I also noticed the characteristics of the old guy on the screen- about 50 years old, gray haired, hazel eyes. And obvious intelligence. Is this the guy who (according to long-held conspiracy theory) killed Kennedy, covered up Area 51, and orchestrated the Vietnam War? Not to mention a long line of control programs? "Could be...", Bugs Bunny said in the back of my head. Oh well. His past sins are not of interest. His current sins are much more important to me right now.

"Howard, get dressed in your newest clothing. You'll appear before every last member of the top five levels at midnight GMT at the usual place, so you better look your best.", he said in his fatherly voice, which sounded like an old man on steroids. Top five levels? Of what?! Oh. I think I know. What the hell am I doing in the middle of this, anyway? Is this Bring-Your-Clone-To-Work day at the local Evil Incorporated?

Howard glanced at the clock and his face became one of indignation. "WHAT?! If I leave NOW I'll get there! Why didn't you tell me about this earlier?", he screamed, not the rich kid's screams of spoiledness but of real anger.

"Because I wasn't supposed to. Now get going. You'll be expected to make a speech basically saying what you want to do with your planet and your power, and it better be long and good. You might be the Emperor-to-be, but those guys you'll be talking to are your power base." Figured. Can't run the world alone, can ya Howie? Is that what I'm here for, a little help when nothing but yourself will do? "There will be a lot of merriment, joy, and maybe some guys wanting to kill you, so watch it. Inheritors have been assassinated there before..." Whoopee! Maybe, just maybe, I'll get extra lucky and this whole control business can end unexpectedly. Of course, if he gets waxed, what happens to me? "...which is why every servant there will either be yours or mine.", continued the old guy in a matter-of-fact tone, talking about world domination as if it was a new recipe for cornbread. Add one part manipulation, one part force, one part disinformation, and let simmer a few decades.

He punctuated his speech with a click- the screen turned off, giving Howard no chance to reply. That must royally piss him off. And he was pissed off, indeed, but not at the click. He was probably pissed at the fact that someone might blow him to kingdom come, turning his informed brain into gray slime and his skull into bony sawdust, with little tufts of white hair hanging from it in a congealed splattering of gore. I found that hard to believe- that the guy I'm enslaved to has a high risk of getting killed. One expects the secret masters to be safe from molestation. Then again, one also expects to wake up in the bed one went to sleep in, and one also expects one to still own one's self. Fear returned (so much for hakuna matata, shall we try hara-kiri? Oh, whoops, he won't let me kill myself.), with its old pals Horror and Terror, taking the spot in my brain right across the street from the implants, and they were having a cookout with my mind. Only my mind was the meat. I could almost hear the sizzling sound of frying meat.

Howard had a (my) pissed-off look, which is a devilish combination of little-kid aw-pooiness and very grown-up 'All right, somebody better tell me what is going on here before I beat someone's ass!' He snarled a bit then growled, "Billy, Sarah, go up to your rooms, (Right then, my legs just moved to the stairs, and I couldn't even contract the muscles to stop them. This is annoying as hell, sort of like being in a dentist's chair with your mouth numbed to the point where you look like a fish, and he's pulling every tooth.), wear clothing that covers every non-face part of your body in black, preferably something with a lot of pockets and weapon carriers, and then get back down here." He was being purposefully specific, and I had a good idea why- although I had no clue what the hell a weapon carrier was.

For the first time today I was totally lucid of myself and my surroundings. The dreaminess of being here vanished, but the dream didn't. I could taste birthday cake coupled with vomit in my mouth, and swallowed the unwholesome mess back down. Whatever destabilization there was, was gone. My mind was in one (polluted) piece again, but something inside was burrowing, like a rat. The implants? Growing insanity? Panic? Who knows? And who the hell cares? My mind has been a playground for everyone in the last fifteen minutes, and if some new kids want to play, they can get in line for the swings.

