As a very young man, Inspektor Brzezinski had occasionally pictured the family he would one day preside over as benevolent patriarch. These visions were never particularly detailed, as he was a practical person and vivid daydreams were not his specialty; while he liked to settle into a good story now and then, he preferred to leave the creation of such diversions to professionals—especially now, having seen enough things over the years to turn his own fantasies into dystopic nightmares before they could get off the ground.

Back in his youth, he’d imagined he’d one day marry, and he’d have a son who’d grow tall and strong like him, and the son would look up to him and be inspired to follow in his footsteps and strive to make the world a better place. Eventually he’d retire from being a great police detective, he’d cede his mantle to Brzezinski Jr., and the legacy would continue, and Jr.’d have a brave, strapping son of his own, and his line would become known throughout the land for courage and heroism, and so on and so forth. What Detective Brzezinski lacked in imagination he made up for in ambition.

By the time he was ten years into his police career, he’d been shot at twelve times, hit two of those times, hospitalized four times, had lost a trusted colleague during a drug bust, and he found himself with two bright, healthy children who he prayed would take after their mother and grow up gentle and willowy and with absolutely zero interest in upholding the law.

His two sons had exceeded their father’s hopes—in fact, they weren’t even particularly upstanding people, and he couldn’t be more relieved. They weren’t the type of schemers who’d consider seriously breaking the law, nor did they have high enough moral standards to make enemies who were. As far as he could tell, they were nice enough guys who were content to focus on their hobbies. A musician child, he’d eventually concluded, is a child you don’t have to worry much about.

But nobody’s children are perfect, and occasionally one must worry. Brzezinski typed in the command to call back the most recent number. A recorded voice said the number was unregistered and he was getting exorbitant distance charges for the privilege of having her tell him he was getting exorbitant distance charges. Next, he tried his son’s phone, which went to voicemail, and then he called his other son, who answered “Yes!” on the first ring.

“Syn, your brother call me and he says the government is going to dismember him. Please tell me he is only having one of his upsets?”

“Dad! Tato, hey don’t worry about it. Dismember? No, I would never let—but did you happen to trace the call, though?” Jaymie sounded slightly frenzied, but Jaymie sort of always sounded that way.

Detective B. looked at his computer and read off the coordinates obtained by his complicated triangulation system. “It is not precise, though, this tracking,” he added. “Let me check map…” He pulled one up, muttering soothing technical jargon about his phone until he could relay to Jaymie the general area the call had come from.

“I’ll just go pick him up now. Everything is under control! I’ll text you later.” Jaymie hung up. The detective took another bite of cold chicken linguine.

Dominik missed his kids considerably, which he hadn’t expected when he’d “bailed hard” (- Rybecca Brzezinski, age thirteen) twenty-three years ago. He wished that he knew them better, especially the youngest one, who was reluctant to even talk on the phone to him.

He felt fortunate that his sons didn’t resent him enough to have blocked him from their lives—he’d gotten the impression that it hadn’t crossed their minds at an early enough age that a parent of theirs could have any reason not to desire their constant presence, and so they’d accepted that it was circumstance that had torn him away, rather than lack of affection. His youngest was either less trusting of family bonds, or didn’t have the same ingrained self-esteem.

In truth, he hadn’t realized Rex was his child until they were over a year old. He’d gathered from the twins’ semi-sensical kid ramblings over the phone that there was a baby around in some capacity, but at that age they’d enjoyed talking to him in a Polish-English hybrid language and neither one ever spoke without the other one saying something different at the same time.

It wasn’t until Skype was invented and they’d presented Rex, held up Simba-style, all bundled and giggly on his computer screen, that he’d been compelled to launch a serious investigation into their date of birth, dig around the shady underbelly of his 2001 date book, make a bulletin-board map replete with photographs, push pins, and a few metres-worth of red yarn, and put it all together. He’d solved that mystery more thoroughly than some of his murder cases in which the offenders had gone behind bars for life. No one could deny the man was an exceptional detective.

