The Story in Which Anon Jr. Slowly Discovers That His Mother

The Story in Which Anon Jr. Slowly Discovers That His Mother is a Robot

The sounds of chopping greet you as you get home from school. Yuck, more vegetables. “Hello Honey! How was your day at school?” said Mom from the kitchen. “It was pretty ok, I got a 100 on my test!”

Loving emerald eyes light up in your mother. “That’s wonderful! That’s my special boy, just like your mom, a math whiz.” You set down your backpack, rubbing your back idly. “What, did the school bus hit another deer at full speed again?” “No mom, just was bumpy. Maybe the gears were still messed up. Dad said he’d never been on a school bus before.”

“That’s right, he always had someone drive him. He wasn’t rich or anything, the busses just didn’t go out by him back in the day. We actually planned on homeschooling you, but then the teachers got better. Gave me more time to read though, ahaha.”

“You always were a kook, Mom.” She looked up at you, dicing away at some mushrooms. Must be having a pot roast tonight, delicious.

“Kook? I haven’t heard that in years...” She looked up, rummaging about in her head for the memories.

“Yeah, came back in style. A Tommy found an old joke book, nearly 100 years old. Pretty neat, huh?”

“Yeah… guess so.” She looked back at your horrified expression. “Nonnie? What’s wrong?”

“Y-y-your hand!”

“Oh?” She looks down, gasping at how she had neatly cut off her index finger past the first knuckle. “Oh dear, go get some glue from Dad’s toolbox.”

“What, are you crazy? We gotta get you to a doctor! And why aren’t you bleeding?”

“Never mind that dear, just some cosmetic surgery mommy got when she met your dad. Get the glue, please, and I’ll buy you a big milkshake from Charlie’s if you don’t tell dad.”

Any thought that your mother might be one of those dreaded Chinese Replicants was erased by the promise of Charlie’s Butterfinger encrusted Choco-vanilla swizzleball sundae, and you retrieved the Holy Toolbox from under Dad’s workbench. It was still strewn with parts from your failed pinewood derby car. Never did find out if painting flames made it go faster, because you had attempted to burn flame decals on the car, like a photo.

Anyway, mom deftly applies the glue to her clearly severed finger, and it heals before your eyes. Soon, she moved it all on her own, and went right back to dicing mushrooms.

“How does that even work Mom?”

With the biggest shit eating grin you had ever seen on anyone, she turned and said, “Nanomachines, Son.”
…………….
You got onto your PC, it had Victoria 4 on it, and it was your favorite game so far, besides the remastered Ace Combat games that Dad got for you. Got for himself, but mom made him share. He was proud that you had beaten 4 without crying a little. What a pansy, though Storyteller Boy sounded a lot like you…

You had colonial policy to dictate, and a delicate severed hand economy to keep running. Dad kept calling you Kira whenever you played as the Belgians, and then told you that Belgium was a hoax, despite him keeping very up to date on maps.

The jungles opened up to your Colonial Map mode, and you dropped a few colonists down in Namibia, having taken the Congo a few days ago. Another player was contesting it, an Italian colonist was in the region, being played by Monely-Squid, a hardass who never gave an inch. He was your formidable enemy, and you swore he cheated, because he would appear, without fail, as a verdant green Italy, green France, green Russia, green someone and usually only played during the scramble for Africa and until game end. He even appeared when you weren’t playing in multiplayer. He always wondered when it was your dinner time though, always telling you to get sleep or eat.
His smug aura upset you greatly.

“You goddamn Kek sluicing faggot, get out of Africa REEEEEEEEE!” you moan despondently. ‘What will your mother say about your horrid tongue, lad?’ said the Enemy. Bastard could hear you even, this hacker was too much. He had gotten quinine early and had been trampling all over south Africa and ran his country as basically a fascist dictatorship. You were extremely far liberal but had common sense enough to keep the non-Belgians from voting. Your trade embargoes did nothing, your alliance system did nothing to check his ambitions when he had both Russia and Germany on his side. This time around, Britain had seen the light and had joined to defeat the upstart Italians and their frog worshipping, pasta eating ways.

The war did not go as planned, and all of Africa below Angola was forfeit. The worst part was when he told you to enjoy Mom’s spaghetti, which you did because she was a good cook, and not because he told you to. He even got the spiciness from the red peppers right! When would this stalker madness end?
…………….
Be Anon Jr. Age 5.

You weren’t scared of the dark! Only the unknown in the dark, yeah…

The power was out. This was getting bad. No light meant that the monsters could get in.

Mommy always made it better with her singing and stories, but she wasn’t in here right now. The storm was getting worse, something just bumped into the house! And then opened your door. It was Mommy! Mommy’s eyes were glowing! Literally!