I opened up the door, flung off the pajamas (which I then noticed were exactly my size down to the millimeter), and opened the closet. A lot of different shirts, coats, and pants stared me in the face. Many were recognizable as various fashions back in the other world, some were just weird. I realized immediately that I was thinking of my old life as another world and Fear flipped over my mind again to cook it well, then I realized I was thinking of it as my old life and True Horror cut off a small piece to test the flavor. Mmm.. needs salt. I found myself looking around the closet for black. What was black? That thing was, a large coat with a hood. I pulled it off the rack and felt inside. It had pockets, certainly, and small things that felt strangely magnetized, which would only pop off if you pulled outwards. Perfect for holding something you need to get out quickly.. like weapons. I put it on, and put the hood up. I looked for buttons but it seemed to almost seal itself instead, with more magnetic pull. Long slits on the sides gave me easy access to whatever I wanted to carry.

I felt another kind of pull at my crotch and I realized I had a hardon. Now why the fuck would Mr. Woody decide to salute at a time like this? I grabbed a pair of long, black pants and covered him up, realizing at the last moment (Too late now!) that I wasn't wearing underwear. I tried to undo what I had done and simply couldn't. I could have easily shouted 'God, this is so damn annoying!!!' at the top of my lungs, but I didn't- if I start screaming now, I may never be able to stop. Fortunately for Mr. Woody, whatever this fabric is made of doesn't chafe cocks.

I glanced down and saw a tall pair of black boots, with padding inside- they were meant to be worn without socks. Again, I simply acted. I was getting more used to this.. effect and how it works. It's not a compulsion. Whatever these implants do, they don't compel- you simply find yourself doing it and whatever you try to do to the contrary simply doesn't get through. I put them on and they sealed in the same way. They were light, but they had something at the toe- metal. I was wearing some nice cool shoes with steel toes, Ass Kicking For Kids™!

My hands were still white, unblemished by any clothing or pigmentation. There were no gloves in the closet. I would have to stay here, I realized, until I could finally find some- but where? Then I thought of the drawers and immediately I once more found myself doing things- I opened the first one up. Along with some other small forms, a pair of black gloves were on top.

'Hey, stupid! You can't wear gloves, remember?', my personal incarnation of the Annoying Childhood Peer-Bitch-Voice screamed. I didn't let it show often, usually I beat it down with my mind's version of a crowbar and a tire iron, but it was always right. I have five fingers plus a thumb, and my parents (if that's who they were..) never got the outer one amputated, citing "nature" and making me the butt of endless creative jokes. Not to mention no sign of nipples.. and no bellybutton, which I thought was scientifically impossible. 'The knife got too close and it healed over' was all my parents really told me. Funny.. there's no scar, or anything. It's simply not there.

'Hey Freddy, how do ya count to twelve?', one would say, and (of course he knew but) the other said 'I dunno.' 'Well I don't know either, but Billy sure does!' Or the obvious 'Billy's got his nipples on his hands!' Then of course both of the brats would break up into semi-forced, bawling, burbling laughter. Good, you brats. Laugh all you want- but don't follow me too far or you won't be able to do that anymore. Even in light of my helpless situation (I like the term 'situation'. I really do. The term makes it appear to be an exterior event instead of pertaining specifically to me.), I felt totally superior over those who used to mock me. You do not follow a ghost into a cemetery, not if you like staying alive.

Not that I ever wanted to lose any parts of my body, but there are no gloves made to fit ten-year-old hands that have six fingers, and my parents were too poor to get some made. I've always needed to stick to mittens- big, clunky things that you couldn't grab anything worth shit with, really made for babies (give me a ten-year-old who wants to feel constricted anywhere and I'll give you a retard, one of the little happy boys and girls that ride the short yellow bus home) but hey hey hey, if there's a market there's either going to be or already is a product. Right then I realized, with utter and terrible clarity, that that applied to everything possible to make, and ladies and gentlemen, if you've got the cash, we've got the stash- computers, clothes, land, power, human beings. Name it and it's yours, rich ones, and we do accept Platinum Visa and MasterCard. How much, I wonder, did I cost?

It took me about two to three seconds to think all that. Even the Awesome Power of Coffee and Sugar™ doesn't hold a candle to adrenalin, and I'm an incredibly fast thinker to begin with.

