Just Marc
The Uncle from the Uncanny Valley
The cracking sound at the window intensified, a high-pitched screech of structural failure that sent Steve diving under his desk. Marc, however, didn't flinch. He gripped his brass knuckles, his blue-streaked hair shadowing his eyes as he prepared to punch whatever eldritch horror was trying to breach the Smith household.
With a final, dramatic *pop*, the window didn't shatter. Instead, it slid upward with a flourish. A figure tumbled into the room, draped in a moth-eaten trench coat and wearing a wig that looked like a dead Pomeranian had been stapled to a bald cap.
"Oh, the agony! The sheer, unadulterated friction of the shingles!" the figure shrieked, sprawling across Steve’s rug. "I’ve lost a button! Steve, tell me I’m still beautiful! Tell me the fall didn't ruin my silhouette!"
Marc stared down at the intruder. The "white, dripping hand" Steve had seen was actually just a pale gray limb covered in what appeared to be melted marshmallow fluff and chocolate syrup.
"Steve," Marc said, his voice dropping to a flat, dangerous register. "Why is there a gray pear in a raincoat on your floor?"
Steve crawled out from under the desk, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled Marc’s blue hair for vibrancy. "Marc, I’d like you to meet... uh... my Uncle... P-P-Phil? Yes! Uncle Phil! He’s, uh, visiting from... the moon? No, Montana!"
Roger, still face-down on the rug, suddenly bolted upright. He adjusted his glasses—which were missing one lens—and took a long, slow look at Marc. He started at Marc’s heavy boots, traveled up his long, denim-clad legs, lingered on the silver flask protruding from his hoodie, and finally locked onto those piercing blue eyes.
Roger’s pupils dilated until his eyes were almost entirely black. He let out a faint, airy whistle.
"Montana?" Roger rasped, his voice shifting into a sophisticated, slightly breathless persona. "Yes. Big Sky Country. Where the men are rugged, the air is crisp, and the fashion is... oh, mama, the fashion is *sublime*."
Roger stood up, dusting off his trench coat. He extended a spindly, gray hand toward Marc. "I’m Phil. Phil... Anthropy. I’m a billionaire recluse who specializes in being incredibly wealthy and occasionally falling off roofs. And you must be the new boy. The one the wind whispered about. Or maybe that was just the neighbor’s leaf blower. Either way, you’re much taller than I imagined in my fever dreams."
Marc didn't take the hand. He unscrewed his flask, took a long pull of gin, and looked at Steve. "Your uncle is a gray, four-fingered alcoholic who smells like a Cinnabon dumpster. Is this a family trait, or is he just special?"
"He’s very special!" Steve squeaked, grabbing Roger by the arm and trying to pull him toward the door. "Okay, Uncle Phil, great to see you! Thanks for stopping by! We’re actually in the middle of a very intense study session about... tallness!"
Roger planted his feet, which was difficult given he didn't really have heels. "Nonsense, Steven! I must play the gracious host. A boy of such... architectural significance deserves a proper welcome."
Roger swirled around Marc, sniffing the air aggressively. "Mmm. Tobacco, angst, and a hint of 'I haven't talked to my mother in three weeks.' It’s intoxicating. Tell me, Marc—can I call you Marc? Or should I call you 'The Blue-Streaked God of My Mid-Afternoon Crisis'?"
Marc raised an eyebrow, a small, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He wasn't scared anymore; he was fascinated by the sheer absurdity of the creature before him. "You can call me whatever you want, Phil. Just keep your hands where I can see 'em. I’ve got eleven siblings; I know a pickpocket when I see one."
"Oh, I’m not looking for your wallet, darling," Roger purred, leaning against Steve’s bedpost and batting his nonexistent eyelashes. "I’m looking for the soul behind the eyeliner. Tell me, do you like jazz? Or perhaps we could just sit in a dark room and listen to an industrial fan while I tell you about my failed career as a foot model in Cincinnati?"
Steve threw his hands up in despair. "Roger, stop it! You’re being weird! Even for you!"
"Roger?" Marc asked, glancing at Steve. "I thought you said his name was Phil."
"Phil-Roger!" Steve shouted. "It’s a compound name! Like... Billy-Bob! He’s very sensitive about it!"
Roger ignored Steve entirely, his focus laser-locked on Marc. "So, Marc. Steve tells me you’re rich. I love rich. Rich is my favorite color. It goes so well with my complexion. Would you like to see my collection of vintage prosthetic limbs? Or perhaps we could go to the basement and watch Stan try to fit into his old prom suit? It’s a tragedy in three acts."
Marc let out a short, bark-like laugh. He found himself actually liking the weird little alien, or whatever the hell he was. "You’re a freak, Phil. I like that. Most people in this town are boring as hell. They see the hair and the flask and they cross the street."
