds of voices drifted toward them in the courtyard. For the moment, they were alone as a family. Milo stood in a clear space, an under-stuffed backpack slung across his back, still in his graduation robe. Margie and Howard stood in front of him, close enough to reach out and hold him, arms at their sides. Oliver hung back, leaning against the side of a bench, affecting a front of teenage disinterest. They'd beaten most of the families out of the theater, practically chasing Milo across the darkening campus. He would have left without even saying good-bye. Realization was a brick sinking into her stomach.
"And we're not your friends." Howard's voice seemed as far away as the dispersing crowd and carried about as much meaning to her ears. She hated Howard. Hated that he'd surrendered her son before he even existed. Hated all the things he'd talked her out of that could have helped. Special schools. Medicine. Hated that he'd let her think she could do anything to stop this moment from coming. Hated that he'd ever spoken to her. Hated that he'd said 'yes'.
She would never forgive him for saying 'yes' nineteen, almost twenty years ago.
Milo was getting antsy. His body stayed as rigidly still as ever, of course. His eyes were what always gave it away. They never stopped trying to look in all directions at once, but they did slow down, looking one direction more than the rest. This time, up and East. "I can go now."
Not a question. It never had been.
"Good-bye, son," from Howard, as if he had a right to call Milo his son.
"Be careful," she said quietly, almost automatically. Her arms desperately tugged him to her, or he allowed them to just one more time. "Give Roach our love. You can both come home any time. Any time." She didn't want to let go when he pulled back, and then he was gingerly yet firmly placing her arms at her side.
"Bye mom. Bye Dad. Bye Oliver." Without a second glance, he flew.
"Milo! My, wait! Stop, dammit!"
Oliver took off after him at a run. Milo landed twenty yards away and waited, as requested. The younger brother said something quietly, intensely by the look of it, and then planted his arms around Milo, pinning his elder brother's arms at his sides. Behind Milo's back, Oliver's hands worked quickly, stuffing a small notebook into one of the backpack's pockets. When the pocket was re-zipped, Oliver let go and stepped back, running his sleeve under his nose. This time Milo flew away from them without stopping.
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Milo Black
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Tuesday, May 29
Bullshit.
All of it. All of it was complete and utter bullshit. Shit direct from the anus of a male cow. One of the ones with the huge horns. And not even a good one. This was runny, weird colored, spewing bullshit.
He didn't feel much better with that image in his head, but for a few seconds disgust dulled the blades on his frustrated anger.
It wasn't fair. No, it wasn't right. They'd all just given up, let it go. Like it was all okay.
When Milo first started missing Sundays back in February, it had been all anyone in the house could talk about. Mom spent hours turned around on the couch, looking out the window and twisting the edge of the curtains between her fingers. Every so often, one of the questions or worries she had on repeat in her head would slip out her mouth. Then she'd jump and look around like somebody else had sneaked up and yelled it in her ear. Dad did his usual thing, making comforting excuses and conveniently remembering old stories about when Uncle Alec did this exact thing and how it all turned out fine. Listening to Dad, you'd think Uncle Alec was married, working nine to five, raising an army of brats, and not so thoroughly dead that the coffin they'd buried had been mostly empty.
Oliver had been happy about it at first. Milo was out there with people he actually chose to be around. He was making choices instead of acting on default settings. Sunday lunch with family was as far outside his control as charging into a fight. Missing it to hang out with the bug kid was a major sign of life. Milo didn't even have a favorite color, and here he was with a favorite person. Even a terrible choice was a choice, after all. Mom and Dad didn't quite get it, but they didn't quite get Milo either. They weren't his brother.
The closer they got to graduation - and the more Sundays Milo missed in a row - the less anyone spoke at all. Mom started crying at random intervals. It didn't interrupt what she was doing; she'd just keep chopping carrots or paying bills while her eyes leaked a steady stream. Dad borrowed the Journal more and more. He didn't make any new notes in the margins or add any new pages to the back. Now he just sat with it open on his lap and stared at one page or another for an hour or two at night. He didn't even read the pages Oliver was adding.
