Chapter Text
Kusuo wakes to the sound of his older brother banging on his bedroom door. "Kusuo! Kusuo, come on, the sun's about to come up! Don't be so lazy!"
Kusuo digs his face into the pillow, eyes heavy with constantly interrupted sleep. (Not even Papa's waking up at dawn, and he's got work.)
"Terrible excuse!" Kuusuke jiggles the doorknob, and the noise of its mechanism clacking makes Kusuo let out an exasperated sigh.
(You're the one who should be sleeping.) Kusuo mutters, shifting underneath his blankets. (Nobody should have to follow your schedule.)
"Seventeen minutes for every twenty-four hour cycle is optimal," Kuusuke rationalizes. "Besides, it's not like *you're* supposed to sleep. My predictions say that you'll live to at least sixty, even if you practice my habits."
(Mine say you'll die way before thirty.)
Kuusuke shrugs. "I've always wanted to die young. So do you. You should join me."
Sitting up, Kusuo rubs his eyes before staring through the door. (I like to look my age, thank you.)
"Do you want to shuffle off to death having accomplished nothing like the rest of the apes?" Kuusuke asks. "It isn't worth living among monkeys for so long. I've already grown tired of it."
('Tired' is a way to describe it.) Kusuo dangles his legs off the edge of the bed before dropping down. He saunters to the door but does not open it, opting to observe his brother, who gazes right through it with a knowing look.
"Open it." He looks even more exhausted than Kusuo, but his mind continues to feverishly generate ideas. That smug smile is plastered on his face; he doesn't make a conscious effort to keep it that way anymore, hoping to be as illegible as possible. The shadows and lines around his eyes look unnatural for a six-year-old, and his blond hair is overgrown.
"Kusuo, I wanna play," he whines, kicking the door. "I just wanna play with my little brother."
Kusuo glances at the clock on his bedside table. (It's not even six.)
"I thought you liked playing with me." Kuusuke murmurs. "You always win."
(It gets a bit boring after a while.) Kusuo admits, leaning against the door. (But, personally, I'd quit if I kept losing like you do.)
"Oh. Am I a bore to you, Kusuo?" Kuusuke places a hand on the door. "I can make things more interesting."
Kusuo's eyebrows draw together as a wave of potential ideas crashes over him, varying in complexity and annoyance. He lets out a short sigh. (My life has to be boring. Mama said so.)
Kuusuke hums, thinking. "She just wants to you to keep your powers secret. I already know about them, so there can't be any harm in competing."
Kusuo crosses his arms, hesitant. (Really bad things will happen if anyone finds me out. I'll be taken away to a bunch of doctors that'll cut me open and stuff.)
"I promise I'll keep it a secret, Kusuo," Kuusuke reassures him in a quiet tone. "I don't want to hurt my little brother. I especially don't want a bunch of strangers to."
(Okay.) Kusuo murmurs with a gentle look, unlocking the door. Kuusuke opens it immediately, and he pulls Kusuo into a hug, lifting him off of the ground. He grunts, unused to the affection.
"Oh, Kusuo, relax." Kuusuke places him back down and holds him by his tense shoulders. "It's my job as your older brother to protect you."
Kusuo scoffs, expression hardening. (Protection. I don't need protection. I just need you to behave.)
"'Behave'!" Kuusuke repeats, offended. "You're the younger one, not me. You're far more likely to get yourself into trouble than I am. I'm the smartest man in the world."
(You say that, but I beat you at every game of trivia.)
"Guessing a Pokémon first doesn't count as trivia!" Kuusuke snaps. "Whatever. That show's for kids. I'd like to see you build a robot that can beat mine."
Kusuo straightens up, adopting his brother's smug look. (Easily.)
"Can you check on them? They're usually awake by now."
Kuniharu lets out a long yawn as he stretches his arms. "Sure, honeybun."
The apartment has a peculiar feeling about it. The sound of morning television is absent, and Kuniharu narrows his eyes upon seeing his children missing from the living room. They'd usually be making quite a bit of noise by now, playing and fighting like it's the only thing they can do.
"Kuusuke!" Kuniharu calls, still drowsy. Where are the— (OUTSIDE.)
Kuniharu claps a hand to his forehead as Kusuo's voice rattles inside of it. His forebrain aches with the intrusion, and the backs of his eyes begin to throb. *Fuck— Kusuo, cut that shit out!*
(LANGUAGE.) Kuniharu groans, clutching at the sides of his head. "That was only in my thoughts! Don't blame me!"
He lets outs a shaky sigh, rubbing his knuckles against his eyes as he opens the front door. The sudden sunlight only heightens the throbbing of his optical nerves, and he grips the railing, leaning over to observe the driveway.
What looks like a disassembled motorcycle lies scattered behind Kuusuke as he welds and fastens and tests... Kusuo flexes the joints of his far more crude invention made of straws, tape, and boxes. Kuniharu's mouth hangs open as he processes the amount of equipment. "What. What?! Where did you two get all of this?!"
