Space Royalty 2
Flash forward. Sage has won the battle but suspects he is somehow losing the war. His point that they are both way too out of shape to do anything in a martial arts class except fall over or be punching bags was taken in the very helpful spirit it was intended to have. But conversely, with a coaxing whisper of, "College applications," Colleen prevailed in getting Sage to sign up for the school fencing team, while she joined track.
Then, upon hearing Colleen's gleeful plans about learning parkour and peering over Sage's shoulder to look at ebay listings of actual swords, they both surreptitiously signed up for the other's club. The twins were in separate classes at their school, for psychological and social development reasons, and their mother had lost an argument around age 12 about choosing their extracurricular activities. It turned out, when Sage and Colleen were in the same class, even if it was an exercise class, that they became intensely, and unpleasantly competitive.
They were having a great deal of fun. They were also not talking. Their mother was convinced it was some sort of angst about their biological father and fretted, but it was in fact mostly angst about being sixteen and his sister being more naturally graceful than he was even though he'd been doing fencing for a whole two weeks longer.
How dare she.
Sage had, indeed, asked Dave if he could find some alien junk. Dave, who generally supplied their private school with alcohol, recreational substances, and a veneer of not being a collection of goodie two shoes, had hemmed and hawed and not thought much of Sage's chances.
But upon Dave's request to his supplier, a fine upstanding gentleman who loved dogs (let us assume, for the sake of this narrative, that Dave is not a reliable witness), for something alien to sell to a classmate with too much time (and money) on his hands, an object was indeed produced. It took a few more weeks, and an upfront payment on Dave's part based on his own internal calculation that Sage was a soft touch, but Dave did indeed obtain alien junk. A black sphere that, if conversed with, would ask and answer questions.
It was affectionately nicknamed by the people who had been trying to make it do something useful, "That fucking magic 8 ball."
That fucking magic 8 ball was placed proudly on the table in the third-floor science lab Dave used to do business, and Sage stared at it.
"You want to sell me a magic 8 ball?"
"It's alien. Look, talk to it."
"Right. Hello, Magic 8 Ball."
Hello. Would you like to play a game?
"Yes."
What sort of game would you like to play?
Sage opened his mouth. He closed his mouth. He looked at Dave. He looked at the black sphere that managed to be both shiny and matte at the same time.
"You swear it's alien?" he asked Dave.
"Absolutely, man! We're bros, bros don't mess with bros."
Sage thought it more likely that bros were not creative enough to mess with bros, but it came to the same in the end. He liked Dave, and Dave's recreational substances.
"How much?"
"A grand."
"A grand," Sage repeated, in a much less cheerful tone.
"I got expenses! You know I fronted the money for this-"
Discussion followed. Sage did not shout. Six hundred dollars later, Sage was the proud owner of something that was not, in fact, a magic 8 ball.
Sage went away happy, aware that genuine alien artifacts were worth much more than six hundred dollars of his father's money. Dave went away happy, aware that he'd paid two hundred dollars for the gimmicky toy.
Capitalism at its finest.
Then, upon hearing Colleen's gleeful plans about learning parkour and peering over Sage's shoulder to look at ebay listings of actual swords, they both surreptitiously signed up for the other's club. The twins were in separate classes at their school, for psychological and social development reasons, and their mother had lost an argument around age 12 about choosing their extracurricular activities. It turned out, when Sage and Colleen were in the same class, even if it was an exercise class, that they became intensely, and unpleasantly competitive.
They were having a great deal of fun. They were also not talking. Their mother was convinced it was some sort of angst about their biological father and fretted, but it was in fact mostly angst about being sixteen and his sister being more naturally graceful than he was even though he'd been doing fencing for a whole two weeks longer.
How dare she.
Sage had, indeed, asked Dave if he could find some alien junk. Dave, who generally supplied their private school with alcohol, recreational substances, and a veneer of not being a collection of goodie two shoes, had hemmed and hawed and not thought much of Sage's chances.
But upon Dave's request to his supplier, a fine upstanding gentleman who loved dogs (let us assume, for the sake of this narrative, that Dave is not a reliable witness), for something alien to sell to a classmate with too much time (and money) on his hands, an object was indeed produced. It took a few more weeks, and an upfront payment on Dave's part based on his own internal calculation that Sage was a soft touch, but Dave did indeed obtain alien junk. A black sphere that, if conversed with, would ask and answer questions.
It was affectionately nicknamed by the people who had been trying to make it do something useful, "That fucking magic 8 ball."
That fucking magic 8 ball was placed proudly on the table in the third-floor science lab Dave used to do business, and Sage stared at it.
"You want to sell me a magic 8 ball?"
"It's alien. Look, talk to it."
"Right. Hello, Magic 8 Ball."
Hello. Would you like to play a game?
"Yes."
What sort of game would you like to play?
Sage opened his mouth. He closed his mouth. He looked at Dave. He looked at the black sphere that managed to be both shiny and matte at the same time.
"You swear it's alien?" he asked Dave.
"Absolutely, man! We're bros, bros don't mess with bros."
Sage thought it more likely that bros were not creative enough to mess with bros, but it came to the same in the end. He liked Dave, and Dave's recreational substances.
"How much?"
"A grand."
"A grand," Sage repeated, in a much less cheerful tone.
"I got expenses! You know I fronted the money for this-"
Discussion followed. Sage did not shout. Six hundred dollars later, Sage was the proud owner of something that was not, in fact, a magic 8 ball.
Sage went away happy, aware that genuine alien artifacts were worth much more than six hundred dollars of his father's money. Dave went away happy, aware that he'd paid two hundred dollars for the gimmicky toy.
Capitalism at its finest.