EYRIE PRODUCTIONS, UNLIMITED presents AN ENCOUNTER AT SHAMROCK HOUSE, or, A Quiet, Rather Dull Friday Night by Benjamin D. Hutchins with apologies to Albert Cornelius Baantjer and Queen (c) 2000 Eyrie Productions, Unlimited On a quiet side street off one of the two chief downtown streets of Waltham, Massachusetts, not far from the Charles River, there stands a three-story Victorian house, symmetrical as it faces the street, with twin bay windows on the first and second floors and porches with entrance doors on the sides. It is flanked by a nondescript brown house to its left, as viewed from the street, and a boring four-story brick apartment building to its right, standing out quite distinctly from its neighbors thanks to its color. It is sided with aluminum in a peculiar shade of pale green, a shade which has prompted one of its groups of inhabitants to nickname it "Shamrock House" in the old British tradition, after the seasonal McDonald's beverage whose color it shares. It happens that Shamrock House's every structure is mirrored, so that if one drew a vertical line along the midpoint of its face, one would divide it into two identical-but-reversed dwellings. As one faces it from the street, the left side of the house is number 37, the right, number 35. It was Friday night, July 7, a refreshingly cool and dry end to a miserably hot and sticky week. A block to the west, Moody Street's five-block strip of restaurants and bars was bustling. Occasionally a subsonic percussive thump would prowl menacingly up the drag as Captain Throb and his Incredible Bassmobile searched the Watch City sidewalks for some action. On Gordon Street, insulated by the bulk of the brick apartment house at number 29, Shamrock House was quiet. Behind that first-story bay window, in the living room of number 35, a young man sat in an overstuffed brown leather armchair and glowered at an empty window on the display of the portable computer set up on a tray table facing him. On one of the arms of the chair, a black nylon case full of compact discs balanced precariously; on the other sat a MiniDisc player. A stack of MDs stood on the narrow strip of table not occupied by the computer. The man in the chair - brown-bristle-haired, bespectacled, goateed and rotund - was frowning at his computer. He did this not in a way that implied he was angry at the computer itself; rather that he was expecting or hoping to see something on that screen, and was instead seeing something else. He was still at it when the doorbell rang. Sighing, he pushed the table away and got to his feet, moving around the high-piled coffee table. The room was too small for the amount of furniture it contained. The bay window was almost totally obscured by a a giant entertainment center holding TV and stereo, which spanned entirely the mouth of the recess. To the left was the other outside wall, bearing the only other window, which was open to admit the cool night air, the faint sounds of Moody Street, and the occasional burst of conversation as groups of pedestrians walked past on the sidewalk outside. That wall was encumbered by a love seat that matched the chair. The opposite wall backed the chair, centered on the bulge of a chimney passing through from the basement. The back wall was taken up almost entirely by a sofa which matched the other two seats, leaving just enough room for the doorway leading to the front stairs, where the main entrance to the apartment was. All the rest of the living-room wall space that didn't have a seat of some kind in front of it was covered with eight-foot by three-foot bookcases, crammed with videotapes, laserdiscs and DVDs, except for the one shelf in the case to the right of the chair which was home to an assortment of robot toys, and the ones flanking the entertainment center, which mostly had video game equipment of various vintages. The wall space that -did- have seats in front of it sported wall scrolls printed with animation characters, most of them women. As though all that weren't clutter enough in such a small room, someone had taken it upon himself to block up the center of the room by installing an almost-square coffee table which left almost precisely not enough room for a person to sit comfortably on both the chair and the love seat at the same time, making navigating to the chair from the entrance in the opposite corner something of a challenge. Having lived here two years now, Ben Hutchins, known to his friends, acquaintances, and detractors as Gryphon, was used to it, and didn't pay much attention to the stacks of compact discs and books that threatened to be swept off the coffee table at the slightest miscue. He had reached the point of resignation to that table's presence, the point where, even if he knocked something off it on the way to his favorite chair, he usually didn't consciously register it as he picked it up and put it back. This time he managed it without any trouble, thumbed off the deadbolt, and opened the door to look out through the window in the storm door. He wondered, as he did every time he looked out, why he or one of his housemates didn't install the screen instead of the window; and as he did every time he shrugged and did nothing to change the situation. The visitor on the doorstep was a teenaged boy, shortish but broad-shouldered, with a tousled ruff of coal-black hair, blue eyes, and a wryly friendly face. He had on a black leather motorcycle jacket, jeans and