The Wondertainment twins wish Skitter Marshall a happy birthday.
Video Games Are Real Toys! by mxsinister
For the rest of my work, visit mxsinister's corner office.
July 27, 2012
Chrysophilius Marshall was used to spending his birthdays alone. Summer birthdays meant being out of school, meant no cheery classmates, meant no songs or candles or cakes.
There were always gifts, though: plenty of material comforts from people paying tribute to one of the inheritors of the world. They arrived in droves to nearly all his family addresses, but the majority trickled into the main London estate, which he presently occupied.
He sat on the middle of the rug and tore chrome wrapping paper off yet another box. His face twisted up in disgust. It contained a solid gold paperweight—not even creatively molded, just a faux-minted bar.
Just as he tossed the hunk of metal to the side, the doorbell rang.
Were his parents back? He perked up with the brief flicker of hope that they had remembered, and that they'd chosen to care—
He was ashamed of himself for how he rushed to answer the door. Unsurprisingly, it was neither of his parents.
Instead, he was met by two waxen, widely smiling faces. Though Chrysophilius was no stranger to the strange, he still flinched back, shocked by the sheer unusuality of the pair. There was a boy and a girl, or some approximation of those genders.
"Hi!" they started in unison before Chrysophilius could broach any inquiry.
"That's Isabel," said the boy, pointing to his right.
"And that's Redd," she added just as theatrically.
"We're the Wondertwins!" They announced, clapping their hands together. "And we're here to wish you a happy birthday!"
Chrysophilius was too dumbfounded to say anything.
What the fuck? Was his first thought, followed soon after by: Would it kill them to blink?
At last, he asked bluntly: "Is the circus in town?"
"Goodness, no!" Isabel exclaimed, bringing her fingertips to her mouth for a moment in a display of shock. "We haven't done business with Mr. Fuller's lot in years!"
"Nothing but bad blood there," Redd added, shaking his head, crossing his arms. "But the Doctor thought we oughta meet. Good for business, ya'know?"
The Doctor…? Oh, these freaks must be Dr. Wondertainment's children.
Though their relation was plainly visible, Chrysophilius still spotted a number of key dissimilarities. While she was spindly and expressive, he had the lean and sullen grace of a dancer or a hunting dog. Second to their first impression, their clearest difference was in stature; Isabel was not quite as tall as Iris Darke, but close, whereas Redd was only taller than Chrysophilius on account of the fat platforms in his scarlet canvas shoes.
Their coloring, too, was staunchly different. Redd's hair—which matched his eyes and clothes—was the color of rust or fresh blood, and laid flat on his head, styled down the middle, in contrast to the bounciness of Isabel's dark orange mane. Though the skin of both shone with that unnatural, waxy quality, Redd's face was a cool grey entirely drained of blood aside from the scarlet of his cheeks and lips, whereas Isabel at least had some warmth to her coloring.
No matter their weirdness, he reasoned he should treat this as if meeting the heirs of any other business partner or government leader. There were worse ways, he knew, to spend a birthday than playing host, even to uninvited guests.
"We brought gifts, of course!" Isabel held up a box with both hands. Where had that come from? Holographic parchment reflected crisp, cold light, segmented by a scarlet ribbon and a florid bow.
"Oh—thank you," Chrysophilius replied with an automatic smile. "Would you two like to come in?"
"We thought you'd never ask!" they said, again in that uncanny unison. Hey, at least he could expect some cool toys, right?
He took the gift and put it under his arm, waving them in and closing the door in their wake. Both of them took a moment to look around at the mansion's magnificent interior, decorated more like a museum than a livable space.
After a moment, Isabel declared simply—"Well, this is drab!"
The only thing worse than a rude bitch, Chrysophilius thought, grinding his teeth. Is an inadvertent one.
"Are you kidding?" Redd spun once, gazing at the high ceilings before throwing his hands up. "No adults! You're one lucky cookie, Mr. Marshall."
"Do we call you Mr. Marshall?" Isabel questioned, putting a long finger to her cheek in thought. "Or is that not until you're a senior partner?"
Redd gasped in delight before Chrysophilius could answer: "Is your middle name really Scooter?"