"I would never cross the street to avoid you," Roger said, stepping closer and placing a hand on Marc’s chest. "I would lie down in the middle of the street and wait for you to walk over me. Preferably in those boots. Are those Doc Martens? They look like they’ve seen some things. Dark things. Things involving a mosh pit and a lukewarm PBR."
Marc looked down at Roger’s hand, then back at his face. "You’re weirdly specific for a guy from Montana."
"I read a lot," Roger whispered. "Mostly labels on prescription bottles and the secret diaries of local congressmen."
The door to the bedroom swung open again, and Klaus slid in on a remote-controlled car Steve had rigged for him. "Hey! Why is the party in here? And why is Roger wearing the 'Desperate Divorcee' trench coat? Is he trying to seduce the giant again?"
Marc looked at the fish, then at Roger, then at Steve. "Okay, so the fish talks, the uncle is a gray goblin in a wig, and your dad is a CIA agent who thinks I’m three Russians in a coat. Steve, your life is a fever dream."
"It’s not that bad!" Steve insisted, though he was currently trying to hide a copy of *Guns & Ammo* that Roger had started chewing on for no apparent reason.
"It’s better than a fever dream," Roger corrected, now draped over Marc’s shoulder like a very expensive, very clammy scarf. "It’s a lifestyle. Now, Marc, tell me. Does that blue streak in your hair glow in the dark? Because I have a very dark walk-in closet and a bottle of Midori that says we should find out."
Marc gently unpeeled Roger from his person. "Maybe later, Phil. I think I need to go home and process the fact that I just got hit on by a space-alien-uncle-thing."
"I’ll call you!" Roger shouted as Marc headed for the door. "I’ll find your number! I’ll hack the school’s mainframe! I’ll bribe a crow to fly a message to your window!"
Marc paused at the doorway, looking back at the chaotic room. Steve looked exhausted, the fish was doing donuts on his RC car, and the gray creature was blowing him kisses. For the first time since moving to Langley Falls, Marc didn't feel like the weirdest person in the room.
"See ya tomorrow, Steve," Marc said, a genuine, if slightly crooked, smile appearing on his face. "And Phil? Get some help. Or some more marshmallow fluff. You’ve got a spot on your ear."
As Marc disappeared down the hallway, Roger slumped against the wall, clutching his chest. "Oh, Steven. He’s the one. He’s the brooding, alcoholic, emo son I never had and the dark, mysterious stranger I’ve always wanted to be seen with at a Crate & Barrel."
"He’s my friend, Roger!" Steve groaned. "Don't ruin this for me! He’s the only person in school who doesn't think I’m a total joke!"
"Please," Klaus chimed in, "he’s an emo kid with eleven siblings and a flask. He *is* a joke. He’s just a joke with better bone structure."
Roger ignored them both, staring dreamily at the door. "Eleven siblings... imagine the drama. The hand-me-downs. The sheer volume of psychological trauma. I have to get into that house. I have to become their long-lost eccentric aunt from the French Riviera."
"No!" Steve yelled. "No aunts! No uncles! No more disguises!"
Downstairs, the front door slammed. Marc Aidan walked down the driveway, taking a final swig from his flask before tucking it away. He looked up at the Smith house, shaking his head.
"Rich kid, huh?" he muttered to himself, thinking of his own chaotic home filled with screaming toddlers and judgmental older brothers. "At least my house doesn't have a talking fish. Yet."
He started the walk home, his long strides eating up the pavement. He felt a strange weight in his pocket. He reached in and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper that hadn't been there before.
He unfolded it. In loopy, dramatic handwriting, it read: *'You have the bone structure of a young, depressed Marlon Brando. Call me for a good time or a mediocre quiche. XOXO, Phil-Roger.'*
Marc stared at the note for a long beat. Then, he crumpled it back up, a low chuckle escaping his throat. "Langley Falls," he whispered into the cool evening air. "This place is going to be a goddamn nightmare. I love it."
Back in the attic, Roger was already rummaging through a trunk, tossing aside a feathered boa and a Viking helmet.
"Where is it?" Roger muttered, his eyes frantic. "Where is my 'Goth Mother of Twelve' ensemble? I need black lace! I need a veil that screams 'I buried my third husband under the gazebo'! This boy is a project, and I am a master craftsman!"
Steve stood in the doorway, watching his alien housemate descend into madness. "I’m never going to have a normal friend, am I?"
"Steve," Klaus said, steering his car over Steve’s foot. "You live with a fish who was once an East German ski jumper. 'Normal' left this house the day your dad bought that flagpole. Now shut up and help me find my fish-sized leather jacket. I want to look cool when the giant comes back."
The sun set over the Smith house, casting long, distorted shadows across the lawn—shadows that, if you looked closely enough, looked suspiciously like a very tall boy with a blue streak in his hair and a very small alien in a very large wig. The terror and the comedy of Langley Falls were only just beginning.