Greatest

2: i mean to be a terror to the world

Getting into the White House via the South Lawn is moderately tricky if you haven't spent the last seven years of your life doing it. My father insists we aren't worthy of being protected by secret service agents if we can't outsmart them on a routine basis. This method of parenting has NOT made him popular with strictly any of our secret service agents, but he has yet to care.
"Hands up."
"You do know it's me," I say, obeying anyway as they converge on me, a few feet from the double glass doors I planned to enter via. "New personal record, I must say."
"Next time tell your mother where you're going?" One of them says, putting my wallet and IDs back in my pocket as the swarm of them disperse.
"Doctor, crazy head person pills," I say, tapping my head, "All good. Good things, I'll be going in now."
"Would it kill you to enter and exit with your assigned guards like you're intended to?" One shouts after me.
"Ha, potentially," I say, making finger guns as I back away before turning to slip inside.
The family quarters are on a certain wing (never mind which) and I run the length of the halls, the various agents muttering when they see me. There's three of us, we're equally bouncy and terrible and our father encourages all of it particularly the vexing of agents.
I wind my way through the familiar halls, checking my chrome watch. A wind up kind. My father does not trust technology. He says one day it will fail. Sometimes the old ways are best, I concede, and I like the extra ridiculousness of calmly winding a watch in front of a group of my peers.
My mother has offices here too, and so I avoid those with care. It's nearly two and I'd rather make it back to my room before—
"Knife practice," Peter, leans out of his room, rumpled sweatshirt pulled over his head despite the warm day. The West Wing is home to all the family rooms, and I and my brothers are neatly down this hall. I'm across from my brother Michael, and then Peter is next to me.
"What?" I sigh.
"Ten minutes," he says, holding up his phone, "Dad texted, where were you?"
"DC," I say, tossing him a packet of M&Ms. Candy is strictly not allowed in our rooms, after the first year in the White House Michael and I were getting every other aid to give us sweets, and our mother feared for our health. As it happens, I can eat however many sweets I like. But I appreciate the sentiment.
Peter grins conspiratorially, snatching the packet out of the air and darting back into his room to hide it.
And I turn to go to my room. I'm changing if we're having knife practice. This isn't a good shirt but it's soft and good for navigating DC. Not that my father doesn't know I left, but even so.
My room has evolved over the years in the white house. First I was ten, and my mother had it painted a soft blue, and the walls had artful movie posters and pictures of cars framed. Then I was fourteen and too old for such things, a election happened and I asked to repaint, this time with soft sage green walls. And the posters of cars and things were replaced with abstract art and a few of my own drawings. Bookshelves moved in to hold all my favorite books, and there is always a decent rack of weapons, swords, spears, shield, along the wall. A gun safe sits inconspicuously in a corner, with a pleasant doily on it and my antique tea set.
My bedspread is green with a forest sort of print, and flannel sheets are all I can stand on my skin. My laptop and tablet sit charging neatly on the dresser. But there's a few signs of life, extra shoes kicked under the bed, and a couple of sweatshirts that aren't dirty enough to be washed lie on an antique chair in one corner. The door to the bathroom stands open and my toiletries are strewn out on the counter.
I kick off my track shoes and find a pair of dance shoes beneath the bed, then I strip off my shirt and jeans in favor of a sweatsuit, already shredded from the ghosts of knife practices past.
Oh, you though that knife practice involved anything BUT real knives being turned on a seventeen, sixteen, and seven year old respectively? Oh, no. Not at all. However bad you think my father is, you're going to need to triple it and drop it into a vat of acid.
And so in order to properly acquaint you with knife practice let me offer you a memory:
Me, age eleven.
My father, like forty something I don't know look it up on Wikipedia.
On the south lawn, with actual, razor sharp, knives. It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, I'd been pulled out of school for this experience and was no longer surprised.  My mother was watching because she's concerned, not concerned enough to stop it, but concerned. We were fighting with five inch knives, when he threw a set of three throwing knives at me for me to knock out of the air, saying, and I quote, this is a direct quote:
"If he's really worthy of being my heir, he'll survive." That was in response to my mother's little scream.