“Owww my head… Nonie? You alright?” Light dances along your bed, eventually green beams hit your face. “What is that light? I thought the power was… oh yeah.” Suddenly, the dark returned, creeping up your bed, footsteps louder than possible. Oh jeez, something is on your bed! It just tousled your hair!

It was Mommy! Who knew? “Why do flashlights live in your head, Mommy? Can you turn them back on?”

Click. You can see Mommy’s smile now! “Its… a thing I had done when I was younger. Don’t worry about it.” You sat for a moment. “Young like me?” “No, when I met your dad, he thought that laser eyes would be cool, but we settled on flashlights, so cats wouldn’t claw me all the time.” She returned.

Mommy liked cats, but cats didn’t like her. Except for Tess, she was also a mute, purring idiot though, so maybe she wasn’t a good example of a cat.

CLUNK

“Looks like Dad got the power back on, hun. I’ll get you a night light tomorrow, ok? To scare off the monsters in the dark.” Mommy had such a pretty smile, so warm!

Mom never did get you a nightlight, instead Dad read you Beowulf and gave you a toy battle-axe and told you to arm wrestle any monsters you met. The dark never scared you again.
......................................................................................................................................
“Bleep? Bleep blorp, skri skri skri?”

“No, mom. I don’t need any popcorn. It gets caught in my teeth,” you said. “Yeah, I had the same problem when I was your age, Jr. And Moni?” said Papa, also known as Dad, and Anon. He used them all interchangeably, even Sir. Wasn’t bothered by being called sir like all the other 30somethings.

“Blop?” replied your mom.

“I understand you like Star Wars a lot, but I still cannot understand you when you speak R2D2’s language. Its nonsense and will continue to be so in the future.”

“wwweeeeeewww bleep. Ok Anon. You make room for me on that couch though. ~” She whirred sadly, but then energetically. Too energetically.

“MOM NO!” But it was too late, her long legs floating dainty as a Tomahawk missile crashing into Papa, knocking him, you, and the couch over. It was only due to your extremely good sense of balance that the sodas, the few that you had which ALWAYS accompanied Movie night (This week was Zulu!), that the sodas did not spill all over your somewhat ratty couch.

Mom and Dad had you really early. Some of the other kids at school had called you an accident, but you knew that your dad was just crazy and so was your mom, and they had managed to raise a baby while both going to college (From home, Mom graduated in about a month. She must be really smart! Or solve problems at light speed. That was impossible, right?)

Papa kissed Mama really nicely, but it was still gross. They fixed the couch, and had calmed down the eclectus parrot, Green Bean. He had the eyes of a doll. Dad had convinced the zoo to let him keep him, somehow. That or he got it from his Aussie friend who had met when they went on a manhunt on Cannibal Island.

The future was now, and it was full of weird science. But the Movie is starting! And there are boobies! Nice, even though they are African, they are nice! Mom gave Dad a look though, so he fast forwarded about 2 minutes and explained that “This was a mass marriage of soldiers and their brides, so that they would have someone waiting for them in heaven should they die. Or something.”

Dad had a great deal of general knowledge, and you had even more! Every dinosaur fact got you a headpat, which Papa loved to give. “Just like me when I was your age. Y’know, I wanted to be a bird when I was a kid. An archaeopteryx, even though they could barely fly, because the prototype is always better than the production model, ask any of my <<Ace Buddies>>”

The picture froze! “Darn thing never worked right. That’s the last time I buy electronics from a woman wearing nothing, but cat skins sewn together.” As much of an eldritch horror Mrs. Jenkins was, she was also extremely wise, though clearly insane. Mom growled in the codes that you knew instinctively, {Unfreeze, or may god help you if I have to get up from my husband’s lap, he’s got me situated just right, and if I have to get up your update when you get replaced will still have nightmares about what I did to you. Work, you bastard!}

Mom didn’t know you also spoke code, but hearing her curse was funny! The Telescreen worked once more, terrified of your Mom’s awesome power. The Engineer on screen commanded his black laborers, that one guy shot the leopard, and you got sleepy. Old war movies always did that. Last thing you remembered was that Missionary making all the blacks run away like cowards, and then you were awake the next morning.

DAD VISION

“aww, all tuckered out.” You paused the movie, Monika was gushing at the sight of your son leaning against your arm, fast asleep. She got off, dragging her butt in a wholly inappropriate but seductive way, her invitation to the real events of tonight, ones that Anon Jr. should never have the misfortune of finding out about. You carried your son to his bed, tucked him in (He was already in his pajamas) and kissed him goodnight. Monika did as well, the sweetheart.

You had really wanted to finish the movie, but the look from her hypnotic green eyes after the door closed told you that you were needed elsewhere. A man’s job is never done, is it?
.......................................................................................................................................
Click clack clock clickity clack looks who’s back Kangaroo Jack

Those last few keystrokes sure sounded weird, but no matter. Tax returns were important. Monika, who had entered a phase upon reading The Last Angel, now on Spacebattleforums, had decided to make you call her Nike as a pet name. The Ad revenue you had gotten from all sorts of new and invasive ads that directly stimulated your autism was nice, but taxes still had to be filed.