Then I glanced down and of course, I should have known, the clothing's all specially meant for me. I felt four finger-wedges push against my skin as I put the black material over my fingers. Again, as with everything else, it was exactly my size, no tightness, no looseness, no way. If I could do it, I'd get a miniature version of a cattle brander, and I'd sear the words "rich kid" on his forehead forever. Let him flaunt his power then. Hell with that, it would probably be an emblem of superiority in this place..

I found myself checking to see if I was wearing all black- I was- and I walked down the stairs. Or rather, my legs did. The feeling of not doing what you're doing is like hearing classical music in your head while the metalhead in the boom-car next to you has turned up White Zombie or Pantera to maximum volume.

Sarah was already down there, wearing a black bodysuit which fit her exactly. And she's built like a model.. an exceptionally strong model. She looked like she works out daily with hundred-pound dumbbells. I'm also strong as hell (most adults can't overpower me), but I don't look like that. I just look like a semi-short high school freshman who shows up at the gym every so often.. although I'm not and I never did. The lady in the health room said I must be going through puberty earlier.. although that's bullshit, I know it is, I never had any "nocturnal emissions" or beat off at any point in my life. Most of the doctors explained it away as just another minor abnormality, and that I would be a bit taller than everyone else when I grew up. Now here I am, with a girl who's probably only a few years older than me, at least 5'10", and could probably throw around Chuck Norris like a rag doll.

Then again, she did say she 'did the assassinations' so I doubt she'd even need to get close. Yeah, like I really need more things to worry about..

For no immediate reason Fear and Horror added salt to my overdone brain, and really started to chow down. It wasn't just 'No way dude, I'm in a really, really, severely bad situation here!', it was 'No way dude, this is insane, impossible, and evil beyond all recognition, but it's real, and at this very moment I am under control of my exact clone, who got me for his tenth birthday, whose homework is running the world, whose power is unbelievable, and who sees me as nothing more than a complicated tool and plaything for his own private use!! God I am fucked!!'

Sarah watched intently as if she was watching a football game and waiting for the score to come up on my eyeballs. Fear 9000, Billy 0. And, not unexpectedly, she decided to add some itching powder to my mental wounds. "Billy," she said in her high voice that totally did not fit her, "it doesn't get any worse. He's not going to torture you."

"Gee, Sarah... that's a real comforting thought, ya know?", I said immediately and sarcastically. "Besides, it can always get worse." Which is true. It doesn't matter how bad it is, boys and girls, it can always get worse. And since Murphy has ruled this place from the beginning (screw Howard... Murphy's Laws will not be denied by anyone, no matter how much earthly power they have.), it probably will.

Howard came out the elevator doors, slid down the stair railing (which was probably designed for the curves of his ass) and did one of the least expected things ever. He handed us both semi-automatic pistols and told us to put them in easy reach. The weapon-carrier fit the small gun very snugly.

He walked to a door leading outside, and pressed a small button. An entire section of grass simply flipped over, and a sleek, black jet was there. It looked sort of like a normal jet, only with enormous thrusters. And it was way, way larger than any fighter aircraft I've ever seen, although it had to be one. No way that's a luxury airliner in disguise.

Almost immediately after Howard opened the door, something big and white rushed at him. For an instant of fleeting hope I thought it was a werewolf- but nope, it was just a big dog, with a lot of teeth, a thick white coat, and slobber. It ran to me, back to Howard, back to me and I instinctively reached down and petted it. The fur was surprisingly light. "Fido, we're going away for a while, and I want you here when we get back.", Howard said, not in doggie-talk or baby-talk but in the same neutral tone he used with me. The dog barked. Jesus, do his dogs know English? It would not surprise me. Not now, anyway. All the weird shit I've seen before pales in comparison.

