G. I. Joe You Hate Yourself, But It's Just Business

**I was damn well going to do something uncharacteristic on the 29th of February, and by some creative miracle, this happened! I've been meaning to write something about the Crimson Twins from GI Joe since like, early October, but I guess it took a once-every-four-years event to get me off my sad slump of being inert.**

**Got the idea while vacuuming the carpet; so much of Tomax and Xamot's interaction is subtext. Psychic links, doggone it, they mean you have to infer an awful lot, and you miss a lot more. How hard must it be to do business with them? They could spend the entire meeting insulting you, making fun of you, plotting to kill you, and you'd never know it. **

**This piece is from the POV of some unnamed businessman whose company has just been acquired by Extensive Enterprises. I was in a cynical mood, so you see a bit of good old fashioned 80s business sensibility a la _American Psycho_ and _Wall Street_.**

**Also, I'm a bit obsessed with Xamot's scar. Oop. -_-**

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><p>The phone is ringing as you grab your jacket. The secretary answers it, and you hate yourself as she tells you it's your wife. Details about your home life, details which are none of her business, gush from her mouth and you grit your teeth against the happy damn news and her jubilant tone.<p>

You hate that dismissive tone in your voice as you cut the secretary off mid-sentence, and promise to call your wife back, all three of you knowing you never will. You never do.

And you hate that.

But you have an incredibly important meeting at 9:00 this morning and it cannot wait. For anything.

You get in the elevator. You need to feel better, and immediately. Because if you blow this one, you're up shit creek, and so are your wife and Junior. You're doing this for them. You're doing it all for them.

And you tell yourself, aloud, that this is no big deal. Kids lose their teeth all the time. Kids have been losing their teeth from time immemorial, and Junior has nineteen more teeth to lose. You're bound to be there for at least a couple of them.

This cannot wait.

You step outside into the warm October day and you realize, with a start, that they sent over a limo for you and your colleagues. It's barely three miles, round-trip, but they have more money than God, so there is the limo.

Your colleagues in the limo only know basic details about whom and what you are. One of them calls you by the wrong name. You see these people every single day and one of them calls you by the wrong name.

You don't have any friends in that office, you realize.

It's too hot for leather upholstery.

That asshole from accounting lights up a cigarette without cracking the window. You cough, and instantly you become That Self-Righteous Dickhead Who Can't Handle a Little Smoke.

You can't help it. You never smoke. You never drink. You waited until your wedding night. You're a good guy, a nice guy. You never do anything. You are that self-righteous dickhead, and for a second, in the back of that limousine, en route to the most important meeting of your life, you wonder what you've missed.

Besides your son losing his first tooth.

The building is a literal Ivory Tower on the horizon, and the blonde in the pencil skirt is spellbound. Whatever that asshole from accounting says, it's not worth remembering, but he finds himself very clever. And the blonde in the pencil skirt is happy to pretend he is. They are obviously sleeping together. One or both of them is married or has a baby or something; you vaguely remember a congratulatory party. Paper plates, tiny slices of cake, signing some big card.

Wishing someone a lifetime of happiness, and immediately forgetting their name.

You step into the lobby of the Extensive Enterprises tower, and the beautiful receptionist shoots you the same harried smile she shoots everybody. It's worth a second look; she is stunning. But then, so is everything here. Everything shines. Everything gleams. Your eyes almost hurt. The striking, polished white floor, reflected in the mirrored wall tiles, seems to stretch out into forever. And for a second you feel like you're living in the most modern age which humanity could ever conceivably produce.

The elevator ride takes forever. This is hyperbole, but just barely. You feel like you were born in this elevator; have lived your entire life in this elevator.

You may as well have.

You wonder for a second if this really is all there is to life; close-quarters with assholes who don't even know your name, assholes who crack awful jokes and blow smoke in your face and throw extramarital affairs in everyone's face as if they don't matter.

_They don't matter._

The bottom line is business, of course. The names and faces don't matter. The names and faces come and go; are created and destroyed at the whims of people like these strange Extensive Enterprises fellows.

And now you're about to become a part of that, and you can damn well stop thinking about the small shit.

You step out of the elevator at 8:52, and you are shown in immediately by another incredibly beautiful ebony-haired receptionist. She click-clacks along in her immaculate black high heels on the glittering floor. She acts as if she is in a tremendous hurry, as if you are late, and as if your lateness is her own personal failing. It's difficult to keep pace with her, and you are eight minutes early... but then again, time is money. Clearly they value both quite highly around here.

