#Jim Twins | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

beerecordings · 9 months ago

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hey I was cleaning up some old files and found that I have a lot more of this story written. not in order, mostly, but the next chapter was all written, so I figured I'd post it. let me know if you enjoy! Idk if I have any Mark ego fans around these days but here ya go

On June 11, seven A.M., he wakes up and does his rounds, as he always does.

He ambles through his own house first. In the kitchen, Ippy is half-asleep over a cup of coffee at the dining room table, and Google grabs a carton of milk and a box of cereal from the cupboard to set before him. Walking away from the doctor's yawned-out “thank you,” he heads upstairs and checks that Bim is still a quiet, sleeping form in his dark room. He'll sleep til the afternoon. Google decides to ignore the mess of weapons and police scanners in one corner of the room, but frowns at the half-uneaten plate of dinner left on his bedside table.

Host, for his part, calls a greeting in the third-person before Google even bothers to knock. He's bent over his desk and Google can tell he hasn't slept. His bandages are slicked in blood. Google changes them himself, drawing no response from the rambling narrator, and then spends twenty minutes talking him out of a trance and forcing him into his bed. The key, he's found, is convincing him to go to sleep before he fully returns to awareness and becomes irritable.

So it's a normal day.

Until he opens the door and finds the twins perched on his porch.

“Hi,” they say in unity, smiling up at him.

“Hi, little disasters,” he sighs, pausing only to give a tug to one ear each on the both of them before heading toward their house, a big blue building to the left of his. The sun is pouring clear from the sky and there's a cuckoo kicking up a racket in the trees. The twins are both smiling and sun-tanned, trailing through the grass behind him. “What do you want, then?”

“Oh, Internet Jim, it is very good news.”

“Good news – about the news.”

The last 'good news' they had was that they had finally managed to trap the wolverine they'd spotted around the east side of the forest in their laundry basket, so Google doesn't have high hopes. “Just tell me.”

They exchange glances, a mirthful sort of – hell, is that pride? – in their eyes. And then the first steps back slightly, smiling at his brother, and Jim proclaims, “I'm going to be on the real news!”

Google is stopped short between the three houses, staring the twin down.

Is this what it feels like to be... flabbergasted? Maybe?

“What do you mean?” he asks, and he thinks there might be a problem with his vocalizer, because there's a sudden stammer to his voice. “Did you just say 'I?'”

Jim is smiling, big and warm.

“I,” he says proudly, standing up straight. “Am going to be on the real news.”

And the twins exchange grins, proud, and wait for him to reply.

“Explain,” Google finally manages.

The twins have had jobs for about four months now, ever since they qualified for service coordination and work assistance from the state. Through different programs, the first interviewed for and was accepted into a program at the zoo, where he delights in taking good care of the animals in the petting zoo. The other spent several weeks trying to find any work at all at a real news station. As far as Google knows, he mostly shadows and helps with some of the computer programs and cameras, but he's never been on the air.

“Mr. Sanchez came to talk to me today,” says Jim, his eyes sparkling with tears. “And he said I do a really good job at my job – and he wants to do a piece on a the special ed program at the school – and he said, if I want to, I can be the assistant anchor, because I have real experience and I do a really good job, he said, he said I do a really good job at my job, and then if that goes well, maybe – ”

“Jim,” sighs Google. “Jim. You – you know why we can't do that.”

They stand in the shadow of the house with the orange tree outside. Google, quite suddenly, cannot meet their twin gazes.

“Why not?” they ask in sync. “Jim wants to.”

“Boys, you know we stay hidden here. You know that. Discreet, without discord. Yes? You have heard this many times. Don't I often tell you?”

“Oh, but, but Internet Jim,” gasps the one, reaching out to pet at the back of his own neck, distressed. “It's the news, Internet Jim. It's – it's the news.”

And fuck, Google knows how badly he's wanted this, and for how long, like it was the only thing he was ever created for, and moreover the only thing he's ever wanted, the thing that he's chosen, but Google has creation orders too, and he needs to be objective.

“Your face is too much like Mark's,” says Google. “People could find out about us. It's not safe. And the darkness wouldn't...”

He glances up at the shadowed house. He wonders if the darkness is listening.

“Darkness wouldn't like it,” whimpers the other Jim, reaching out to take his twin's hands. The second has begun to cry quietly, hot tears dripping snottily down his face.

“Don't cry,” Google says, a little more snappily than he'd intended. “Don't cry, come on. I'll call Mr. Sanchez if you want and explain that you can't.”

“No,” whimpers Jim, backing away. “No, Jim will tell him himself.”

“Boys,” says Google, and then nothing else, rubbing at his face.

They are already moving away from him, their eyes wet, snuffling weepily.

So that.... doesn't feel great.