Howard absently told Sarah and me to follow him inside the plane. We crossed the uncut grass, he put his palm on the black metal and two panels on the plane slipped open soundlessly. We climbed in. It was, indeed, a luxury airliner, at least a few seats' worth of one. A luxury airliner probably armed to the teeth with everything from antimatter missiles to hydrogen bombs. For a brief moment I felt myself in a very, very twisted Richie Rich cartoon, as if whoever owned the copyright to the little rich kid sold it to whoever made Doom and Quake. His handling of weapons is certainly unnerving as hell. He acts like a weapons expert. Hell, he probably is, learned how to blow someone's head off with a couple afternoons of practice. That was when it hit me. I never handled a gun before in my life, and he just handed me one like it was a toy. What the fuck? God, how I wanted to kill him with his own gun, that would be funny as hell, but I couldn't. I focused every ounce of my willpower, I was one with the universe, I even opened up my power-channels that I've only used a few times before. Nothing. It was as if I had never told my muscles to move.

"Sarah, fly us to headquarters, cruising speed.", Howard said in a semi-evil voice, and Sarah went up to the cockpit to fly to wherever "headquarters" is. I was expecting more of a demonic bellow from him. But he's not a demon. This isn't Hell- at least not the Christian version- and he's no more evil than your average preppie. He's just a naturally happy person, and he has things to do. Making a speech to his fellow secret masters, for example, probably for what sounds like his coming-of-age ceremony. And he, like all other rich kids, gets expensive presents. One of those presents- no, two, he owns Sarah too- happens to be a human being. But what about the cops and the feds?

What the hell am I thinking, cops and feds, this guy owns the cops and the feds..

That was the utter, final, obvious answer. The 'authorities' could not, would not, stand in his way. This jet was not constructed from nowhere. That mansion was not formed from nothing. That book of secret plans to control the world was not fiction nor mere blueprints. It detailed exact, precise ways in which one human being could control another, or several at once. And these plans were definitely already enacted. Our 'defenders of freedom' are slaves. He, and/or his organization, controls the world. Getting me was probably child's play to him. And then there's the little matter of me being his identical twin. I could have asked what the hell is with a world where human rights can be ripped apart so easily- but then again, there's no such thing, is there? It's just a lot of crap. Humans don't have rights. He was never told enslaving others is wrong, in all likelihood he was told it's the thing to do with them.

Then I realized something else. The nose of the plane was pointed towards a rainforest, and a plane this big needs a really big runway. "Umm, Howard? Don't we need a runway?", I asked, before I remembered that death would be much better than this. He said nothing, and for a second I thought Sarah was going to send us right through the trees, killing a dozen species a second and sending me straight to Hell, where I shall bask in the warmth. Then the plane kicked on its jets, and accelerated. Straight up. Ordinarily, I would have gasped and gawked and been surprised, but not now. Surprise is totally unknown to those who expect the totally insane. I felt the burrowing in my mind, like a mole was getting deep down.. oh no, Howard, you've already got my body, I already have to do whatever you say, are you going to take my soul with these things too? I almost asked that out loud. But I didn't want an answer.

The jet exploded into the sky and I was pushed against the thick seat for about a minute. After we were going way faster than the speed of sound, the acceleration ceased and an air pump turned on. The reality of it struck me. It's not some fantasy spacecraft with instant inertia from no acceleration. It's a jet, a cross between an F-22 and a luxury liner, with advanced technology comparable to, if not better than, the (fucking substantial, I know that much) military technology of the United States. And the pilot was a cute thirteen year old girl, who just came back to sit on Howard's left. An America-trained, circumcised, "normal" adult would be either impressed or befuddled by that fact, but not these people. I've been living in a dream world, and I'm almost touching the elementary-school-age boy who will be the master of its controllers. I vaguely wondered how much controlling they actually did do, whether they just used their power to take our tax dollars and have fun with them, to screw around with whatever they felt like, or to shape the fate of the entire world. Almost certainly the latter- they want to ensure their permanent place in the world. Power spawns greed, and greed knows no bounds.

Howard was trying to think of the speech. Although he certainly knows much more about this particular topic than I do, why the hell did they give him only a plane ride to do it in? Sigh. More shit I hope I never understand.. but I'll probably have to understand it... the burrowing feeling in my mind was getting deeper, but to what? I once again tried to think of a way to get out and again came out empty-handed. I could always start begging, but.. nah. It never works in the movies, and if he intended to show me mercy he would have done it by now.