A pair of mahogany doors open, and you almost wonder how such a massive room can be contained within four walls and a ceiling. The room, like the rest of the building, is all glass and light. The early morning sun sets the floors afire.

For a second you see your son's face in your own reflection.

Two identical desks. Two identical chairs. Two identical men who never get a proper introduction, aside from a reverent-but-sultry "Sirs" from the receptionist.

They need no introduction, of course. Because they are Extensive Enterprises.

You marvel at how empty this massive office is. Could you even call it an office? It is more like a throne room. Or a temple. A ceremonial temple to the gods of finance. There are no computers, no filing cabinets, no bookshelves. Not even so much as a goddamn wastebasket. Just two desks, two telephones. The furniture, what little of it there is, is pristine, immaculate. Ostentatiously and self-consciously simple. It is magnificent, and if this is really how business is conducted at the top, you want a piece of it. More than ever before, you almost hunger for a piece of this.

You feel unworthy as you and your insignificant little colleagues approach the twin desks. _The altars_. Your shoe squeaks and you remember how you stood in JC Penney for twenty minutes trying to pick out the right damn shoes. And you wonder, have those twins up there, with their identical, patient smiles and their exquisite navy blue suits, ever so much as set foot in a Penney's?

As you get closer, your blood runs cold for a second.

They're so young.

And you knew they were young; you've been briefed on this entire situation. And it is a "situation", one to be handled with great care.

You've been briefed on how the CEOs of Extensive Enterprises are thirty-one years old, and already billionaires several times over. You've been briefed on their eccentric behavior and their unnerving speech patterns. You even watched that interview on Nightline last week, the one where they finished each other's sentences, scratched both their ears in perfect sync, even seemed to blink at the same time, in front of a baffled Ted Koppel. And your blood didn't run cold then.

"Look, honey," you had said to your wife, "Those are the guys I'm meeting with next week."

Guys. Just guys, right? Just a couple of guys.

Just a couple of incredibly strange guys who could buy and sell you dozens of times, could wring you out and discard you like a soiled rag, but who, for some reason, are interested in acquiring your company.

You resolve to blame your sudden feeling of apprehension on the fact that you are turning thirty-nine this year, and the idea of being "over the hill" doesn't appeal to you, especially when you have accomplished so little. And these guys _(guys)_ eight years your junior have done so well for themselves. It's just a little jealousy.

They don't want to shake anyone's hand. They don't even rise from their desks _(in perfect unison)_ until you're almost on top of them, and then they make a point of keeping a distance. So you stop several feet from their desks, and you unconsciously assume a posture of submission. You almost cower.

In their shadows, you are tiny. You are short, you are stocky, you are fat and old and bald. They are something out of the ancient myths; tall, chiseled, exquisitely handsome. Beautiful, actually, and this is an observation made without any subtext or innuendo. Simply a statement of fact. They are beautiful in a way that most humans are not.

They invite you into the conference area; a circle of leather sofas surrounding a low glass table. They speak in unison, but you realize for the first time that their voices are not exactly the same. Both twins speak with the same cadence, the same inflections, and the voices blend together seamlessly, but you notice that one twin's voice has a higher, almost whispery tone.

They sit side by side on one of the sofas; always on the same sides, of course. They carefully cultivate the bizarre real-life mirror image that they are. They assume the same position, they assume the same facial expression, and they even seem to breathe at the same time.

You almost wonder where one ends and the other begins.

You are the last one over to the sofas, and your colleagues didn't leave you enough room. So there is "scooching" and there are badly-disguised glares. There are rumpled papers and dropped pens, and you are back in third grade with those all-powerful eyes of the twins on you. They are every authority figure in your entire life. Always patient, always accommodating, but always making you keenly aware of how you are holding up the class.

You sit down uncomfortably close to the twin on the left, whichever one he is.

And then you notice the scar, and you can't help but gasp, because why in the name of god does this pampered, otherworldly beautiful captain of industry have a _scar?_

And not just any scar. A deep, protruding keloid slash on his cheek, extending from the top of his high cheekbone down to his jaw. The scar is as out of place on his perfect face as it is in this ivory tower of sanitized commerce. That scar belongs on a hooligan in some back alley somewhere; it is the kind of scar that comes from a broken bottle to the face.

Or perhaps a grenade.

Your imagination wanders, and while you are resolving not to stare, you do. You stare at that strange crack in the mirror.

And he notices. He absolutely notices, and he gives you a strange little look. A condescending look, an irritated look, a tired look.

And then the other one, the one who somehow does not share his brother's facial disfigurement, follows his brother's glance, and he shoots you a dangerous scowl that sends a deep, animal terror through you like a knife.