Or it would, if he could feel –

Goddamn it, he hisses to himself, closing his eyes and turning back towards the second house. Who am I lying to anymore? I feel all of this. I feel so much. I feel like I'm breaking down.

And this, this, more than any secret his family hides from the world, is the secret he must keep from the darkness.

He is not ready to be thrown out.

He's slow to the rest of the rounds, functioning at 34% decreased efficiency per the norm.

The summer is a busy, happy time for most of them, and the houses are often quiet. Wilford's often traveling, King is working on his nut collection, Bing spends all his time outside, and the twins have so much footage of the forest they could make a documentary based on shaky pictures of rocks and overexcited commentary alone. The doctor's working on a new job in town, Eric's planting a garden, and the Darkness, lazy with heat and perfectly in control, curls around the corners of the house like a self-important cat, rarely summoning his body from its resting place in the unreality.

And Bim?

Bim's stealing.

“What is it today, Trimmer?” asks Google, leaning against the side of his car as Bim dives into the trunk, his white teeth flashing.

“Oh, you're going to want to check this out, Blue.” Bim hefts a box in his arm, stepping back and winking at the android, his black eyes flashing like a bird's. He's in a suit and tie despite the triple-digit heat and he knows he looks good, his hair styled neatly back and his glasses gleaming.

“Don't call me Blue,” growls Google.

Bim laughs. His canines are .73 cm longer and 60 degrees sharper than Mark's are. “Come on, look. You might be interested in this. It's tech.”

“Tech,” Google repeats, and moves aside the lid of the box. “Oh – data chips?”

“Yeah, I'm spying on the government.”

“Where'd you get these?”

“Pretended to be negotiating with the man who stole them and then stole them myself.”

“You leave any evidence?”

“Do you think I'm a fucking novice?”

“This is dangerous stuff. You should let me look at it.”

“I'll pass, darling, but thank you.”

They meet each other's eyes. Bim smiles sugar-sweet and Google straightens up, his eyes narrow.

The pair of them have a long history of fighting for dominance. Bim's unconcerned with the way Google, on the darkness' orders, maintains control of the house, but he listens to the authority of no one but the demon himself.

Google had tried for some time to bring Trimmer under his heel. His catty opponent endured it only long enough to enact a plan of revenge. Google had retched blue blood for a week solid, stretched out licking his wounds in his room, but worse than that – it was the only day in his life he'd ever felt humiliation.

Or stimulated humiliation, anyway. It was unpleasant. And as much as he wants to make Bim pay and suffer and beg, he also doesn't want to repeat the experience.

“Fine,” he says, backing away. “But if you ever leave the slightest hint to lead cops or the mob back here – ”

“Dark will devour me spine and all!” Bim finishes cheerily, hefting his box in his arms and heading towards the house. “Don't worry your pretty little head, cheri. I'm always careful.”

It's true. Google remembers how easy it had been to underestimate him. He has no aura of red-blue hatred, no super-human strength, no bafflingly endless collection of handguns. But he does have one thing that no one else can hope to beat him in: showmanship.

A certain creative violence.

It makes him more dangerous than the vivid flesh of a frog or the slow-moving writhe of an over-sized snake, and Google has learned not to assume that his sharp teeth are unbiting.

“And anyway,” Bim calls back, winking. “You and I both know you're not going to try anything with him watching.”

Him. Google turns. Eric is behind them, watering the hanging baskets on the front of the house that he and Bing and the twins share.

“You're getting soft on us, Blue,” Bim sings, and disappears back into the house like the puffed-up little hedgehog he is. Google swears and kicks the side of the car, leaving a dent above the tire, and then he curses himself too, for the temper he should not have.

There's an aching pain in his head too, though he doesn't know why.

“Google!”

He turns his head and the newcomer is darting towards him, setting the watering can down, looking so childish in khaki shorts and a slightly undersized button-up shirt with roses printed across the sleeves. He always looks so childish. He twitches and pushes at his little round glasses and shifts his weight side to side, side to side.

“Eric,” Google replies, and his voice has something in it that it has for no one else.

Completely comfortable with Google's presence, Eric hooks their arms together and beams across at him, his cheeks pink with excitement. He has anxiety about many things, but Google is no longer one of them. This was as much of an adjustment for Google as for Eric at first. No one else has ever treated him like this. Like they expect him to be friendly. But he's never done the newcomer any harm, or even let him bear witness to the great deal of harm Google has done in his existence, so he supposes he should have expected this.

Most of the others have seen him murder, or at least maim, and so Google is a killing machine that restrains itself from destroying the rest of them on the orders of the darkness alone. Ippy has forgiven him for this, but Bim still looks at him like he's planning what to do on the day Google snaps free of the leash he wears, Host seems to be watching his narrative path to villainy unravel every time he turns his head to the sound of him, and Google has not set eyes on King for longer than ten minutes in several months due to the little fool's complete terror of him. Dark knows he is just a weapon. Wilford rarely remembers him, but always seems to recognize that he is not human, and sometimes ignores his presence altogether.