At one point or other I'm going to mention two knife wounds on either side of my heart, and this story is the source material for how I got them. Yeah, I knocked one out of the air, and slowed the other two enough to not actually completely kill me.
Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, putting on my knife fighting clothes, for my father's impromptu practice.
"Cyrus?" My mother knocks on my room door, leaning in, "Did you go to the doctor today?"
"Yeah, um—I just needed to renew my prescription, for the headaches," I say, nicely, tapping my temple as I trip putting on my shoes. I am not going to lie to you reader I am not the most coordinated person. I am blaming the alien brain-eating goop for that but it remains I don't do great walking and talking and not falling over.
"I thought you'd been doing better," she frowns, "What are you doing?"
"Knife practice, south lawn," I say, snatching my phone from where I tossed it on the bed and put it in a drawer.  It's locked but still. I have brothers with time on their hands.
"Don't go if you don't feel well," she says.
"I'm good," missing knife practice automatically entitles you to a (free!) assassination attempt within the next twenty four hours. Note I did not say 'practice' assassination attempt, because that would imply that my father would NOT go through with murdering me, which is not something I have proof of, yet.
"Those can be bad, funny—I had migraines when I was having you," she says, coming and checking my face, "You need to put something on that acne."
"I will, after knife practice, really, got to go," I say, nicely, "I don't like it either."
"You'll grow out of it. Don't tell your dad I told you this, but he had terrible acne right up till he was twenty," she says, nicely.
"Hm, or I'll have it the rest of my life, who knows? Not me, I'll find out," I say, patting her arm, "By the way, I'm rethinking my senior year. I don't know if I want to go back to Wilton's after all."
"Really? Why?"
"Tell you later, absolutely have to go," I say, before hurrying out and running the distance of the hall  and then cutting out the window to make my way to the south lawn.
I'm nearly late, but it doesn't get better as I immediately start panting and coughing from the exertion.
"Now that we're all here," ah, my father. Standing there in all his glory. Fifty odd years old, weathered as hell, eviler than a cat in heat, like all the malice and cruelty in the world got condensed into one, grizzled, conniving person. Tambur Laine, if his name sounds familiar that's because it is. Yeah, as in the same person who was and probably still is if eighteen schemes come to fruition, leader of the free world. That's not a good thing. And yes, I am using his real name. See my previous note about protecting the INNOCENT in this story. Of which he is not. And I suppose neither am I.
"Just told mother where we are," I say, smiling charmingly. Historically our mother is against knife practice, but she can't actually or won't stop it.
"Let's do this already," Peter folds his arms.
"Cyrus looks busy breathing," Michael says, glancing at me dryly. He and Peter are similarly dressed in blood stained, already torn track suits. Michael's dark hair is currently a buzz cut, and his small eyes look sad. Oh, I did refuse him to come with me to DC. Now, I was going to a doctor, but he wanted to come. I didn't want him coming to the cancer ward though. I don't want them to know. And I know that sounds selfish. And it is. This is my death. I get to have it as I see fit.
"If he's worthy of being my heir, he'll survive," my father says, flicking a knife directly at my face. I leap and kick it out of the air and we are off.
Peter snatches the throwing knife from the ground as my head very nearly smacks the pavement. I'm rolling to my feet to kick a knife out of my father's hand. He catches my foot and I rolls us both.
Peter and Michael are well in it, so I am left to our father. As was my design.  If any of us is to be cut it will be me. Apparently I don't have all that long to live anyway.
I land a kick to his chest before he slashes the back of my leg and we're up again, my knife diving for his kidney as he flips me to the ground.
I hit the ground and roll but this time my head strikes. Normally that wouldn't be an issue as we're on soft grass and I'm used to pulling myself back up, but this time it sends my head ringing, pain splintering through my skull and down my body as bright lights seem to flash in the corner of my vision.
