The Savages

Chapter 17: Operation Rescue Kasperskies

Stephen's head throbbed. The more he read, then re-read the scrawly sentence in front of his eyes, the less sense it made. Reading was never one of his strong points, despite his vision being the best there was in the family. He could never properly structure a string of written words together, let alone break down their meaning. It made him question Teemu's choice in assigning him the task to read every possible history book contained within Slate's wall-to-wall library, jotting down important points he came across on an actual notepad, with an actual fountain pen.

"On a count down to zero, take a ride on the nightmare machine," a soft, caressing voice cantillated from the other side of the ample space. It was his twin, singing along to a cassette tape playing inside the Walkman he held. Stephen had never seen one before, except for sale online. He was shellshocked to see one on Unai, and even more surprised the name scratched into the side of it was Slate's. "There ain't gonna be heroes, there ain't gonna be anything. Oh, here it comes. Here comes the night, here it comes, hell in the ni-iiiight."

The thick textbook slammed shut in front of Stephen, causing the ancient table to vibrate from the impact. Shannon almost jumped ten feet into the air, hastily twirling around to be met with Stephen's glowering dark eyes. "Do. You. Mind?"

"Yes. I. Do." He responded brazenly, curling his fingers into a loose fist. "I'm trying to imagine what our original was thinking while Def Leppard were recording this song, thirty years ago. Did he like it? Did he think it was worth the three-year struggle, or does he wish they never wrote it? So many questions, so little answers."

Stephen kicked back from the tiny study area with enough force to blow numerous pages one over the other, scraping the wooden legs of his chair harshly against the floor. "If you want to find out his inner thoughts, why don't you just ask him? Oh, that's right, because we're clones! He doesn't give a care in the world about us, Shannon. And even if he knew who we were, I doubt he would. So instead of wasting your time thinking about irrelevant things, why don't you pick up a book, dust it off, and help me out here? You know I don't exactly take first place when it comes to these things. Tully would be a better candidate at this, since researching is his specialty."

Their brothers were currently preparing for a confrontation against Kasperskies' captors, covering every possible outcome they could fathom. Slate was proficient in hand-to-hand combat, and, as it turned out, weapon advantage. This came as no surprise to Stephen, when he considered the fact Slate was older than all of their ages combined. According to one of Unai's few history books, Slate was fast approaching his three hundredth birthday. He barely found any scraps of information on Zavion; only one mention of him being the heir to Jonathan Walker. That was it.

Perhaps the most perplexing instance of misinformation he stumbled upon was a paragraph citing David Anderson's demise, two years before. Going by what one of Unai's oldest ancestors had written, David Anderson's time came at the hands of Prince Verician Tanjiga, who cut him down with one strike of his sword. Yet, he lived on in today's modern world, taunting and imprisoning clones. Stephen felt it in his bones - he and his family weren't the first ones to fall victim to David Anderson's twisted plan of revenge, nor the last. There had been families before theirs, but he wasn't sure who they were, or if they were still alive.

"You look like you've seen a ghost in the flesh," a warm, welcoming voice spoke from the doorway. He already knew it would be Teemu, scrutinising his entire body as though he could see right through him. He always did that whenever he noticed something odd about Stephen, or the others. "If you've reached your limitations for the day, I can assign someone else to take over."

"I'm fine," Stephen lied through his teeth, hand clenching around the side of the book. He felt the solid cardboard crumple beneath his fingers, warping out of its perfectly straight shape. Slate would be mad, he knew. When the time came, he would apologise and offer to replace it personally, out of his own funds. "Shouldn't you be doing ballet with the others right about now? I still don't see why anyone would voluntarily ask to be trained at a time when we should be out there, looking for Kasperskies."