It does not bother Google. Well. King doesn't, at least. And Bim is an ass, so who cares? And the rest, well. It's fine. It doesn't bother Google.

It never used to bother Google.

In any case, he thinks, shaking his connections mentally, Eric has no fear of him.

“Ready to fight?” asks Eric cheerfully.

“If you are,” he replies, and grabs him by the shoulders, sweeping his leg behind Eric's prostheses and throwing him instantly to the ground – catching him with his grip on him before he can hit the ground too hard.

“Google!” yelps Eric. “You have to give me some warning.”

His voice is high and whiny and it makes Google snort, dropping him onto the grass, his headache fading again as Bim disappears into the house.

“Oh, sorry, are your attackers going to give you some warning before they tackle you in a back-alley and steal your wallet?”

“Well, they might. Like maybe they drop their flashlights or something.”

“Their flashlights?”

“If we're wandering around in back-alleys we should have flashlights! You think our city is spending the municipal budget on lighting? They barely light the roads!”

Such a nerd. Such a nerdy, passionate, anxious, kind little man.

Google does not like humans.

And yet...

“Get up, Derekson,” he taunts, shoving at his chest. “Let's check on your progress. Maybe today, you can even get a hit on me.”

“Oh, you're on, you hunk of... what are you made of?”

Google sweeps his prostheses out from under him again.

“Oh, come on!”

But Eric is laughing. They spar for an hour in the lawn like they've been doing every Wednesday and Saturday, because the newcomer is working on feeling in control of his life, and Google wants him to be safe.

That's his job.

That's all this is.

His objective: prevent discord in the household.

Keep the others safe.

On the porch, Bim is watching with a smirk on his face, fanning himself and drinking lemonade, and Google can feel the cold shiver that his gaze wants to leave on his skin.

If he's being completely honest with himself, Bim might be right. He is developing something of a soft spot for Eric – and maybe the twins too. They're just so helpless and afraid, like ugly little birds fallen out of their nests, squawking for attention, and he's been invested in their lives by order of the darkness for so long now that maybe he's actually becoming attached to certain members of the human race he despises. Yes, if he's being completely honest with himself, he's often angry or jealous or confused or afraid, and the way he plays with his hair and his glasses is a twitch he was not programmed with, and he doesn't know why he likes the smell of pine trees but hates the smell of that pretentious white gardenia lotion Bim wears, because machines do not distinguish between right and wrong and if he's not a machine, what is he?

But he tries not to be completely honest with himself these days. He can't bring himself to admit that he is broken. Google is a proud creature, and it's difficult for him to know that there is something melting in the center of his frame. At night, he lays awake and stares at the stars until his battery hits 20% and he closes his eyes, and lets himself charge.

He didn't realize he could dream until he started dreaming about the stars.

Ursa Minor, Ursa Major, Cassiopeia, the Triangulum, Scorpio, Cygnus, Draco –

He knows where they sit in the sky on any given night and he could view a thousand pictures of each constellation, of each star, could splice himself into NASA's database if he really wanted to see up close, could hold all the information known to humanity in the center of his cognitive cortex if he wanted to, so why, why, why, can't he stop looking at the stars?

Pointless, useless, unnecessary, emotional.

What am I becoming? What am I become?

On June 11th, eleven P.M., he buries his face in the pillows of his couch, and he prays that Dark can't hear his thoughts. Broken machines are thrown out, and he is not ready to be discarded.

In the next room over, Bim is playing with machines of his own – but Google is distracted, and it will be a long time before he finds that out.

The last time I wrote fic for Mark’s egos was that Eric Derekson ‘the Newcomer’ fic like two years ago where he made friends with everyone lol. But here is the first part of what might be a little Google-centric fic. I tried posting it once and then deleted it but I wanted to try again. so lemme know what you think :)

The Soldier - Part 1

Summer makes the birds sing and the insects chatter in the bulrushes that grow across the banks of the swollen rushing river that lives beside their home.

Bing smiles, soaking in light and growth and flower-smell. He loves the summertime.

The trees are heavy with greenery but they breathe easy in the wind, standing soft and still as the blue sky drifts along above them. The air brushes friendly across his bare arms and everything is alive, is moving and chasing and searching for something to eat; every blade of grass sways with the wind and the bugs and the mice, every log has been marked or claimed or gnawed on, and the whole forest – the whole wide forest, warm with life and an honest sort of chaos – hums the grandest symphony in all the world.

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#google #bim trimmer #eric derekson #jim twins

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