outback boots, and a helmet was tucked under one of his arms. He grinned at Gryphon as the latter opened the screen door. "Hullo, G," said DJ Croft cheerily. "How's things?" Gryphon stared for a moment, then grinned in return and stepped back to admit his visitor. "Oh, the usual," he said, shrugging. "Nothing much." "The lads not around then?" wondered Croft. "John's gone to Maine and Zoner's not back from Expo yet. C'mon in, have a seat. Something to drink?" "I wouldn't turn down a beer," said DJ. He hung his jacket over the end of the stairway bannister, left his boots standing next to the stairs and his helmet on top of them, and plopped into the end of the sofa as his host went to the refrigerator for beverages. "I suppose," said Gryphon as he re-entered the living room, "this was inevitable." DJ reached up from the end of the couch to accept the black metal can Gryphon offered as he passed. "Ah, thank you," he said with a smile as Gryphon made his way around the coffee table, knocked a couple of magazines off it, replaced them, and returned to his chair, pushing the computer aside. He had a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale and a glass, and seemed sublimely unconcerned at having just provided an alcoholic beverage to a minor. "Inevitable?" DJ wondered. He cracked the top of the can and waited for the draft charge to settle. "I suppose it was at that," he said, nodding. "There are a few things I've been wanting to take up with you for some time." "Uh-huh," said Gryphon sardonically. "And you think that by popping in like this you can set the record straight." "Well, no, but it's convenient. Actually I just happened to be in the neighborhood." "Bull." "No, it's true, I swear." "You do realize that, since I've already established in 'Bonus Theater!!' metacontinuity segments that you're an actor named Dennis MacCrofton and the Eyrie studio is in Worcester, that by showing up in character and in Waltham you've pushed us into METAmetacontinuity?" "Can't be helped," DJ replied blithely. "We've got -issues- to work out, you and I. The other day somebody came up to me on the street and accused me of being -you-, can you believe that?" DJ folded his arms indignantly. "The cheek!" Gryphon glowered at him, settled into his chair, knitted his fingers at the peak of his middle and rumbled, "Indeed." DJ rolled his eyes. "Oh Christ, not your Nero bloody Wolfe impression." "Confound it, don't badger me," Gryphon replied, then straightened up. "I think if I -were- a fictional character... well, aside from the ones that I am... I'd like to be Wolfe. Certainly not you. You run around too damn much. You could be my Archie if you like, though." "Can't say I like that notion too much," DJ observed wryly, swigging from his can of beer. "Seventy-five books and poor Archie never gets the girl!" "What do you call Lily Rowan, then?" "He never makes an honest woman of her, the blighter. Anyway, you like women too much to be Wolfe, yourself." "True. I'd at least allow them in the house without wincing. I'm not a big fan of orchids, either, but I guess I could raise cacti or something." "That'd be a sight. A New York brownstone with ten thousand -cacti- on the roof." "Anyway, what do you want me to -do- about it?" Gryphon asked, suddenly exasperated, swerving back to the original topic. "People are going to assume that you're me, and there's nothing either of us can do about it. Believe me, I've tried. The problem is that the people who think so are about half right, and that makes it almost impossible to explain to them." DJ cocked an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?" "Well, look. Any writer who creates a major character and spends a lot of time and energy pushing him along the path of a story is going to project -something-, either of himself or of what he'd -like- to be, into that character. It's inevitable." "Right, right, I understand that, but it's not the same as just using yourself as a character. I mean, my God, just -look- at us." "-I- know that. -You- know that. But the distinction is hard to put into words - especially when the people you're talking to don't particularly want to be convinced." Gryphon threw up his hands. "I've given up on it." DJ mulled it over, then shrugged. "Fair enough. It's not really what I wanted to ask you about anyway." Gryphon took a sip of his ale, regarded DJ over the top of the glass, and said, "Well, go ahead, then." DJ sat back and took a deep pull from the can, then let it dangle from the fingertips of his left hand and said, "All right, first item. Why did you have to make me such a bloody flirt? You had to know it make me certain to be misunderstood. Why, there's a chap in California who thinks my, er, 'score', if you will, currently stands at -six-. SIX, for Christ's sake! I didn't think there were six eligible women on the -show- until I stopped and thought about it. For a moment I had this terrible fear he'd included Mum. Brr!" "The others are going to love hearing -that-. And I know what you mean about your mother, but you might have phrased it better." "You and your damned Scrabble scene," Croft blustered on, ignoring Gryphon's dry comment. "It's all well and good you like to lead people down the garden path, but when they stay in the damn garden it's -my- reputation that suffers." "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke," Gryphon replied bluntly. "Look, what are you whining about? So the low-reading-comprehension set takes you for an unstoppable juggernaut, a primal force of studliness. 