I raise my hands to protect myself well aware it's not going to be enough but it's all I can do when light splinters my vision such that I can't even see.
When I do regain my footing and half the ability to see, I'm shocked I'm still alive. It takes me a moment to realize Michael moved in, he's blocking our father and fighting expertly, while Peter backs him up. It easily takes both of them to even dare to hold off him.
The timer goes off, which is good because I can't see stand appropriately or move for the pain in my limbs and poor aching, alien goop infested head. But the ringing sets my head screaming in pain again.
"Really? You both defend your brother?" Our father is disappointed. On a list of things I'm worried about, Number 1 being DYING, Number 2 is solidly my father's disappointment in me. I'm not kidding. Yes I know I have problems. My biggest problem is the fact that I'm dying, my second problem is that I desperately want my father's approval.
"Yeah, we're a team, always," Michael says, glancing at me. I'm clearly not okay.
"Yeah dad, brothers don't let each other down, not even in knife practice," Peter says.
"One day he'll be in charge of us, we need to earn his trust," Michael says, folding his already thick arms. He's a year younger than me but already twice as stocky. I'm currently blaming my lack of muscle mass on my previously mentioned fatal brain infestation.
"Very well. You're both quite persuasive," our father says, putting up a knife, "Dare I ask, Cyrus, was that a test?"
"Nope, should say yes but no, random headache, need meds," I say, rubbing my head with my fist.
"As ever you're weak. You're lucky today your brothers had your back. One day they will not be in time to save you."
"Not at all ominous father, thank you, for that, going inside to get meds," I wave with one bloody hand.
Michael and Peter move to follow me but our father stays them, "Both of you, two laps around the house for breaking form, now."
He would send me as well for getting a headache in the middle of knife practice, but our mother has some say. No, that say does not extend to preventing knife practice.
I limp back inside, cut and fuming. Is this how I want to spend the last year of my life? No, no it's not. I want to have an excellent time, potentially an adventure. And I'm not going to get better I'll get worse. My head is going to keep pounding like it does and my father is cruel, but not stupid he will start to realize it's something beyond headaches.
I make my way back to my room. I need to think, and log some sort of exercise after that display. We all wear fitness trackers, my father checks daily. I find the appropriate meds in my backpack, palming a few migraine pills plus pain pills. The fall might have triggered a migraine or it's just alien brain goop getting the best of me. All right. Time to think. What do I want to do with MY year?
Leave.
I snag my swim shorts and then head to the pool. The Whitehouse has a pool, yes. I'm the only member of the family which makes good use of it. It's good exercise, and my siblings know how to swim, they just don't like doing laps. It's an indoor pool and typically heated though I have them keep it cool as possible since I'm working out.
I change at the pool, checking my injuries. A few cuts, the one on my leg is the worst. 
Fun fact, yes they do make bandages that are water proof, for swimmers. But those are generally small. You know what does do the trick? K-tape, which is waterproof for a few days, and can be stuck over gauze. I get myself patched up in my favorite neon green K-tape, and then dive in.
Cold water, the sickly sweet smell of chlorine, and the moment I hit the water, silence. The soft gurgles in my ears and I am alone, deliciously so, with my thoughts. Nothing can get to me here, for a little while, I'm very alone and my head is clear I don't have to worry about standing up or falling or tripping I'm just gliding through the water and the water is cold on my poor head and my hair sticks to my neck and I am, free.
So, what do I want to do with my year? Optimistically, I have a calendar year from today, but I realize that might be optimistic. The doctor recommended taking off school and spending time at home fuck that, he does not know, (thank god) what my home is like.
So.
Where am I to go? Usually all three of us boys board at school, that was how it always was growing up, but the last few years I've been a day student and home on weekends. Not anymore, no. I want a life and it's mine to live. For one whole year. I demand to have a life of my own or—well I definitely will die trying.  But. Till then it needs to be spectacular.
No, I am going back to boarding school, as far from here, and this city, as is physically possible. The less time I'm expected to be involved in my father's various schemes, the better.