Leonora had never meant to keep Rex from him; she was having a busy year for gigs and simply assumed that J and A had filled him in.

***

“And so there we are in Atlanta—indie rock capital of America, debatably—and we’d gotten all suited up for the show and didn’t even realize the arena had made a mistake and booked the wrong week—no idea what they did about all the tickets sold—and they couldn’t fit us in because those Lipizzaner horses were doing their shows, and try rescheduling with a bunch of abused stallions—they’re divas. Ha!

“So anyway, it turns out our bus driver, Brian, had family there, and they’d planned a gathering while he was in town. You can bet they weren’t expecting an entire troupe of fully-costumed acrobats and musicians and etcetera to show up at their backyard barbecue. No they were not!”

Rex and Jaymie’s return to the table had garnered concerned smiles from most of the family, and no reaction from Grandma, who was sharing a parable she’d made up about how everyone had equal opportunity and poor people were just lazy. Leonora managed to change the subject, and Rex stoically resumed glowering away in their seat. Jaymie had reassured them that as soon as G and G had gone back to the hotel, everyone would relax and apologize to Rex for their having been misgendered for two hours, and they’d all start chatting about whatever books or albums or pop psychology tidbits they’d enjoyed that year, like regular people.

“That’s charming, dear,” drawled Grandma emotionlessly to Leonora.

“The adventures this one has!” chuckled Grandpa.

“Auntie Nora, every time you come to visit, we hear more stories about Brian. Is Brian a special guy or something?” asked Sasha, who was almost definitely holding hands (or more) under the table with the heavily tattooed Arts Administrator.

“Sasha, darling, you and your teasing!”

Rex bristled, not having developed any suspicions about this Brian character, and angry at themself for not paying closer attention.

“Hey mom, so did you and Brian really catch a serial killer in Louisiana, or did you just watch a ton of detective shows together on the bus?” they said.

“Rex, honey, would I lie to you?” Leonora winked.

“Would you? I literally have no idea,” said Rex.

“My girls wouldn’t have spoken to me that way—” their grandmother began.

“Have you talked to your dad lately? I know he likes to hear from you,” Leonora broke in.

“I write him a letter every month, so.”

“It’s true, I mail it for them,” said Jaymie. “I mean, Jaymie does.”

“I do? I do!” said Jymmy.

“As in snail mail?” asked Leonora dubiously.

“You could Skype him once in a blue moon, Rex—or join in now and then when Jaymie and I do,” said Jaymie, careful not to sound reprimanding, since Rex now hated him.

“I like old-school mail. It’s like having a diary I write in about my life and occasionally it responds in broken English,” said Rex. “Like Tom Riddle.”

“He’s self-conscious about his written English,” said Jaymie.

“I know,” said Rex.

“How was your final course, sweetheart?” Leonora asked Jaymie, likely wanting to make up for their earlier conversation. “You finished last month, right?”

“Ah yes, got the old GED?” asked Grandpa merrily. “How were your grades!”

“Uh, yes…and…good,” said Jaymie, not knowing if either was true. He accidentally knocked his wine glass against his front teeth. He realized it was empty again.

“You’ve put on some weight,” said Grandma. “Good.”

“They’re more alike than ever!” said Grandpa.

“He looks just like me!” said Jymmy.

“No I don’t.”

“I’m going to cut my hair to look just like his!”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Is something going on?” asked Leonora. “I thought you liked having your hair the same?”

“It could use a cut,” said Grandma. “Yours too, Sasha—look how unruly it is! How do you get a brush through it?”

Sasha stiffened visibly; her physical appearance was not one of the topics she’d been seeking unfair criticism about.

“I keep telling her she should grow a ‘fro again!” said Michaud. “I’ve seen the pictures—so badass! I mean, it’s up to you, Sash. It’s great how it is,” he added.

“It’s not unruly or badass, it’s hair,” Sasha mumbled.

Jymmy rubbed the side of Jaymie’s head. “I think his looks like Posh Spice, but fluffier. Like, kind of crooked on the one side—Big Niki listens to the Spice—”

“We need to have a word.” Jaymie grasped Jymmy by the arm and tugged him out of his chair. The clone obediently followed him into the hall.

