Greatest

4: accurs'd be he that first invented war

Okay, I don't really die. I was being dramatic. I'm still alive. I just kind of think I'm dying as I slip from consciousness and the alien brain goop takes over and the last thing I'm aware of is cracking my head on the bathroom tiles, buck naked, clinging to an ivory towel for comfort.
But rest assured, dear reader, do not fear for me.
My family is not concerned in the slightest. Nobody comes and looks for me. I wake up six hours later, every single bone in my body aching, every muscle throbbing, in a neat little puddle of my now drying blood from where I hit my head during the seizure.
This dying thing is the worst.
I pick my naked freezing self up and set about finding clothes, soft sweats and t-shirt, before patching up my head. It's a two inch gash from the edge of the tub which my head struck on my way down. Just caught it just right.
Don't worry, nobody asks about that or anything. Instead, I find I've missed lunch, and in my hazy state, head still ringing, I make my way to the kitchen to bother the staff to beg for a sandwich or something.
One roast beef with avocado and mustard sandwich later I don't feel any better but it's a hell of a sandwich and I want you to know that. The kitchen staff are friendly and sympathetic, having learned long ago to stop questioning my mysterious injuries and music choices. I stay in the kitchen with them even though they insist they can prepare a tray, and as usual I make conversation about a new Netflix series that's been trending. Most of them have seen it so I want to gauge if I can let Peter watch it.
We are not supposed to have streaming accounts but our mother wound up negotiating that one for us, and for my fourteenth I and I alone am allowed a Netflix account provided my use of it doesn't exceed three hours a week. It rarely does, and of course I and my brothers share the right to watch things, usually just movies though sometimes popular shows. Of course we can only do this at home, the account is locked down during school season.
My brothers are already done playing x-box, and are outside playing basketball. I considering joining them but my head is still ringing. I wonder if I'm going to have another seizure anytime soon. Hopefully not. Because collapsing in the middle of the third floor hall would be slightly inconvenient.
With that I beat it back to my room. Time to start packing I suppose. Why is the bed so far beneath me? And why is the room spinning? That's not normal is it? Oh shit.
"Hey it's dinner time," my mother shakes my shoulder, "Do you want to come down?"
Oh fuck me.
"Yeah, sure," I look at the clock. Another few hours? How often is this going to happen? Is this what dying feels like? "Sorry, closed my eyes for a minute."
"Don't worry, are you not feeling well?"
"No, nope. I feel great, never better. Having the time of my life."
I need more pills. Didn't the doctor say he was prescribing ones for the seizures? He did. Fuck. I sit up, rubbing my hair. I can do this.
"Shane, you know how much you love me," I find my favorite burly secret service agent at the end of the second floor hall, playing cards with a couple of others.
"You've been a terror this morning," he grunts.
"I need to go to the pharmacy, to fill a prescription," I say, twisting my hands. So, to leave the residence (legally) is something like a four hour process of red tape. A trip to the local pharmacy, so simple for the average teenager, is nearly impossible for me. Now, I could lose my tails, but I've done that once today and it would cause a high alert which would alert my father and he'd then want to know why I went. My doctor visit yesterday was something my parents knew and didn't care about. They know I get drugs, obviously, but that's for headaches, not anti-seizure stuff.
Shane stands up, a full two heads taller than me and twice as broad, with short shaved red hair and wide set blue eyes, as usual dressed casually in a polo and khakis, a gun well hidden beneath a leather jacket. He looks like your average tourist/pedestrian/everything. Nothing remarkable. Just the human equivalent of a red brick wall walking within six feet of the world's most sexually unappealing teenager at all times. Shane is the lead in rotation at school with me, and he's been my primary agent since we moved in to the residence. I don't know if people specifically like me, but at least Shane comes close to tolerating me.
"You get that from your doctor?" He asks, knowing fully well I gave the team the slip yesterday to go to the appointment.
"Yeah, I was trying to make it back under four hours so I didn't drop it off," I sigh, holding up the slip of paper.
"Can't you send someone with it?" He asks. Privilege of living here, there's a reasonable number of people that I can call on to run the odd errand. Why? Well it's a whole lot simpler than the security measures for me to go myself. Most common late night necessities, from over the counter meds, to comfort foods, are stored on site for our convenience, or rather for the simplicity of security. However, for say prescription drugs, clothing malfunctions prior to state dinners, unforeseen dietary restrictions of guests, or just taking a dog to the vet (we had a dog it's a very sensitive subject please don't ask me about it), there's a set of people who will go and procure the thing, fill the prescription, find a set of nylons, procure gluten free vegan oatmeal, or run a dying dog to the vet while a ten year old cries their eyes out because he doesn't get to say goodbye to the first sentient being to ever like him.
"I don't want anyone to know what it is, it's kind of private," I sigh, fiddling with the paper.
"I'll take it, I won't read it," he offers, holding out a hand. Since he's one of several on my team, it's fine that he would go, because the team has to be two people at all times, in the event of an emergency and needing to leave the building or whatever. So, usually three are on duty so that one can use the restroom, go home sick, whatever whatever whatever, normal life stuff. Or something of this nature. Secret Service aren't errand boys and they don't typically do us favors. But if it's between having to spend four hours clearing the way to a Walgreens then standing with me in a Walgreens for thirty minutes while they fill it, then it only makes sense he'd choose the former.