(Garbage can.) Kusuo responds, and Kuniharu bites back a groan as the telepathic message stabs back into his forehead.
"Kusuo, just stop talking. Kuusuke?"
"Garbage can," Kuusuke responds with a smile, leaning backward to meet his father's eyes. Kuniharu lets out an exasperated sigh as he shuffles down the stairs, muttering nonsense.
"This!" He points at the deconstructed, expensive-looking motorcycle. "Wouldn't even fit in a garbage can. Look at all this! Where does a six-year-old get propane?!"
"Father, you shouldn't belittle me like that. Look what I made! Isn't it far beyond Kusuo's capabilities?!"
"It certainly looks that way." He leans down to inspect the miniature robot, incredibly tidy for something put together so hastily. "Does it work?"
Kuusuke gives him an excited nod. "I made a controller for it. Do you wanna try? A machine as sophisticated like this should beat anything made by someone as young as Kusuo, even if he's a psychic."
"Well, we'll see." Kuniharu narrows his eyes at the controller, attempting to understand the archaic placements of switches and joysticks. He scratches his temple. "I think I got it."
"Just be careful with the laser." Kuusuke steps back to kneel behind the motorcycle's bright blue chassis.
"Uh, laser?" He narrows his eyes at the bulky controller and spots a large red button. *That must be it.*
Kusuo places his creation of taped-together juice boxes and straws at the center of the driveway, staring at his father as he moves a joystick. Kuusuke gasps with a glint in his eyes as he watches his creation raise its arm. "Onward, Kuusuke Mark Zero! Destroy thy enemy and bring me his head!"
Kusuo matches the slow pace of Mark Zero, moving the straw joints of his own robot psychokinetically. Maybe he should name his invention.
"Kusuo!" Kuusuke calls from behind the motorcycle. "I must know what my enemy shall be called so that I may chronicle my tale of victory!"
Kusuo holds his chin, thinking. The answer is obvious. (Mazinjuice.)
Kuusuke chuckles, hiding his mischievious grin behind cover. "Kukuku... Mazinjuice shall meet his end shortly."
Mazinjuice begins to circle around Mark Zero, flexing his arms in preparation for an attack. He moves slowly, stalking his mechanized prey. Mark Zero kneels forward, not bothering to aim the cannon mounted to its back before firing in his general direction. The shards of concrete erupt from the driveway, and Mazinjuice dodges one sent hurtling toward him by physics.
It ricochets off of the ground, spinning wildly toward Mark Zero, who stares it down with narrow eyes. He does not move an inch. It merely bounces off of his metal chassis with a loud *clank*.
"A slippery one..." Mark Zero mutters, clenching its fists. Its voice is deep although filtered through speaker. "You only delay the inevitable."
Mazinjuice readies its blade— a popsicle stick— as it prepares for another attack. Mark Zero flexes his fingers, stance wide. "Must I be the one who strikes first?"
The concrete beneath Mark Zero's feet cracks as he lunges forward, taking a swift chop Mazinjuice's torso. Mazinjuice sucks in a breath, not having expected such speed, and he can feel his cardboard singe as Mark Zero flies past. "I just have to catch you off-guard."
Mazinjuice holds his blade to his side, scrutinizing Mark Zero for any movement. His servos are static, head turned ever so slightly behind him. Despite the position appearing weak at first glance, Mazinjuice readies himself for some other trick or trap.
There is silence. The rising sun begins to beat down on them, heating up the driveway. Mazinjuice shifts his paper feet, distracted for a fraction of a second.
An indescribable burst of energy shoots toward him, and Mazinjuice can only block it, slicing the beam in half in an attempt to save his skin. Two lasers jut out of the field surrounding his stick, melting the tree trunk to his right and the leg to his left.
...Leg?
"Kuusuke! How do I turn it off?!" Kuniharu yells, sweating bullets. Kuusuke sprints out from behind his cover.
"The button, the button!" Kuusuke wrestles the controller out of his father's hands, smacking the red button in question.
"It's stuck!" Kuniharu screams.
"I know!" Kuusuke glances up at his brother, who is still engrossed in the battle. "Kusuo, block it!"
Mazinjuice's popsicle stick splits in two, and he raises them along with the laser beams. He tilts them downward, and beams combine into one once again, reflecting back at Mark Zero. He makes a noise of surprise, shutting down his own weapon before it does much damage.
"Kusuo! Are you alright?" Kuusuke calls upon seeing his brother's distant stare. He blinks, eyebrows twitching as he looks back at Kuusuke, confused.
(Why wouldn't I be?) He asks. Kuusuke doesn't respond, opting to kneel in front of him and hold his right leg. Kusuo supposes that it feels a bit funny.
Kuusuke lets out an exasperated sigh. "Kusuo, look. You can't feel that?"
He leans forward to observe his own leg, spotting the large burn Kuusuke points to upon his shin. He furrows his brow. (It just tickles a bit.)
