"I was just guessing
At numbers and figures
Pulling your puzzles apart;
Questions of science
Science and progress
Do not speak as loud as my heart"
-Coldplay; "The Scientist"


Guiness Schroeder was born on the fifty-first story of one of the tallest buildings in the world. A year later, almost precisely, it was destroyed in a massive explosion: an omnipresent omen of metaphorical proportions that would haunt him throughout his remaining years. Not that he was superstitious; Guiness trusted numbers. But statistically, the odds of that occuring were slim to say the least.

The event of his arrival was a rather odd one. His father and mother were on a late honeymoon in the biggest and brightest city on earth (or so they were told), cruising down 42nd like a couple of school girls. They viewed every musical and tourist trap the Apple had to offer, so it was no mistake that they ventured into the economical hierarchy of the western world.

They had taken the tour, which is always a bad sign, and were casually glancing out a rather impressive window at its rather irritated groomer when his mother stated, very calmly, "Dear Lord, I think my water broke."

"I beg your pardon," replied his father.

"I said, 'dear Lord, I think my water broke.'"

There was no convinient way for the Schroeders to actuate this occassion, so with a rush of oddly apparent medical practitioners, a little bit of Ibuprofen and many variations of "I'm so terribly sorry, but she couldn't wait" uttered by his father, Guiness was brought somewhat painlessly into the world.

He always was an odd duck.

The fact may surface that this brought Guiness the exceptional and useful advantage of dual citizenship. He would argue with that. It was never his intention to become a Yank, as shocking as that may seem to less-informed individuals, and therefore its convenience is wasted and lost. His parents did not raise him to aknowledge his two-fold ethnicity and should he have chosen to jump the pond on his eighteenth birthday, they would be very put out. Besides, he was too lazy.

It was no wonder he was so technologically minded. From the start he was exposed to decimals and probability and chance. Chance; that was most important. By the second year of his more formal education he had mastered geometry and basic algebra. By fifth he was fluent in two non-native languages and binary, his college placement exams above perfection, and his Greco-Roman lore impecable. The psychiatrists titiled him a genius.

He was of a seperate opinion. Certainly he recognised that he was a very bright boy. And he realised that conversations with others often resulted in many a perplexed expression and uncomfortable silence. But geniuses won Nobel prizes and invented incredible and unprecidented theories that saved mankind from utter failure. All he could do was learn and grow and speak. What good did that do?

Basil Baker was working in the social sciences department under Professor Whigs. On Mondays and Thursdays he attended the noon lecture on Experimental Philosophy. He was a well-dressed gentleman, rather reserved and often choosing to record the occassional class debates as research for his personal projects, whatever they might have been. Whigs had a loose system and kept the title of "Lecture Hour" only to keep the rufians out.

Guiness was an object of fascination for Basil: an eleven-year-old boy attending Oxford was a far-fetched notion to anyone after all. And Basil fascinated Guiness, though he chose to be more inquisitive of his tapes and tie-tacks, finding both to be delightfully eccentric items. So when Guiness graduated two years later without an employment or new educational oppourtunity, it was no surprise that they took in one another.


His room was always hot. Not that that wasn't expected. It was full of wires and machinery, beeping and printing, things that constantly generated heat. More often than not it was a living, breathing fire hazard; crisp bags and paperwork scattering the floor near running processors. But that was why he lived in the Bomb Room: it was the coolest level of Home.

Along one end of the room was an aging tan sofa. A long time ago it might have had a print of some kind, but years of deterioration and use had pulled all formalities away. On one end, a rather large pile of pillows pushed against its arm and a Spider-Man duvet bunched up the other. It was neighboured by an old, beaten chest of drawers that held, oddly enough, clothing. Not that it was used much. Come to think of it, the sofa wasn't used much either. Most often they were both partitioned off by a large hanging tapestry, which sported a dolphin ensignia reading "Space Warriors".

It was this area that Guiness was currently pondering. He had come to a road block and finding a detour was impossible. Pulling off his knitted cap, he tossled out his rambuncious locks and looked around the room. Old newspaper clippings, detailing the events of Chrisend Moscoe at his Centre mingled with Star Wars posters and anime screenshots. A life-size cardboard Gandalf watched him from the left corner, holding Guiness's jacket with his staff. He hated getting stuck. It had been ages since they'd had a hit of anything and Moscoe's techies were simply... irksome. He glanced over at a small pile of novels, yearning for attention, thought better of it, then leaned back in his chair to gaze at the ceiling and wonder if Hiroko had fallen back into sleep.

Just as he was coming to the conclusion that his best work would develop under his bedspread, the Bomb Room door creaked open. He bolted upright, watching Hiro enter, ducking to avoid the low ceiling.

"My first love!" Guiness adjusted his glasses and stood, leaning against the chair; that was his custom, after all.

His comment made her smile, albeit sleepily. "Hullo, Giz. You wanted to see me?"

"Indeed. Whats the Japanese word for 'password'?"

For a moment, she gaped in confusion. "Paasuwardo."

He plunked down at the keyboard. "'Ow's that spelled?"

"P-a-a-s-u-w-a-r-d-o." Long, clever fingers danced across the keys. "Is that what you needed?"

"Well, I've tried everythin' else." Another key struck sharply and Guiness leaned close to the monitor in expectation.

"Are you saying," began Hiroko, growing steadily infuriated. "That you woke me up at this godforesaken hour--"

"It's only six."

"--to ask me what the bloody Japanese word for 'password' was?!?"

He smiled, still facing the little blue screen. "Brilliant! Gor, it's so simple, yet clever. Those wankers are ruddy geniuses." Turning to Hiroko, his smile brightened. "It's a good thing we 'ave you, love. I never was one for Eastern phonetics."

The ruffle in her appearance lightened at the glee in Guiness's face. "Don't bother thanking me, Giz. Just let me pass out and you're forgiven."

He turned solemly to the couch behind him, realising it would be hours before he'd entertain the thought of sleep. "You can 'ave me bed. It's suffering neglect."

A frown shadowed her lips, but she bent to kiss his cheek nonetheless. "I'll bring you some tea after. All-right?"

"Make it coffee. That'll do better."

"You're sounding like a Yank, love."

His nose crinkled, slipping his glasses with their release. "I know. R.E.M. deprivation does that to me."

With Hiroko sufficiently snuggled into his pillows, Guiness returned to work. Five minutes passed before another restricted area. He swore softly and made various attempts, frustration growing. Fumbling about his desk, his fingers found a random bottle of SodaStream and he pulled it to his lips for a grateful drink. Empty.

"Botheration." Chucking the bottle smoothly into a bin across the room, Guiness again leaned back in his swivel chair, slowly drifting into dreams of sun and picnic baskets.

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I know it's been forever and this kind of fudges into the plot, but beggars can't be choosers. And I would know!

Kirily