There were patterns in the old stories, the ones they had at least. The Journal had been lost or destroyed at least a couple times since the second sons had started keeping it, whenever that was. The one that now belonged to Oliver had survived three fires and at least as many floods since Great-great-great-etc Grandpa Black lost the previous one when he came to America in (clearly false) hope that a new world and a new life would somehow break the cycle. His brother died in the Revolutionary War when he apparently went rogue and started taking out the nearest target - red coat, blue coat, whatever. The whole first section of the Journal was Great Grandpa Black's best guess at what he could remember from the Journal he'd lost, which also apparently started with someone's summary of what he'd read in the Journal before that. Anything dating back past the Black Death was barely more than fairy tale. Oliver had pored over every page from front to back and had seen something that apparently everyone else had missed.
Oliver's fingers flew over the keys, finishing up his own summary as quickly as he could before Milo left forever. He didn't include the stuff about the second sons; that was a little more than anyone but his eventual son needed to know. The Blessing didn't just affect the firstborn; second sons were under some kind of compulsion of their own. Older generations had tried and failed to stop the family line. Isolation, birth control, old age, and even joining a monastery hadn't worked. Eventually, one way or another they all met some girl, couldn't say no, and got her knocked up. Twice. In the nineteenth century, one mother had died giving birth to the first son, but a supposedly barren prostitute provided the second. A few had experimented with suicide, but could never pull the trigger, swallow the poison, kick the chair, or take that last step. The Blessing was, thus far, more determined to carry on than its victims were to stop it. One more splatter of loose shit on the pile.
What Oliver needed to get on paper was much bigger, more horrible, and infinitely more hopeful than all of that: The Blessing was changing. At first glance, it was getting worse. The early stories about the firstborns mentioned things like careers and comrades and widows. Just the thought of Milo or even Alec with a wife was a little bit hilarious in a bad way. Each generation, the description of the firstborn seemed a little less human and a little more, well, Milo. It was slow at first, but the last four or five went downhill fast. The firstborns, and maybe the rest of the family with them, were deteriorating. If the Blessing was breaking down that fast, maybe new vulnerabilities were opening up. Maybe one of the hundreds of new developments in neurology could do something no one had tried before. Maybe.
He didn't have a lot to go on, but he had more reason to hope than the failed mothers and fathers and second sons before him. Oliver wasn't about to give up on his brother. It wasn't time to sit back and stare and cry like helpless bystanders. Milo had his battles, and Oliver had his. He just needed Milo to live long enough to be helped.
He printed out the last page just after 4 a.m. and bundled it together with the rest of his work. The whole thing went inside two sealed heavy duty plastic bags with a note for the last ally he would have picked for this fight:
All of it. All of it was complete and utter bullshit. Shit direct from the anus of a male cow. One of the ones with the huge horns. And not even a good one. This was runny, weird colored, spewing bullshit.
He didn't feel much better with that image in his head, but for a few seconds disgust dulled the blades on his frustrated anger.
It wasn't fair. No, it wasn't right. They'd all just given up, let it go. Like it was all okay.
When Milo first started missing Sundays back in February, it had been all anyone in the house could talk about. Mom spent hours turned around on the couch, looking out the window and twisting the edge of the curtains between her fingers. Every so often, one of the questions or worries she had on repeat in her head would slip out her mouth. Then she'd jump and look around like somebody else had sneaked up and yelled it in her ear. Dad did his usual thing, making comforting excuses and conveniently remembering old stories about when Uncle Alec did this exact thing and how it all turned out fine. Listening to Dad, you'd think Uncle Alec was married, working nine to five, raising an army of brats, and not so thoroughly dead that the coffin they'd buried had been mostly empty.