Chrysophilius cringed. "Please don't remind me."
"Wait, why?" he asked incredulously. "That's an awesome name. I love scooters."
"Oh, because you're so fond of your middle name~" Isabel teased. Redd's cheeks flared a bright beet shade.
"Shut up, Izzy!"
Isabel gasped. "I'm telling Dad you said that!"
Redd made a show of bringing his fingernails to his teeth and chattering them loudly, making a mockery of fear before a grin returned to his face.
"My friends sometimes called me Skitter," Chrysophilius said, then added somewhat snidely: "You know, if Chrysophilius is too difficult to pronounce."
The twins blinked at him—both confused, but only Redd looking offended.
"Podaj mi słowo po angielsku, którego nie potrafię wymówić,1" he said quickly, the words retaining a hint of that theatrical Boston accent. Chrysophilius looked at him and blinked once, at which point Redd flashed a wide, razored grin. "Chry-so-phil-i-us." He said, overemphasizing each syllable with a mockingly posh British inflection.
Chrysophilius frowned. "Fine, point taken."
"You know, I tried to give my extra names to one of those faerie types, once upon a time," Redd lamented.
Of course, Chrysophilius asked—"What happened?"
"Oh, she turned to rust from the inside out," he replied, waving his hand in dismissal, falling casually back onto a velvet couch. "I don't care. That part of my name's discontinued now, by decree of the Me."
"Pfft," Isabel snorted. "Hail to the king."
"Thank you."
Theatrical bunch, aren't they? he thought.
"Tell you what," Chrysophilius said, cocking his head as an idea occurred to him. "Let's go play a game, and if I win, you've got to tell me."
Naturally, the twins both lit up.
"A game?"
"What sort?"
"The video kind," he replied. Isabel's face darkened, though Redd's grin sliced ever wider between his ruby-powdered cheeks.
"Dad says those aren't real games," Isabel pouted.
"Daddy's not here," Redd taunted, launching from the couch and smacking Chrysophilius a bit too hard on the shoulder, knocking him off balance before continuing to bound with excitement around him. "Lead the way, birthday boy!"
Swallowing his irritation, Chrysophilius led them through the gilded hallways, reminding them not to touch anything, especially not the art framed on the walls.
"Man," Redd said, stopping to put his hands on his hips and gawk at a portrait on the wall. "That artist really did not like your old man."
"Redd!" Isabel shrieked, bringing her hands to her face. "That's not nice!"
No, it wasn't, but after a shocked moment, Chrysophilius couldn't help laughing a bit.
"Well, it's not untrue," he granted. "Hardly the painter's fault that he scowled through the whole thing … I don't imagine he liked sitting with Mum and me for that long, anyway."
An awkward, pitiful silence crept over the children, and he desperately wished he hadn't said that.
"Is that why your parents aren't here?" Isabel asked.
"Wait, so you can ask that, but I can't call a painting of his Dad ugly?" Redd protested.
"That's not—"
"Hey, my parents are important people with important things to do!" Chrysophilius snapped, hoping he wouldn't sound defensive. "And you— wait, did you know my parents wouldn't be home?"
"Naturally," Isabel said. "Well, our dad knew, anyway."
"Well, how did your dad know?"
"'Cause he knows everything," Redd answered flippantly, his voice taking on a musical tone as he continued—"He knows when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake. He knows if you've been bad or good, so be good for goodness—"
"Okay, I get it," Chrysophilius said, smacking Redd's hand away as his index finger tapped the tip of his nose. Redd only let out a laugh and continued past him, walking backward down the hallway.
"You know, if it's any consolation, I spent my birthday alone last year," Redd provided. "Well, sort of."
"I'm surprised your birthday isn't a national holiday or something," Chrysophilius remarked. Though looking at the twins, he had no idea how to determine their age. Did they even age?
"Oh, it is," Isabel informed him. "June first—Labor Day."
"We're Geminis," Redd added.
Chrysophilius rolled his eyes and started to lead them up the stairs, carpeted with real leopard pelt. "Of course you are." Deciding to redirect the conversation, he brought them back around to the previous topic of discussion— "Isabel, if your brother won't tell me, what's your formal name?"