"What could I possibly, realistically, have for a strategy to put in the speech, anyway?", asked Howard. Don't look at me, Howie. I'm just your poor, semi-distraught servant boy. I know way more about world manipulation than I should already, but I don't have a clue how to help you with this. I was waiting for the Effect to simply take control of my mouth again- but it didn't. Am I fr- no.. it's because I simply don't know, that's why.

"Just tell them your job, basically, say you'll do it well, stuff like that. Yeah, I know they can't be snowed, but I thought you were supposed to just solve their interpersonal problems.", said Sarah. This is insane. He's not controlling them, he's.. he's..

"The Lord of Guidance Counselors?!", I blurted out. Howard's stomach expanded and contracted rapidly in the vibrations of laughter. I was going to, it really was fucking hilarious, get the secret controller of the world to do things like "peer mediation" and "conflict resolution", so funny- but I couldn't. I had to forcibly stop myself. I tried to laugh, I wanted to, my body wanted to- but no way. I just.. couldn't.

"Billy, you know when I told you not to laugh at me? Cancel that." I exploded and almost doubled over.

"And Sarah.. I wish I could just do it like that, but these are Illuminati we're talking about. If I told them I had no long-term plans, they'd just think I was hiding them, and then they really would start gunning for me.", he explained. Once more I was reminded of his humanity. He's not some evil character, he's just a happy little friendly boy who controls the world.. and me. The mental burrowing continued deeper to a place I never had much contact with. My thoughts shifted briefly a bit, I hit something, and I heard my mouth starting to answer Howard's question.

"Hey, Howard, you know all that tech shit for control you got in the basement?", I said.

"Yeah?"

"Well, say something based on that. Promise how you'll use it to step things up and help everyone by controlling everyone. If you help them all, none of em would want to kill you. That is what all of you want, isn't it?", my thought finished and my mouth said.

"There's six thousand people there, so I can't possibly address all their concerns, except all the firsts will want me to, and probably the seconds too." Leaving the thirds, fourths, and fifths to fend for themselves?

"That includes that Adam bastard and those two prissy whores who look like pigs, doesn't it? Howard, you can't possibly address anything exactly as they'd want them.", Sarah said in a knowledgeable tone. Again, the insanity crept upon me. These people aren't united at all, or they're just.. acting human. In a profession that's not supposed to have any humanity in it at all. That made it worse.. humans are more prone to acting irrationally... and breaking.. their.. stuff... oh god no. Keep thy cool, Howie. The burrowing continued.

Howard rolled his eyes, a bit frustrated. Fear and Horror were presumably eating my brain, but I couldn't feel them anymore. It was like I had lived with them all my life. What's next? Body parts? And I can't fight back.. at all. He could even make me do it himself. Oh god. Please be my clone, Howard, because even I, violent as I am, don't want to do things like that.

I have got to keep my cool. Nothing is to be gained by losing my rational faculties, which are about all I have at the moment- no friends, no family, no freedom, probably not even any identity. Now I'm stuck in a jet plane with my clone who completely controls me in such a way that there is no disobeying him. I searched for ways out and found none. I could always start begging, but I doubt he'd do anything but laugh. I'd laugh too...

The screen facing us clicked on and 'Daddy' was on it.

"Damn it Dominator, just why didn't you tell me about this line of bullshit earlier?!", Howard screamed. "I don't have TIME to make some giant speech- I don't even know what these guys want!" You wouldn't think the future ruler of the world would start screaming like that, would you? Then again, he's simultaneously psyched out and pissed off.. and this is obviously the most important event in his life, so of course he's on edge.