“Are they fighting again?” he heard Leonora ask Rex under her breath.

“My two girls—you two never fought. We made sure of that!” said their Grandmother. “Their father and I scolded them very effectively,” she added, for no reason, to Auntie Farida, who had completely tuned her out. The unfortunate woman looked up, startled, from her plate of marshmallows.

“Is that so,” she said.

She and Dory had cooked a chicken, but they’d been nervous and it hadn’t been their best work. She was fairly certain everyone had noticed its dry outer layers and opted to fill up on the sides and whatever desert Leonora had picked up. Dory rolled her eyes sympathetically, having long since given up trying to participate.

It had been years since Farida had attempted civil discourse with her in-laws; she smiled painfully and sipped her wine, patiently waiting for the moment when they’d leave and she and Dory and Leonora could stay up late into the night drinking wine and catching up, and then she’d retreat back into her quiet life until the next time Leonora visited. One evening spent with Leonora could last you for quite some time.

“Well, I’ve had about enough salad for one evening,” said Grandma. “Nora dear, what kind of pies did you get for dessert?”

“Oh, um, chocolate,” said Leonora. “That nice chocolate filling the kids like…”

Rex glanced at Sasha, who had also seen the pies and was trying to share a look of scandalized mirth.

Leonora cleared her throat self-consciously. “With a marshmallow topping.” She shrugged her defeat. "Since obviously the answer to all our shortcomings is more marshmallows."

***

50117 writhed melodramatically on the plastic grass, clutching at his side.

“You little beast!” he growled. “That’s my kidney! Do you realize what you’ve done? This was my insurance policy! I swear to god I’ll murder you! I’ll murder you like I murdered the man who made me! I’ll murder you worse, because you’re the man who ruined me!”

“It was an accident!” Jaymie 2.0 objected angrily. (Aaron, Cassie 2.3 reminded herself.) “Why did you come up behind me like that? I was trying to talk to my dad. He’s a cop!”

“I can’t believe you punched me in the kidney, you little shit!”

“I elbowed you. I didn’t mean to! I just turned around too fast—you startled me!”

“It’s broken,” said Cassie 2.3, feeling the weight of the tragedy as she examined the silent receiver and blank screen of the apparatus. She’d been longing to try entering in some numbers for fun once Aaron was finished with it. “Well done, Five-O.”

“It’s his fault!” Five-O pushed himself onto a forearm and glared at Aaron.

“You saw the collectors coming and tried to take it from him!” She looked out across the field. “Doesn’t matter now. We’re out of time,” she said grimly.

“What’s going on over there?” The collectors had noticed there was a clone down and begun to jog over. Soon the tall woman who’d brought Aaron in and a new, equally tall man converged on the group of clones.

“He attacked me,” groaned Five-O, gesturing weakly at Aaron and collapsing back to the AstroTurf.

The woman took hold of Aaron’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “How am I not surprised? This one is… spirited.”

“He’s not that hurt—he’s faking! I didn’t mean—I said I was sorry!” Aaron stammered.

Cassie 2.3 looked at Five-O with suspicion. “You’re trying to sabotage him so you won’t be next!” she accused. “You scared him on purpose. Of course he was going to lash out!”

“I only wanted to see the nifty machine!” said Five-O innocently, his face betraying a brief hint of smugness. She recognized the expression as that of a man who’s been called out on his ruse and knows he’s going to get away with it anyway—usually because he has expensive representation.

“Let me guess, Five-O. You needed to buy some time for your ‘contacts’ to come through…” Cassie 2.3 took a step toward him like she intended to cause him further bruising, but then she looked helplessly at her clean suit and her manicured nails and she felt impotent and plasticky, and she finished with, “I’m going to see you in court one day.”

The Collectors, still holding on to Aaron, looked at their clipboard and conferred under their breath.

“I don’t know if I’m next,” muttered Five-O. “But one can’t be too safe.”