"Isabel Helga Anastasia Parvati Wondertainment the Fifth," she declared proudly.
"The Fifth? You have that many ancestors?"
"Well, no, not like that," Isabel said. "But the old man was worried about Fifthists. I believe it's a ward."
"Huh, how about that?" he replied, almost to himself. He reached the door to his bedroom and slotted the gift box under his arm to grasp the brass handle. "Well, here we are."
"Woah …" Both twins said in exaggerated wonder as they stepped into the gargantuan bedroom. It was not, he realized quickly, a reaction to the space's sheer general opulence, nor its despondently messy state, but specifically to the collection of toys it contained. Some scattered across the floor, others displayed behind glass casings, and his favorite littered across his bed alongside some scraps of wrapping paper from earlier in the day.
"Console's over here—do you have a preference?"
They both hit him with the same blank stare, then shook their heads in sync.
"You're the birthday boy," Isabel reminded him. "You pick."
"Nintendo it is, then." Setting their gift box on the bed, he found three matching gold handheld consoles and dispersed them before moving to pick out a game. "How about we—HEY!"
No sooner had he turned away than he heard metal crackling and splitting. Whipping his head back around, he saw Redd digging his short, crimson nails into the mechanical seams and systematically tearing the buttons and knobs out of their sockets.
"That's limited edition, you son of a bitch!" Chrysophilius shouted as Isabel gasped loudly, reaching to snatch it out of his hands. The twins scrapped over the console for a few seconds before Isabel yanked it out of his hand with a final, sickening creak.
"I'm so sorry about him, Skitter—"
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" His manners flew out the door. He didn't care who their dad was; who comes into someone else's house on their birthday and starts tearing apart their toys? Damn it, it was all too much, especially for today of all days, and he swallowed hard to fight the shameful prickling behind his eyes.
"I just wanted to see how it worked—OW!" Without hesitation, Isabel smacked her open palm across her brother's ruby-red head with a resounding clap. "Izzy!" He cried out, bringing a hand up to rub where she'd made contact. Isabel didn't seem too worried about him, though, and took the broken console to the other side of the room.
"Give me just a jiffy, and I'll fix it for you," Isabel told him with a grimace of a smile. Chrysophilius sighed in resignation, but before he could offer her so much as a screwdriver, she reached into her sequined, crossbody handbag and retrieved a black and pink toolkit that by no metric should have been able to fit in there.
"How many of these have you got?" Isabel asked as she set to work, sitting cross-legged on the floor and laying the mangled electronics neatly before her.
"Eighteen of that model," he declared, turning his nose up. "Why not, if I can afford them? Doesn't mean I want one broken."
"Hey, I get that," Isabel nodded. "I hate to have just one of something I like."
"Yeah, which is how we ended up with a hundred-odd-something corgis," said Redd, who had taken to sulking in the corner with his arms crossed.
"All named Jeremy!" Isabel informed him brightly as she continued to work. "Hey, Skitter, while I do this, why don't you open our gift?"
Figuring it might diffuse his nerves, he took a seat on his bed to find out what tribute they had to offer. Better be good … He tore carelessly into the wrapping, littering the floor with more colorful scraps to deal with later.
The first box gave way to a smaller one. That, to yet another, then to another. By the eighth layer of nested packaging, he was just about ready to throw it at one of their heads. He refrained, grimacing a smile as he asked—
"Sheesh, how many of these are there?"
"Twelve boxes for your twelfth birthday," Isabel told him matter-of-factly. He heard the startup beep of a console in her hands, and she held it up with a grin to showcase that, sure enough, it was right back to good as new. Redd wouldn't so much as look at her, his eyes instead fixed impassively at the gift as Chrysophilius freed it from that twelfth and final container.
There was a bright flash that sucked the air out of his lungs. When it cleared, he held a purple and gold bag labelled Dr. Wondertainment's Potential Sand!®. The back read: 95% sand and 5% magic! Enjoy the sensational tactile experience of gravitational, elastic, electric, and chemical potential energy, right at your fingertips — and without the messy cleanup!