Hm. He supposes that it feels like a bit more than tickling. Just seeing that wound the size of his palm grow angry is making him process the injury. A large crater in his flesh... yes, that would hurt a bit. He lets out a quiet wince as Kuusuke presses his handkerchief to it.
*Why is it bleeding?* He asks himself with narrow eyes, glaring at his reddened linen. *It should be cauterized.*
Kuusuke takes a sharp inhale as he turns his attention back to Kusuo's shin, falling backward. The burnt muscle is pushed outward by a flood of congealed blood, scarred flesh forming detached strings as the blood solidifies back into Kusuo's intended form. Kuusuke stares at the wound, mesmerized by the process of the frames of his cells calcifying before regenerating. Kusuo brushes the strings of scar tissue off of him.
"Did you do that on purpose?" Kuusuke asks, mouth agape.
(I don't think so.)
Kuusuke takes a deep, enthusiastic gasp. "That is incredibly intriguing. It's some sort of form of subconscious shapeshifting, I believe. That would make sense— it's the first power you developed, after all."
Kusuo is silent for a moment. (Did I win the death battle?)
"Of course!" Kuusuke stands up, brushing himself off. "You forced me to forfeit."
"Well!" Their father chimes in. "It's good to know that we won't have to worry about you getting hurt, Kusuo."
As he begins to saunter off, he accidentally kicks the controller, causing Mark Zero's missile pods to open fire. Kuusuke!
(Is that the only way?) Kusuo asks.
His father gives him a cold glare in response. "Yes. National problems need national solutions. *All* of them need to stop existing for us to have peace, you know?"
Kusuo shifts uncomfortably in his seat at the dinner table. Playing outside was fun, but it opened him up to unexpected surveillance. His breath hitched upon hearing the enthused thoughts of a foreign agent, having withstood a dozen missiles without so much as a scratch.
"Sorry, Kusuo," his brother mutters from the seat next to him. "But I do wonder, how are you going to get out of this one? Are you really going to butcher a nation?"
Kusuo shakes his head, staring at the table. Maybe they won't go after him? Maybe they'll just give up upon seeing his power.
"Are you willing to do what is necessary, Kusuo?" Kuusuke asks in a dark tone, leaning close. His wooden chair creaks. "Have you figured out what it means to take a life yet?"
Kusuo takes a deep breath, holding out his hand to stop an incoming sniper round aimed at his brother. They've done it now. If he takes their lives— all of them— then the probability of them messing with his family is exactly zero. If they don't know what it means to take a life, why should he?
He can hear the sniper's panic upon seeing his targets glare directly at his nest, cut short by his neck snapping underneath an invisible force.
His invasion is a blur. One hard clap of his hands is enough to collapse the tall buildings around him and tear the skin off of the people below with sheer air pressure. They don't look much different to him, though. Bodies of exposed muscle lie in heaps against walls and rubble, streets slowly turning into red rivers.
The anguished cries of mother and child do not faze him. He closes himself off to the misery, the hopelessness his victims feel as he crushes their skulls with a mere thought.
"You monster!" A woman shrieks in English. "Monster! Monster!" She sobs, repeating the word under her breath as she leans over her family's corpses. Kusuo stares for a moment before sending her to join them.
His heart is beginning to pound with adrenaline, surrounded by the despicable loss of life, all at his hands. Kusuo lets out a shaky breath, smiling as he interprets the sensation as excitement.
There must be more bloodshed. He's already culled half the population. It's only a matter of time before they're all gone. Every trace of them, every loose thread of art and culture, cleansed off of the face of the Earth. This is the price of messing with a god. This is what happens when you target not just him but his family.
Death to this so-called "nation". Death to its people. May their allies forget their existence and see this land as historically empty.
Kusuo takes an unopened juice box out of a toddler's limp, bloodied hand. Hungry.
"You did *what*?!" His father yells, speechless. Kusuo tilts his head in confusion. Is that not what his father wanted him to do?
"You... you..." he is unable to form his words. "I'm gonna be sick."
He rushes to the kitchen, and Kuusuke nudges Kusuo's knee on the sofa. "So, you've yet to find out."
Kusuo furrows his brow. (Find out what?)
"Find out what it means to take a life." Kuusuke speaks in a gentle tone with a smile to match. "Did you not feel pain upon hearing so many worlds collapse? The interrupted thoughts of wandering minds? One person's agony over the death of so many others? You didn't feel that agony?"
(I don't understand.) Kusuo murmurs. That all sounds quite scary, but he can't process it. His father's horror is entirely foreign to him. How can one experience such strong emotion if they weren't even there? In fact, those children had no idea he existed and vice versa. Why the anguish?
"It's called empathy, Kusuo," Kuusuke says as he glances at their father. "And you shouldn't have any of it for the monkeys that surround us. Human lives are meaningless to higher beings such as you and I. It means nothing to take a life, no matter what philosophers would have you believe."
(Nothing?) Kusuo's eyebrows draw together as his father begins to clean the kitchen sink, even more revolted at his son's actions than his own vomit. Is that... nothing?