"Howard... I figured this would happen. You didn't even have the faintest clue that you were going to have to do jack shit today, did you?" Howard emphatically shook his head. "Those stupid.. absolute... idiots! I told them, but nooooo, they have to 'test the Inheritor's ability'. Look. You want me to drag out all the shit on them? I know you don't know it.", 'Daddy' continued, angrily and with hand gestures. And again, these people are disunited. Almost like.. wait, I can't call them real politicians anymore, now can I? This is how politics is done. Get the top dudes, make them pit the assorted 'normal' politicians against each other to make it all look real, and slowly manipulate the populace farther and farther into your clutches. And if you ever need help, it's easy to get, and if you need it to be wise in the ways of the 'normal' world, let it go and recapture it. And don't worry about it ever rebelling because it can't anymore. It'll come right back to your agents for food and shelter and then whammo, you've got it, and the technology lets you do whatever you want with it. Simple, really. People are objects. Some are easy to manipulate and for the ones that aren't, there's science. A song I heard from a car screamed "ya gotta keep em separated!" in my head.

"Yeah, that'll help. Also, what the hell am I supposed to say? How my plan relates to their plans or what?", Howard said in a tone that was almost like asking about the details of an after-school project. We get to research types of rocks- he gets to make detailed plans on keeping the human race in slavery. No worries about me until after he's done his work... the burrowing continued.

"Yes, you need to address the general concerns, all the major stuff. Don't obsess over any of their individual specific shit for the main speech- you'll be doing quite enough of that as Dominator- but do be prepared to answer their questions about that sort of thing. And they always have questions. I'll dredge up a list of plans. And only through a lot of my own manipulation and general cajoling power was I able to even talk to you. Those damn fools don't even want me to tell you what you're doing. Howard- I know you're not going to screw this up, and I definitely don't need to tell you that what I think isn't going to make any difference anymore. But I will tell you that they're going to act differently from what you've seen. They're going to pull new tricks out of old hats, just to be unpredictable. Watch it. And remember who has the power." So they have problems with communication and power structure as well. This is getting insane, but with the few small insanities and discrepancies that make up reality. No. This cannot be real. I can't be in a jet with my exact clone who has total control over me and the best assassin in the world, a teenage girl. Everything I've known utterly contradicts the possibility. But here I am. I began to get a steady sense of wrongness, not fear, not horror, just the general sense of 'something is really wrong here'. Well, no shit.

"What the hell are they smoking?", Howard asked. Better question. What the hell am I smoking?

"No idea.", the old guy said with a throat full of sandpaper. "Anyway, here's the info. And don't be afraid to remind them that you've got the real power. In fact, make it very fucking clear to them."

"They recorded that.", said Sarah, as if it were pretty damn obvious.

"Yeah, no shit.", Howard said. "I do not want to do this right now!!", he shout-muttered in an annoyed voice. Okay, asshole. You're one to talk. But this is consistent with what's been going on - he, of course, considers himself the important and only 'real' person, much like a psychopath. It's all following a pattern.. except this one part.

"Then why not tell us to do it? We're your servants, remember?", I reminded him. The words came out much darker than I expected they would.

"Billy, do you have any idea how much I'd like to have someone else do this?", he asked. I found myself answering in the negative immediately after I thought about the question. "I'm the only one who can.", he finished. That explains it. I suppose he's going to tell me the secrets now, I realized- secrets because he'll want me to do his work, secrets because I'm to help him wield power. Which is the only reason you get servants- to do things. Only this time it isn't boot-licking or ass kissing, it's controlling. I realized that I would become part of The Man... or maybe I already am, in the form of my clone. Once more I tried to move to kill him. Once more I did not.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am going to give you all a...", Howard uttered absently, his mind on the speech to come.

"Kick in the teeth?", suggested Sarah in a bright, happy voice. Yay kids! Yesterday, we learned how to paint with our fingers! Today, we'll learn how to kick Illuminati in the teeth! Reality warped again as I realized that I finally had the answer to the burning question "what do the really rich kids do for fun?" They get servants, play every video game known to man, fly around in super jets, have entire islands as their playgrounds, eat specialized cuisine whenever the fuck they want it, and beat people around when they feel like it. I laughed at the total strangeness of her saying that.