'Who's the limey private dick that's a sex machine to all the chicks? Croft! You -damn- right.' Yeah, it's bullshit, but so what? Enjoy it. Get a laugh out of it. I'd have expected you to complain about all the missed opportunities I threw across your path, not the fact that some people don't seem to have realized that they were missed." "Tests of character?" DJ wondered wryly, then added, "No pun intended." "Yeah, basically. After you and Asuka took it upon yourselves to junk my original plans on me, thank you very much, I gave you no fewer than three opportunities to go off the rails, just to see how serious you really were. And you know what? You surprised me -again-. You stuck it out. You really mean it." "You talk as if you didn't have control. Didn't know the outcome in advance." "That's just the point, I -didn't-. I had other plans, but you and the others took off on your own after a while. And that's -good-! It means you're a successful cast, a thriving one. You're driving the bus and I'm making suggestions and describing what I see out the windows. I can invent situations and sometimes guide you into them - I did it when I tested you, though even that I couldn't have done without the help of the other characters involved - but you usually decide what happens all by your ownself, and that's wonderful. That's real joy for me, even when it makes me tear my hair in frustration because you've wrecked one of my schemes. That feeling, that phenomenon, was the first hint I had that UF was going to turn into something bigger than just a tongue-in-cheek college anime prank, and when it happened again in NXE I knew it'd be worth finishing, whatever the cost." DJ frowned thoughtfully at Gryphon. "You're serious, aren't you." "Completely." "You had other plans, different ones, for Asuka and me?" Gryphon nodded. "What were they?" Gryphon shook his head. "Nope. That's out of order. You'll have to speculate about what might have been on your own time, just like all the rest of us. Next question." DJ made a grumbling noise and took another pull at his Guinness. "Can't you at least give me a hint?" "Nuh-uh. Too dangerous. You might suddenly decide you like my old way better and start swimming upstream, and it's too late in the game to make me deal with that now." "Not bloody likely," DJ replied. "You're the one that's levered us apart this time. What the hell, is it some kind of rule that I have to be missing at the end of each season?" "Coincidence," Gryphon said. "Sure," DJ grumbled. "Relax. You're not LCL Bouillabaisse this time, are you?" "No, but the way you set it up, that makes it even more mysterious." Gryphon shrugged and finished off his Newcastle. "You ought to have some idea how I operate by now. Do you really think I'd build up to this big an ending, with everything I've said on Usenet and in email about my fondness for heroes and heroic deeds, and then leave you out of it?" "No, I suppose you wouldn't," said DJ, grudgingly subsiding. After a moment, his face change from irritation to a look uncharacteristic for it: a sense of anticipation, tinged with an unexpected edge of fear. "But tell me this at least. Will we... be happy?" "Why, Lord Crofthenge," said Gryphon in a gently mocking tone. "One would almost think you were getting sentimental." "Damn it, I am!" DJ replied, thumping the arm of the sofa with a fist (fortunately not the one holding the beer). "I bloody well happen to... " His voice trailed off, then resumed in a much softer tone, a tone touched with wonder, as if he'd just learned, to his surprise, that which he was saying: "... to be in love." "You've only yourself to blame for that," Gryphon said piously. "We've covered -my- involvement in the whole debacle." "You're not near as funny as you think you are," said DJ sourly. "So some people keep telling me," Gryphon replied. Then, taking pity on the hurt and rather fearful look in the EVA pilot's eyes, he smiled. "I can't tell you much. I really can't. But I can promise you this: When all is said and done, you'll have what you really, truly want. Both of you." DJ's face was washed with relief; then he cast a suspicious glance at his creator and said, "I thought you said you weren't in total charge." Gryphon grinned. "We won't be working at cross purposes this time," he assured DJ. "Trust me. I've gotten you this far, haven't I?" "Yes... yes, I suppose you have." "Now have you got any questions I -can- answer?" asked Gryphon dryly. "You never answered my -first- one!" Croft protested. "Hm? Oh, why you're such a flirt? I thought it would be fun. When I initially designed you I wanted you to be a lot of things that Shinji Ikari isn't... that included 'comfortable with women'. You're outgoing, charismatic. In the case of your dealings with women, especially attractive ones, that manifests itself in flirtation - particularly with the ones who don't seem to know how to react." DJ smiled nostalgically. "Like Rei," he said. "Poor girl... she didn't know -what- to make of me at first." Gryphon nodded. "As a first friend," he agreed with a grin, "you were a rude awakening. Which turned out to be perfect." "All right, good enough," said Croft. "A while back you said that an author often puts something of himself or what he'd -like- himself to be into a character." "Uh-huh." "So what bits of me -are- from you?" "Well, let's see. Our