"I'm not having you do that," I sigh. Again it's not his job, this is a highly trained operative whose skillset is well beyond filling prescriptions for dying boys.
"No, you're not, but I will. You need it tonight?"
I nod.
"Go eat dinner. I'll get your meds," he says, holding out his hand.
"There's three, unless you want to take me there in the morning," I say.
"If they can't fill 'em tonight can Marco pick them up on his way in?" He asks. Marco is one of my other agents. He's a cool guy, youngest on the team, can occasionally be tempted into impromptu games of soccer on the south lawn. He's on a different rotation than Shane usually.
"Yeah, I just—it's kind private. They're working on what's wrong with my head," I sigh.
"Good, so long as they get it sorted out. We're used to you," he winks taking the folded papers to carefully place in his pocket.
"Thanks, Shane, really," I say.
"Get some sleep, you look like you need it."
I cannot sleep.
We spend dinner going over fall class schedules. My mother signed all my papers and instructs us children to get to packing. It's Thursday night, Monday is the first day of school, Saturday we move in to our dorms, so we fly out Friday night or Saturday as a rule. Of course security is still working out that, especially given my last minute change.
Dinner is soup, if you care. I don't because I don't like soup. I pick out the big chunks from it and eat those dry off the spoon after straining it. Historically I have been told not to do that and historically when I am instructed not to do that I simply don't eat. Ergo I get to do it and pick at my food.
Dinner done, we head on back up to our rooms, and our parents disperse for a few more evening briefings. Peter and Michael mumble about packing, but they know better than to cajole any staff to help them.
I for my part am more than happy to have the quiet. My headache is finally gone (1 point for Cyrus, making the current Cyrus vs the alien goop from hell 1/324, don't ask how I got those numbers. It's painful and I don't feel like talking about it).
The staff have already brought up my suitcases, so I set about going through my clothes, picking out the ones that still fit all right. I'll have uniforms those will be sent to the school, though. I'll need regular clothes for weekends and such, as well sleep. I have remarkably few other personal items, my electronics, including various speakers. And of course a decent array of weapons. You know, like teenagers need. All my favorite knives, a couple of choice guns I need to clean and lock up, as well as throwing stars and that type of thing. I save packing my speaker for last, in favor of blaring music as I methodically pace around my room, occasionally dancing. Something you should know about me is, I'm a very good dancer. Like, really good. Remarkably, nobody else in the history of time has ever been aware of this or been able to detect my genius. But it's true. And I want you to know it.
Shane delivers my pills around nine, by which point I'm mostly packed. The drugs are wrapped up in the pharmacy bag, and he hands it to me wordlessly.
"You been packing?" He asks, looking around the room. Admittedly it doesn't look much different.
"Yeah, I'm ah, just about done, I've been busy," I say.
"Is that why you've been blaring the FMA theme on repeat for two hours? Because you're busy?" Michael, quivering with rage, as he comes to destroy my speaker. He pushes past Shane in the doorway and stares around my room violently.
"It's packed! I'm done sorry I needed to focus," I say, herding him out.
"I don't envy you getting him the rest of the school year, Shane," Micheal growls, as I physically shove him from the room and he collapses on top of me.
"Oh, he grows on you," Shane says, watching our antics but not interfering. That's his job, just to watch and make sure we aren't murdered, that's literally it. As integral as our staff and agents are to our family they are still distinctly paid to be here.
"Not really—if you don't discover the invention of headphones I will personally end you," Micheal growls, still stuck in my doorway.
"Good luck, I'm done, I swear, I needed the music to surround me," I say, finally shoving him out.
"We fly out at seven," Shane checks his phone, "So you two might want to get some sleep." Again, not family, but this man has fished me out of the Potomac, watched me dance, escorted me to fourth of July's and Christmases, and visited four different countries with me. He's done everything from watch me vomit in a Target bathroom, to dove on top of me in the middle of a bomb threat, to well, fishing me out of the Potomac pretty much covers it. He might even miss me when I'm gone.
"Wait—when do I fly out?" Michael asks, actually ceasing struggling with me.
"Not till ten," Shane says, tapping his phone. He'll have access to my brother's schedules but he's not their handler so it's not something he's responsible for. Up till we're sixteen our primary agent is more of a handler, with some responsibility for getting us places. At sixteen and on we have agency of movement (per our parents) and if I decide to walk out of here right now and go for a jog on the capital grounds, his job is less to stop me and more to follow me. Within reason obviously, hence the complicated pharmacy run.
"Seven means we have to be at the airport at four—damn it that's five hours from now," I groan.
"You can add?" Michael asks, clearly surprised. Reader, yes of course I can do math.
I just generally choose not to do math. It's a choice. Just like being beautiful and sensational, this is a choice I've made, to, unless actively called upon, not properly do math. With alien goop invading my brain I need to make these little allotments of grey matter.
"If I so desire, bye, I'll see you in the morning," I say. What are little brother's for if not to be awoken at four AM to being lifted out of bed while actively singing the Lion King theme?