"Yes, that's right, 'Ladies and Gentlemen of the Illuminati, I am going to give you all a firm kick in the teeth. Step up in single file line please, by rank and alphabetical order.'", he said, with a speaker voice and a grin. I laughed even louder. That would be hilarious if he actually did that. Of course, he won't. They are, after all, the people that help him rule the world. "No, no... something that they'd want.", he continued.

"A dick up their asses?", she snapped immediately, and I laughed even harder. Now that would be something fun I wouldn't want to partake in. Not like that matters much now.. the utter ridiculousness of all this collapsed on me again and I laughed some more, although I could have stopped if I wanted to. Howard didn't seem to mind or care- because he, too, was laughing hard. Yet again that burrowing returned.

"No, Sarah... something that doesn't involve pain or suffering or loss to them.", he said, in his calm master voice.

"Hmm... suppose flat out-and-out payola wouldn't work?", she suggested. "Maybe a hint of all that extra-new tech shit? You know, get all of them directly involved in the plan by giving them the equipment." 'The equipment to do what, dear girl?', I thought immediately and in reflex. The answer was as obvious as day after a fourth of a second of looking around.

"That's another thing. I don't even have a plan, I didn't even know I was supposed to make a plan before today.", he muttered, and I realized for a final time that this is not some fantasy land. This is reality. In the movies, the supervillain is never confused. In the movies, nothing works like this.

And in the movies, the hero has a chance...

Hero.

What's wrong with me? What's going on here? The burrowing... it's more than just his control, it's more than this.. something larger, something more obvious.. I'll figure it out eventually, I knew. And if I have to, I'll ask him to help me understand this. Ha. Of course, he might actually do it..

He might actually.. of course. It all makes sense. I suddenly paid attention to the abilities I've been hiding from everyone, including myself. The echo effect. The super strength. The healing. The intelligence. The subconscious slowing down to make people think I can't do what I can, keeping myself away from athletics and only releasing the power when really needed-- before I was about eight, I thought everyone had this. When I realized they don't, I kept it to myself, assuming that because I wasn't some powerful hero or god, I must not be that much better than everyone else, and I don't want to brag and make myself more of a freak than I already am, and live with being pointed at for the rest of my days. How the hell could I have attributed all that crap I did to good luck with minor power? I've been in denial.. one too many superhero movies has cost me my freedom. I remember.. I remember with Paul, the fight with those idiots, I sent them to the hospital, I remember that time that teacher tried to pick me up when I was eight.. I think he had a concussion, it was just luck, right.. how goddamn tall I am, fucking inhuman..

Inhuman. Of course. He was created with power in mind. If he really is going to run the world, wouldn't they make him the best they could? And so they did. That explains it all. They took him to run the world, they put me in the outside world for ten years, then gave me to him as a birthday present. The burrowing stopped in its tracks for a bit. We're products of the Illuminati. I'm part of their plan. How could I not have known about something like this when I could run twice as fast as anyone else and lift them all, and beat the crap out of just about anyone if I let the power loose? The power... I tried... the power can't get me out of this. But I can stop hiding it from myself now. I can stop pretending I don't have it. Because he knows I have it. Because they all know I have it. Because my 'parents' were in on the whole deal. They really played with fire that time. What if someone would have known about me before these guys did get to me.. guess I was just considered to be a mutant freak. Amazing how predictable people are, even me.

Of course, if I panicked and fled somewhere, they would have found me anyway, no question. I couldn't have stopped this, not even with all my abilities, there are simply too many of them and they are simply too powerful. Damn it. My entire life has led up to being my clone's servant? Everything that I've ever done, all I've ever wanted in my life, and now I'm this? Complete insanity.. but it's all completely insane. It's just like working for thirty years and getting to retire, it's just like living on a farm, it's just like... and it's just another way of working for the Overlord. If we've been working against ourselves so much, mankind as a whole is a pack of idiots. And I'm just another casualty, like the sacrificed witches of Salem and the slaves of 19th century America. Strangely, the thought relaxed me a bit, but not enough. I can't keep going like this or I'll turn into a nervous wreck before I figure out anything- anything about the organization, anything about him, anything about a way out of here.. and why is it that I keep assuming problems always have solutions?