After a few dozen laps I'm sufficiently sore and my fitness tracker is satisfied, so I surface, tugging off my goggles, fully prepared to float for a few hours. But I'm not alone in the pool house.
Michael and Peter are sitting on the deck chairs, waiting for me to finish my work out. Both are sweaty from their run, but they have changed into muscle tanks and shorts, and clearly patched up their few injuries, in Peter's case with Ninja Turtle bandages, in Michael's case big tan bandaids that are already soaking through. Before you ask how often this child-endangerment-knife-practice happens, the answer is not too often, only daily, if our father can manage. Sometimes affairs of the state have him leave in which case he requires we do it anyway and video it so he knows we're not using rubber knives.
"You two didn't have to step in, back there," I say, clinging to the edge of the pool, leaning against the rough flagstone as it scrapes against my chest.
"Dude, he was going to fucking gut you," Michael scoffs.
"He'd stop," I say, shaking my head.
"Maybe not," Peter says.
"He would, don't let him cut you on my account—that he would do," I say.
"We stick together, it's what we do," Michael says.
"Sorry I didn't take you into the city," I say, looking at my hands as I lace them in the cold metal ladder.
"Did you go see that doctor again?" He asks.
"Yeah, just more pills," I shrug dismissively. Don't look at me like that. My death.
"It's not getting better though?" Peter asks.
"No, probably not," I say, truthfully, "Look, I've been thinking, about school. I don't want to go back to Wilton's this fall."
"Why?" Michael asks, frowning. It doesn't affect him as I said, he already goes to a different boarding school.  "I thought you liked it there."
"Yeah, I do, did—I just want a change of pace, I miss boarding I've been a day student for two years," I say.
"I hate boarding," Peter says.
"It's better than home," Michael scoffs.
"Yeah, but I miss mom," Peter says.
"You'll get over it," I say.
"I miss you too."
"Again, you'll get over it," I say.
"Where are you gonna go then?" Michael asks.
"Rose and Swan, I qualified for their fencing program freshman year. If I ask then I'm sure they'll let me in," I say.
"Dad is NEVER going to let you go to Rose and Swan," Michael scoffs, "You know he hates that school, that person he hates and perpetually complains about went there. He hates it on principal. I wanted to go because of their riding program and I got an hour lecture on how 'that fucking mafia don went there' and 'that fucking mafioso Windsor is everything that's wrong with this country and possibly the world', and associated things I don't know, gist of it is, Dad will never go for it."
"Oh yee of little faith, I can persuade dad when I need to," I say.
"Then why are you telling us?" Peter asks.
"I wanted to make sure you guys would be cool with it," I say, looking at my fingers. I missed a cut on my hand. Blood spirals in the water from my hand, as I dig my thumbnail into the wound to widen it. "That's a long way away— if you needed anything, not that you do during the school year, pretty obvious I needed you." We don't typically see the other except for school breaks, such as this one for the summer. Though if necessary I can always usually drive or hop a flight to their school if they need something they don't feel like telling our parents about.
"You can still fly back," Peter shrugs.
"We're cool, if you think you can convince dad to let you go to Rose and Swan, the school that was responsible for turning out his weirdly homoerotic arch-nemesis go for it," Michael scoffs.
"Oh, it is homoerotic now that you say that," I laugh.
"What does that mean?" Peter asks.
"Means sexual tension between two men, usually in a situation where one or both male is presumed straight," I say.
"Ooo, do we presume Windsor straight?"
"I mean, no, as you bring it up, could be just the way he acts though," I've seen my father's various surveillance footage of this person and it's objectively a sexy person, if short, perpetually smiling and wearing well fitted clothes.
"Dad thinks he's straight, so anyway," Michael shrugs, "I just want to see you tell Dad that you want to go to Rose and Swan."
"Do you doubt me?" I ask, narrowing my eyes, "My powers of persuasion are simply amazing I'll have you know."
"And dad's powers of assholery are exceptional I don't see how you're going to get away with this," Michael laughs.
"Charm," I say, flopping back in the water.