It is a look that clearly says, "I will not hesitate to physically tear your arm from its socket if the need arises."

And then it is gone. And you are left almost shaking because what the hell was that?

But ultimately, you blame yourself. You have committed a grievous faux pas. You have been tremendously insensitive. He must get that all the time, you realize. You are a dick for staring. You are a dick for wondering about something which doesn't concern you in the least.

Your briefcase becomes the most interesting thing in the room.

Business has commenced, and the scarred one is the one with the higher voice. You detect something almost like strain in his tone. He doesn't speak as much as his brother; preferring to finish sentences rather than start them.

They never break their speech pattern. Never once. The lower-voiced one may talk more, but the higher-voiced one always knows exactly what he is going to say next, and it is as if he is saying it as well, even when he is silent. When they speak in unison, it is almost redundant. Clearly they are of one mind. How that can be, you don't dare wonder.

They are the best show in town.

But you don't enjoy it. Your blood is still churning, and you leave the talking on your side to that asshole in accounting who thinks he's going to get a big promotion out of this. He probably is, too.

You are not.

And the twins are unfailingly polite, even pleasant. But they leave you with a slightly confused and almost offended feeling; as if they are verbally cutting you dead, and you, in your low-bred ignorance, are fool enough to enjoy it.

Their offer is generous, almost magnanimous, and no one present even considers negotiating.

You accept the deal, and your future is sealed with an almost holy stamp, and by some miracle, you become a subsidiary of Extensive Enterprises.

You have never been more terrified in your life.

You hear click-clacking steps behind you. It is that receptionist again.

"Sirs, there is an urgent call for you on line one."

The twins share a quick look, and the scarred twin gets up and walks after her, with a quiet, pleasant "Excuse me for a moment, won't you?"

He walks back over to his desk, and picks up the phone. He speaks quietly, and the other twin proceeds with the meeting alone, starting and finishing his own sentences. They carry on two separate conversations, something you were previously unaware that they could do.

They ultimately are two separate and complete people, not merely halves of a whole. They needn't move and talk and breathe as if they were reflections of one another, yet they do. And you realize that you are vastly unqualified to speculate on why.

All you know is that all of a sudden, you are terribly lonely. Lonelier than you have ever been.

When the scarred one returns, it is with a perfunctory little apology and a "where were we?"

He does not share any of the details of his phone call with his brother. Or perhaps, you realize, he does. But it is with subtextual little glances and one slight nod.

You realize that their entire relationship lies in subtext. Glances and breaths and maybe a bit of ESP. You don't go in for that mumbo-jumbo, but your wife has read articles.

And then it is all over but the paperwork, and the twins rise in unison, and there are papers to sign, and the office becomes a real office for a moment.

The lower-voiced one suddenly recoils with a hissed little curse, and he immediately lifts a finger to his mouth the way a child would.

"Paper cut," he says with something almost like a smile.

You are not imagining the fact that the scarred one is clutching the same finger on his own hand, and pretending not to wince. Pretending quite badly.

"Be careful, brother," the scarred one says, "Paper cuts are the number one cause of office-related deaths."

And then they laugh together, and the sound is full of almost childlike exultation, and mutual affection.

And you realize with a strange stab that they love life, and they love each other, in a startlingly innocent and pure way.

And you are profoundly uncomfortable.

When it is all over, they don't want to shake anyone's hand, and when the meeting is over, it is over. The twins return to their desks, and you leave without another word.

You can't help looking back at the twins, the kings of this palace, lords of all they survey.

And you feel nothing but envy for them.

Not for their beauty, their riches, their power, their prestige.

No, you envy their connection to each other. You don't know, wouldn't dare to guess how deep it goes. You don't know their history, you don't know their future.

All you know is that they are happy. Happier than you are. And it's not the money that's making them happy. It isn't business that makes them happy. It isn't their absolute power that makes them happy. It's the fact that they are together, sharing all of it.

They make it clear that they don't need anyone or anything else, and that is something more beautiful than you can handle.

That asshole in accounting fancies himself a conqueror, and he gives a ridiculous "whoop!" when you all get outside. He begins to lecture everyone on the "late hours" which will be required from this point on, and you want nothing more than to call your wife.

But you don't.

You should, but you don't. Instead, you concentrate on your work. You let that asshole in accounting, that asshole who doesn't even know your name, who blows smoke in your face, dictate your life. You are not autonomous.

And you hate yourself all the more for it.

But it's just business.


End file.

G. I. Joe