"That's pretty cool, actually," he said, tearing open the top of the gift to pour out the iridescent, semi-sticky powder. It clung to his palms, seeming as if to pull at the skin, but never physically lingered. He found himself idly moving it between hands, enthralled by the sensory compound and the oddly satisfying nature of its viscous movements.
When he got bored—and his attention was a fickle thing of invigorating, esoteric tastes—he put the sand back in its container, satisfied by the promised lack of mess on his hand. Setting one toy aside for another, he took the repaired console from Isabel and booted it back up. From there, he got up to select a game cartridge.
Unholy Night, read his choice. Not bothering to ask for approval (it was his birthday, after all, though he'd picked something he figured they might like), Chrysophilius went about setting up the consoles. The aesthetics were almost garishly retro, all knife-sharp pixels and high contrast.
"Wowzie, is this by Arcadia?" Isabel gasped as the screens loaded up a demon to give them instructions.
"Yup—they fell off after we quit doing business with them, but I think they had some good stuff from back in their heyday," Chrysophilius said. "I wasn't allowed to play with them growing up, but my dad kept a few around, and he didn't notice them gone." The twins didn't respond, their brows furrowed in an identical manner as they familarized themselves with the controls.
"This isn't going to eat our souls or anything, is it?" Redd asked.
"Oh, no," Chrysophilius reassured them, wondering if the twins even had such things, but not venturing to ask. "Most of the demonic stuff happens on the supply side, so you're not going to hell or anything for playing it."
"I've never been to hell. I'd like to visit—" Redd cut himself off with a high, animalistic yelp as Isabel's sprite flew at his with a flurry of attacks. She giggled like mad as the two exchanged pixelated blows without strategy. Chrysophilius waited for their health bars to decline before moving into the fray, finishing off Isabel with a few strikes, much to her indignation.
"Hey!" She complained, though a smile still danced upon her lips. Redd, meanwhile, was downright pouting—
"And now we've both lost. Great going, Izzy."
"Hey, there will be more rounds," she assured him.
"Yeah, of course there will be," Chrysophilius added. "But, you do have to tell me your full name now."
Redd groaned, rolling his scarlet eyes to the sky before glaring again at his sister. "I hate you."
Isabel only blew a raspberry at him. "Hate away, loser."
He only mumbled something, sulking.
"What was that?" Chrysophilius asked in a gratingly melodic manner. Redd looked up and enunciated one syllable at a time—
"Mr. Redd Soxx Aldous Mikołaj Wondertainment. Two D's, two X's."
He grew a cheesing grin of undiluted schadenfreude. "Pfft, your dad named you after the Boston Red Sox, and you have the nerve to say mine doesn't love me?"
"That's a really good one, Skitter," he purred with a cold smile. "Why don't you ask him if he loves you in a week when he comes back from hugging some woman that's not your mom?"
There would have been pin-drop silence, had Isabel not scolded—"Redd, be nice—you're going to get us kicked out!"
That sounds really nice about now, yeah, Chrysophilius thought, his anger an upsetting brew swimming around and squeezing his heart.
But Redd just lowered his head and grumbled something about playing again. Chrysophilius obliged, starting up a new round; except for the life of him, he couldn't catch a win. The twins' strategy from the first round on was to team on him before turning on each other, the sounds of their maniacal amusement bouncing off the walls.
Hell, even when Chrysophilius played them 1v1, he was shocked by how quickly they had developed excellence for the gameplay. Then again, why should he have been? Their whole nature was fun and games; that didn't make his defeats any more enjoyable.
But it did make the time fly by faster, and by the time he realized it was seven in the evening, it was only because a compact mirror in Isabel's pocket had begun to ring out musically.
"Oh, that's Dad," She said, scooting next to Redd before opening the mirror, catching both their faces in its frame. "Hi Dad!"
"Hello, cupcake!" The Doctor's voice, Chrysophilius thought, sounded exactly how he imagined it would—empathically whimsical, yet boomingly authoritative, all with an accent that would have been worthless to try to pin. "Are you enjoying the birthday party?"
"Ya, ya," both twins insisted. Redd moved his head in front of Isabel's and asked enthusiastically—
"We've been playing the coolest games, Dad. Can we start making video games? Please?"