tastes in music overlap a lot. We're both Titanic enthusiasts and camera fans. Neither of us is much interested in the JFK assassination. We're left-handed, we have the same eyes - that's a throwback to a really early version of you, by the way. You were originally planned as -my- son." "Your... " DJ burst out laughing. "I'm sorry, I really am," he gasped between roars of laughter, "but - YOU...and MUM... " He laughed on, looking in danger of sliding out of the sofa altogether. "Laugh it up, Brit-boy," Gryphon said darkly. "Anyway, she wasn't your original mother either. NXE was originally going to be the future of the 'Warrior's Legacy' universe, and... well, what does it matter? That was a stupid idea that got thrown out within the first week, before it was even an official project. It's immaterial except for vestiges like your eyes, and you're not even listening to me anyway." DJ was beginning to get himself back under control. He wiped at his eyes, still giggling, and gasped, "No... I'm sorry... I am listening. Go on... " Gryphon glowered, but his heart wasn't in it. "Anyway," he went on after a moment, "what else? I like motorcycles, though not as much as my father does. I'm more of a car fancier myself. We both hate flying commercial, we like Bach, we like dogs better than cats, we're both good with a pistol, sometimes we wear ties just for fun. Fasten, then zip?" "Fasten, then zip," DJ replied with a nod. "Rack that one up too, then. Your attitude toward women is a close cousin of mine, too, but you're a lot bolder than I am about -telling- them that you approve of their presence on this Earth so heartily. As for the part about what I'd -like- to be, well... " Gryphon frowned thoughtfully, then said, "I wish I had your hair." "My -hair-?" "Yeah. It's cool. It does that Hikaru Ichijo thing. Mine is just sort of here. If I don't either trim it to bristle length or let it grow to a ponytail, it just goes all Prince Valiant on me." DJ ran his fingers through his raven thatch and said, "I imagine Mum would've been happy to trade anytime she had to try and comb this lot down for a picture or museum dinner." "I suppose. I actually don't idolize your Action Guy tendencies much. Oh, I wouldn't mind being more athletic, I suppose, but all I really envy you in that regard is your decisiveness. I'm not worth much in a crisis; I tend to freeze up and forget how to do things. I wish I were better able to take charge of a situation when the need arises, so I put a lot of that into you." DJ shrugged. "It depends on the sort of crisis. I couldn't do your job any more than you could do mine." He grinned, then turned in the couch to look up at the "Taiho Shichauzo" wall scroll hanging above and behind him. "As for women... Miyuki or Natsumi?" "Oh, Natsumi, all the way," replied Gryphon, apparently unfazed by his companion's sudden change of subject. "Zoe or Gwynn?" "Hmm... Zoe. Millie or Meryl?" "Hrm. Tough one. Gonna have to go with Meryl, though." "Ah, but Millie's such a sweetheart." "I never said she wasn't, but Meryl's more my type." "What, loud? Pushy? Maybe we -do- have some tastes in common," said DJ with a sparkle-eyed grin. "I told you, I'm innocent," Gryphon said. "Heh, I know." DJ finished off his Guinness, shook the can gently side to side to make sure it was empty, and put it on the coffee table. "While I let the old liver process that lot, have you got the second DVD of that yet?" "If it's out, odds are Zoner's got it," said Gryphon, hunting up the requested disc. DJ nodded, satisfied. "Time it's done, I'll be fit for the road again." "Sure you don't want to stick around a bit longer?" Gryphon asked as he loaded the player. "Zoner ought to be home before -too- much longer than that." "Nah, I'd like to, but I can't. Got to get back and feed the penguin, you know." "Hell of a way to spend a Friday night." "It beats going down with the Titanic. What the hell was -that-, anyway?" "You didn't like that? That was my allegory about facing up to inevitability, couched in images drawn from your subconscious." "And here I thought it was just a cheesy excuse to get 'Southampton' into the soundtrack and dress Rei up like a White Star stewardess." "Now you sound like one of those self-appointed review-squad guys. Besides, look me in the eye and tell me she wasn't cute." "Shh. Enough, I'll let it go. I love this opening bit." Suddenly DJ burst into song: "Vash! A-ah! Saviour of the Universe!" Gryphon grinned and rejoined: "Vash! A-ah! He'll save every one of us!" "Vash! A-ah! He's a miracle!" "Vash! A-ah! King of the Impossible!" "He's for every one of us!" "Stand for every one of us!" "He saves with a mighty hand, every man, every woman, every child, he's a mighty... " "... Vash?" "Hm, I s'pose that doesn't make much sense, does it." "He's just a man," said Gryphon sagely, "with a man's courage." "Nothing but a man," DJ agreed with a satisfied nod, "but he can never fail." "Good thing -your- name doesn't end in '-ash', or I'd have filked this for -you- by now." "Oh, God, don't even joke." Passing by out on Gordon Street, a group of pedestrians paused for a moment to wonder at the source of the uproarious laughter they heard rolling out of the open side window of number 35; then they shrugged to each other, walked past the motorcycle parked at the curb in front of the house, and headed down to Bison County for some buffalo tips. Another quiet, rather dull Friday night in Watch City. END