The tall man tapped Derek’s shoulder and said, “Alright, you’ve got an appointment.”

The woman pointed to Five-O. “Actually, it was his turn,” she said. “But this one’s Original has gone months and months and never responded to his notices… And we have to keep the place safe. Come along,” she said to Aaron, leading him away by the arm.

He looked back at Cassie 2.3 with wide, disbelieving eyes, and she wished she’d been made out of titanium or heavy steel instead of super-light, flexible polyurethane purchased wholesale by the company Original Cassie had hired and probably overpaid to make her. She didn’t actually know how to do any of the things Cassie did—how to argue effectively, how to help her friends, or how to bring justice to evil businessmen.

She sadly picked up the telephone, now a useless toy. Cradling it to her chest like one of the children she remembered having but had never seen or touched in real life, she went to curl up in the alcove, giving Five-O a light kick in the other kidney with her flimsy plastic foot.

***

“I’ve been going crazy in there. You were supposed to be Aaron!” Jaymie hissed when they were out of earshot.

“I tried!” Jymmy protested. “She labelled me ‘Jaymie’ as soon as she walked in the door—how’s that for open-minded?”

“I told you to act quieter and not so happy!” said Jaymie. “Is it that hard to not be, like, brimming with evil joy all the time?”

“I’m not evil! I just want to be loved!” said Jymmy, with such a gleeful, conniving leer that Jaymie considered giving up the act that very moment and taking Rex away to Florida to start a new life with their grandparents. “I’m actually pretty good at impressions,” Jymmy continued. “That’s what Big Niki says. But I told you, I have literally never met this person.”

“Huh. That’s right. You don’t know Aaron.” Jaymie quelled his panicky Florida reverie. Nobody would like his music down there. “You’re me, without a twin. Maybe that’s what’s really wrong with you. You’re just a poor twin-less sucker.”

“Look, dear brother,” said Jymmy, with the friendly, tender animosity characteristic of movie villains preparing to put the protagonist through a series of cruel and unusual punishments. “I’m having a great time and you’re a complete mess right now, no offense, so your theory on the benefits of twin-hood is going to need a lot more supporting evidence to back it up—”

Jaymie’s phone rang and he answered “Yes!” instantly, hoping it was Spencer, before realizing that the string of digits on his screen was his father’s work number. Jymmy flashed his tiger grin and went back to the dining room.

“Dad! Tato, hey don’t worry about it…” Jaymie listened to the familiar, thickly accented voice as his father checked coordinates on his computer. It was a location outside the city, which was fortunate, his father told him, because the system was imprecise and it was often easier to find a lone building in the country than to pick the right house from the middle of a city block. Jaymie hoped he wouldn’t need to use it, but was glad to have a backup plan in case Spencer flaked out again.

“You’re sure he is alright out there, Jaymie?”

“He probably took a day trip with some friends and got a little stoned—I’ll take care of it. YouknowmeI’mveryresponsible!”

“Follow up, ok Jaymie?”

“I’ll just go pick him up…”

Jaymie felt soothed by the gravelly bass of his father’s voice, but also aware of that weird feeling that he only ever got talking to his dad, like suddenly he wanted to do A Very Good Job at all these random things that were not even similar to the usual things he put his countless watts of energy into every day of his life.

His dad had never expressed a wish for him to become a cop or have a fancy professional career. Yet when they spoke, he felt vaguely compelled to serve humanity in a more concrete and tangible way than creating clever arty music allowed for, but he wasn’t sure how. Was delivering the mail not enough?

Both feelings drained away the moment he returned to the dinner table to apologize for his imminent departure. Jymmy was absent and Rex’s eyes widened in alarm when they saw him.

“Where’s Jym—Aar—Jaymie?” he asked.

“He said there was a ride here for you guys,” said Rex apprehensively. “I thought you went with him…”

Jaymie delivered some exclamatory phrases that his grandparents would probably never forgive him for, grabbed his coat and boots, and followed his clone into the night. The street was empty; their ride had left.