"You—Oh, dear … We'll talk about it when you get home." His tone, Chrysophilius couldn't help but notice, momentarily lacked its previous degree of tenderness, replaced instead by something like toleration, if not agitation, for his son. The Doctor corrected this quickly, however, and asked—"Say, is the young Mr. Marshall there?"
"Yup! Right here," Redd replied, unbothered as he waved Chrysophilius over with a grin. Curious, he approached and got a view of the two-way mirror. He had no idea what the Doctor looked like, and still didn't. His visage was a vibrant collage of shapes and colors, indicating the forms of a face, bearing a sunset-shaded mustache that swirled in likeness to Van Gogh's Starry Night.
"Why, hello there! Well met, young man, very well met. I do hope you are having a wonderfully happy birthday."
"Uh, yea—absolutely wonderful, thanks."
"Splendid to hear, simply splendid! What kind of cake did you have?"
Chrysophilius' heart leapt into his throat. Crap, kids usually had cake on their birthday, didn't they?
"…I'm importing one from a baker in Paris, but it won't be here till tomorrow," Chrysophilius said, flushing as his voice cracked on the lie. The Doctor gave a wiggly, rueful smile as he added—"It's a croquembouche." That sounded good, actually. Maybe he would order that later.
"Well, in case there are any issues in transport," the Doctor said. "I'll send some candy. The sort that travels well, don't worry. We've just started production on the most delicious new loffee-toffee recipe."
"… Thank you, Doctor Wondertainment."
"Please, just Doctor is fine," he said before his smile iced over a fraction. "In the meantime, do give all my due regards to your parents, whenever it is you see them again."
"Do you mean best regards?"
"That's not what I said, and why would I not say what I meant?" His eyes twinkled as Redd muffled a cackle into his palm. "Anyway, I won't cut your birthday party short, but do try and send my kids home at a reasonable time."
July 27, 2015
Chrysophilius spent his fifteenth birthday on the rooftop of his townhouse in New Orleans, sipping Mountain Dew and soaking up the summer sun as he flipped through a hefty copy of G. Edward Griffin's The Creature from Jekyll Island, doing his damnedest to drown his blues in productivity. How else could he expect to make his dad proud? Not that he cared about that, of course. Not at all. Not anymore.
That's what he told himself as he rubbed his eyes and restarted a paragraph that he'd skimmed without processing a word of. Before he could force himself to focus, a loud and melodic caw from overheard caught his attention.
He turned his gaze up, squinting into the clear, piercing blue as a multicolored silhouette descended in wide arcs, coming into focus as some sort of large bird. As it drew nearer, he identified its origami nature, as well as the purple-and-yellow gift box it was carrying in its stout paper bill.
Confusion ebbed into mild delight, and he marked and set aside his book just as the carrier pelican landed by his outstretched legs, dropping the gift onto his lap before unfolding and remaking itself into a colorful card. It read:
The happiest of birthdays be upon our dear friend, Chrysophilius Skitter Marshall.
May all your wishes come true.
Barring that, may you enjoy the gift :)Fare thee well,
Redd & Isabel Wondertainment.
A small smile found its way to his lips. He tucked the note gingerly into his briefcase before starting on the gift itself. Based on the dimensions, he thought it might be another novel, but he couldn't imagine the senders delivering something half so mundane.
After overcoming the fifteen layers of wrapping paper, he beheld the intended contents with disbelievingly widening eyes. It was a game disc container, the plastic a shiny cherry hue, inscribed with what appeared to be a brutal stick-figure fighting scene beneath the following text:
BATTLEPHOBIA!
(Beta v.)
Unleash your rage on your enemies in this awesome new combat game brought to you by Dr. Wondertainment Inc.!
Compatible with Xbox, PlayStation, Nintendo, and all others!
Grinning wider, he clicked open the case. Sure enough, one side held a glossy disc emblazoned with the Wondertainment logo. Attached to the inside of the cover was one last note:
Skitter,
Managed to convince my dad that video games were real toys after all, in no small part thanks to those market research stats you sent over at the start of the year.
It's still in development, but you know I had to send you an early copy. Hope you have fun—please do send your feedback when you're through it.
Bestest of birthday wishes,
Mr. Redd (discontinued) :}