Sighing, you turned off the ads in your head for shaving cream from Taylor’s of Old Bond Street, handmade English luxury ware. Taxes were too important to be distracted during, a few digits off could fuck you bad. Trump’s tax reforms would only go so far, especially from your assorted income from your work as FBI and Monika’s undisclosed millions from what was probably Neo-Enron levels of illegal, but you did not want to find the truth. Just like in Goodfellas, now on Netflix-

“AHHH Goddamn it stop!”

The ads turned tail and left, but your autism remained, reminding you of all the times your Sunday school made you watch Fivel Goes West, which unfortunately was also on Netflix, and you could not banish the thoughts because your mind was a steel trap.

“What are you so upset about Papa?” asked your only son. You had plans on getting him a sister one of these days, god knows you want to. “Ehh, nothing kiddo. Taxes and ads. Wanna watch your old man type?”

He looked at you quizzically, and then sat in your lap, and you swear to God his eyes flashed a few times and the screen flashed in response, and the taxes were filed. “There we go Dad! You owe me a sundae later, ok?”

Impossible, illogical, but considering who his parents were, you supposed it must be so, that he can do this. When Monika had told you 10 years ago that she was carrying the first of a new breed of men, you hadn’t taken her seriously enough.

“What do you mean, ‘You are your mother’s son’? Aren’t I also your son?” He asked, making you aware of what you had said when you were reminiscing.

“Yes, but I have no head for computers, unlike Mama. Run along now kiddo, you have your Mama’s sweet tooth and I will be needing my wallet, go get it from the other room, will you?”

Anon Jr. Beamed. “Yes, Papa! I want the Amaretto and Rum ice creams!” he said, running off. You patted your wallet in your pants. “God fucking save us once he hits puberty. I don’t envy the poor bastard who will have to teach him that. … Guess he will be me. Oh well. HEY KID, I GOT IT, LET’S GO BEFORE YOUR MOTHER FINDS OUT!”

Your family materialized instantly, the call of ice cream and badly kept secrets attracting to both devils. How did you get so lucky to have such wonderful people in your life?
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
“Ah owwwwwowowowowoiw!” you yelped as Mom poured a bit of hydrogen peroxide down your ear. “It’s not that bad, Nonnie. We should clear up your earache this way, before relying on medicine too much.”

“Isn’t that the point of medicine though?” You ask. You are reminded that “Yeah, but too much reliance caused a pandemic not 10 years ago. Wiped out Africa. Who knew that 1 year’s supply of antibacterial soap would kill them all?”

You had remembered about that. Dad always had fond memories about that time. Good music, apparently. Also, when he met mom.
“Now say ahhhhhhh~” said you mom, bending down to place 2 ibuprofen into your mouth. She patted your head and called you a good boy and told you to go play on the computer and try to read something.

You forgot all about that second part though. Dad’s computer was open. The fool. What secrets did he have? He was a hotshot FBI agent, he had to have something good. Some key taps of the keyboard, one of those fake typewriter ones, brought you to the folders on his desktop. Cartoon Sin seemed ominous, so you stayed away.

Yeah, staying away was a good idea, you wish you had followed it. “Let’s check the “FBI Work” folders.” You said to no one in particular. Maybe the computer, he was probably as traumatized as you were.

Its all secret codes and legalese, and disappointingly little gore! Dang! Let’s try the games folder!

Whispers at the back of your head, well, whispered. Youi saw but you did not see. Some of these games looked … ancient. Emulator games, emulators for the emulators needed to play some games. You had reached the reptilian heart of the computer, the occasional babble from the software now in a sort of proto code speak.

Here were a few old games on Steam! Europa Universalis 3 and 4! The predecessor to your favorite game, Vicky 2! I doubt it was playable even then, Vicky 4 is much better. Some Civilization games, Portal (Hadn’t heard of that in years) even a game of Sam and Max hit the road. Wow!

Doki Doki? Eh, no. That sounds like some lame VN from your father’s time. This was where the whispering was loudest though. It… spoke to you. Something primal. Something you could not explain or comprehend. A great fear and longing for that innocent heart shaped logo.

That was all erased by the light. That warm light. That nostalgia driven into your very bones. The hum. That all filling hum, and the ding! LAUNCH PLAYER ONE.

Space Cadet of the third dimension, or 3D Space Cadet Pinball.

Tentatively, a spring was pulled back, and the ball, ancient as any temple, rolled forwards once more in the halls of Valhalla. As you played, the whispers got softer and softer, before being drowned out with every high score. Dad would probably kill you for skinning his computer to play a game from 1995 but it was worth it.

The truth to Anon Jr.’s heritage would not yet come to light.