Oliver had been happy about it at first. Milo was out there with people he actually chose to be around. He was making choices instead of acting on default settings. Sunday lunch with family was as far outside his control as charging into a fight. Missing it to hang out with the bug kid was a major sign of life. Milo didn't even have a favorite color, and here he was with a favorite person. Even a terrible choice was a choice, after all. Mom and Dad didn't quite get it, but they didn't quite get Milo either. They weren't his brother.
The closer they got to graduation - and the more Sundays Milo missed in a row - the less anyone spoke at all. Mom started crying at random intervals. It didn't interrupt what she was doing; she'd just keep chopping carrots or paying bills while her eyes leaked a steady stream. Dad borrowed the Journal more and more. He didn't make any new notes in the margins or add any new pages to the back. Now he just sat with it open on his lap and stared at one page or another for an hour or two at night. He didn't even read the pages Oliver was adding.
There were patterns in the old stories, the ones they had at least. The Journal had been lost or destroyed at least a couple times since the second sons had started keeping it, whenever that was. The one that now belonged to Oliver had survived three fires and at least as many floods since Great-great-great-etc Grandpa Black lost the previous one when he came to America in (clearly false) hope that a new world and a new life would somehow break the cycle. His brother died in the Revolutionary War when he apparently went rogue and started taking out the nearest target - red coat, blue coat, whatever. The whole first section of the Journal was Great Grandpa Black's best guess at what he could remember from the Journal he'd lost, which also apparently started with someone's summary of what he'd read in the Journal before that. Anything dating back past the Black Death was barely more than fairy tale. Oliver had pored over every page from front to back and had seen something that apparently everyone else had missed.
Oliver's fingers flew over the keys, finishing up his own summary as quickly as he could before Milo left forever. He didn't include the stuff about the second sons; that was a little more than anyone but his eventual son needed to know. The Blessing didn't just affect the firstborn; second sons were under some kind of compulsion of their own. Older generations had tried and failed to stop the family line. Isolation, birth control, old age, and even joining a monastery hadn't worked. Eventually, one way or another they all met some girl, couldn't say no, and got her knocked up. Twice. In the nineteenth century, one mother had died giving birth to the first son, but a supposedly barren prostitute provided the second. A few had experimented with suicide, but could never pull the trigger, swallow the poison, kick the chair, or take that last step. The Blessing was, thus far, more determined to carry on than its victims were to stop it. One more splatter of loose shit on the pile.
What Oliver needed to get on paper was much bigger, more horrible, and infinitely more hopeful than all of that: The Blessing was changing. At first glance, it was getting worse. The early stories about the firstborns mentioned things like careers and comrades and widows. Just the thought of Milo or even Alec with a wife was a little bit hilarious in a bad way. Each generation, the description of the firstborn seemed a little less human and a little more, well, Milo. It was slow at first, but the last four or five went downhill fast. The firstborns, and maybe the rest of the family with them, were deteriorating. If the Blessing was breaking down that fast, maybe new vulnerabilities were opening up. Maybe one of the hundreds of new developments in neurology could do something no one had tried before. Maybe.
He didn't have a lot to go on, but he had more reason to hope than the failed mothers and fathers and second sons before him. Oliver wasn't about to give up on his brother. It wasn't time to sit back and stare and cry like helpless bystanders. Milo had his battles, and Oliver had his. He just needed Milo to live long enough to be helped.
He printed out the last page just after 4 a.m. and bundled it together with the rest of his work. The whole thing went inside two sealed heavy duty plastic bags with a note for the last ally he would have picked for this fight:
You got this running off idea in his head, so his blood is on your hands. Keep him alive until I figure out how to fix it. He needs rules and a schedule. He won't stop on his own. He can't. It's easier to kill him than it is to slow him down. And he can be killed. The firstborn hasn't died of natural causes in at least 800 years.
- Bug boy, you lying manipulative bastard--
The Blessing'll keep pushing him harder until he gets in over his head and his brain doesn't have whatever it needs to fight back. This is what we know about it so far.[/list]
- [list]Oliver
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