Chapter One: Fifi, Dotti, Isidore and Inez

"The oven's gonna explode!" screeched Francesca, my ten-year-old sister, crouching in front of the said oven, her nose inches from the glass door.

"It's not gonna explode any time soon," I snapped, whisking four eggs furiously. "Quit being paranoid."

"It says light brown sugar here, not brown sugar!" complained Colette, my fraternal twin sister, waving the recipe in front of my nose. "Geez, can't you even get the ingredients right?"

"Shut up!" I growled, pushing her hand out of the way as I reached up for another mixing bowl. "Brown sugar is the same as light brown sugar with a couple of extra calories. Besides, recipes are more like guidelines than actual rules."

Colette gasped, and I tossed her a snobbish look. "What? Jealous that I can actually put a quote from Pirates of the Caribbean in context when you're supposed to be the movie's number one fan?"

"You suck, Fifi," said Colette smartly, turning around on her heels to her cookie dough mix.

"Thank you, Dotti," I shot back, ignoring the dark look she gave me.

Perhaps that needs some explanation. Since my dad is a lover of extreme weather conditions (he married himself to Hurricane Dorothy when he was six- weirdo), he gave all of his children storm/hurricane middle names. So I'm Fifi, Colette's Dotti, Francesca's Inez and Christopher's (nineteen-year-old brother) Isidore.

Chris is like, so lucky. Isidore is actually sort of cool. It sounds like Isildur, you know, from the Lord of the Rings. But Fifi?

Who the heck calls their daughter Fifi?

Well, my dad, obviously.

And if you think he has a sense of humour (since my middle name is highly entertaining), then you've got it wrong. Way wrong. He has absolutely zero sense of humour. He's a doctor/workaholic who spends the little of his time away from work watching the weather forecast on TV.

Yes, the weather forecast. I kid you not.

Okay, so he's weird and biological (if you have a stomach ache, he asks "Is your duodenum alright?" instead of "Is your tummy alright?" like a normal person). But we still love him. That's why me and my sisters were turning the kitchen upside down, trying to pull together a decent dinner for him.

Normally, mum would be doing this instead of us, but since she was halfway around the world in India on a supposedly "spiritual" trip with her friends from the yoga centre, we kids were left to fend for ourselves.

Trust me, putting a sixteen-year-old who could barely scramble an egg with her fraternal twin who cares more about her stained Miss Sixty jeans than a jammed egg beater and a paranoid girl who is certain that the oven will explode but insists sitting in front of it in a lavish kitchen their mother prefers left untouched is one of the stupidest things you can do.

Right, so I'm as bright as I suppose I am. But Christopher surely is, he claimed to be at a drama rehearsal at the local theatre. I knew better than to believe that, of course. It's a known fact that the theatre is closed during the last week of June, right before the summer holidays. I hate it when people lie and get away with it. Grrr.

"Franny, can you please wash the asparagus instead of sitting there?" I asked, sounding as nice as I could manage, whisking up a decent-looking cake mix.

Francesca started looking panicky as she pointed to the oven. "But someone has to keep an eye on the oven in case it explo-"

"Franny, for the last time, it will NOT explode, so quit your moaning and get your lazy butt over here," I snapped. I'm not the nicest person when annoyed.

"Okay," grumbled my younger sister as she dragged herself up.

We were actually quiet for a moment as we worked on our own stuff. The oven hummed and I could smell the faint scent of baked buttered potato. I smiled as I dumped a whole block of butter into my own mixture, then turned on the egg beater and started drilling into the solid substance.

"Hey, do we have baking soda in here?" Colette interrupted the peaceful silence, standing on tiptoes while peering into the cupboards.

"Use baking powder," I said.

"But it says 'use half teaspoon baking soda' here," she argued, poking her recipe.

I sighed. "Do I have to tell you again?"

"But it'll ruin the dough! And I'm not gonna make it again, the vanilla won't come off my shorts," she ranted, glaring at me.

"Alright, fine, I surrender," I threw my hands heavenward, forgetting that I was still holding the moving egg-beater. Colette screamed as chunks of the chocolate cake mix plastered to her top and hair, and I nearly dropped the machine in surprise.

"Turn it off, stupid!" shrieked Colette, ducking behind the counter for safety.

I did, and Francesca squealed with laughter and licked the mix off her fingers. "Do it again! Do it again!"

"Don't eat it, Franny, the eggs aren't cooked," I warned, grinning as Colette stormed out of the kitchen. "C'mon, let's shape the cookies first."

We molded the cookie dough into hearts, doves and random shapes on cookie sheets, then added raisins and chocolate chips. I was starting to warm up to this whole cooking thing- everything looked yummy!

"Alrighty, let's get this into the oven," I dusted imaginary dust off my hands when the last cookie was shaped.

"Cool!" Francesca jumped to open door of the other oven. Boy, was I glad that mum loves cooking. We would never finish the dinner on time if not for the huge kitchen packed with all the utensils from K-Mart. I bet our kitchen is as good as Jamie's.

"Where on earth is Colette? Don't tell me she has to wash her hair because of a bit of chocolate," I said as I turned on the heat.

"You get her, I'll watch the oven," said Francesca dutifully, her eyes already glued on the oven door.

I rolled my eyes. "Seriously, Franny, it will not explode."

She shrugged and I shook my head. She could be so stubborn sometimes.

The telephone in the hall rang as I walked by, and I grabbed the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Honey!"

"Mum!" I grinned into the phone. "Wassup?"

"Are you kids alright?"

"Yeah, I mean, the cooking's alright, I guess. But Colette's clothes are not," I said innocently.

"Just don't get my kitchen too messed up, okay?" said mum, her tone serious.

"Geez, mum, we're not that messed up," I said a bit defensively.

"I hope not," she teased. "Nothing has exploded so far, right?"

"You're as bad as Franny, but not, nothing has exploded," I assured her.

"Good. Pass the phone to Franny, will you?"

"Sure," I put the receiver on the desk and yelled, "Franny! Phone!"

Colette stalked downstairs then, wearing old jeans and a T-shirt, her wet hair twisted into a loose bun. We gave each other dirty (as in mean) looks as we passed each other.

We don't get along with each other famously, I guess. I mean, she's blonde, I'm brunette. She's a cheerleader, I'm on the school council. She changes boyfriends every ten days, I've never been asked out before. I know stereotyping is unfair, but it's not entirely untrue.

Well, good thing we are fraternal twins.

I popped to the bathroom to wash the grease off my face. Cooking in summer is killer. Why can't we install air-cons in the kitchen? But maybe the gas taps will somehow set off the air-cons, and something will explode. Whatever.

I saw Christopher on the phone as I hopped down the stairs, obviously having just come in with his sneakers still on and a messenger bag on his shoulder.

"Yeah mum," I heard him say. "See if you can bring back some Indian carpets or something, the theatre needs some for an upcoming drama. Yeah, whatever, I'm not sure…"

"Hey Chris, where ye been?" I asked as I skipped by, snatching his cap.

"Hey! Gimme that!" he shouted, and I grinned. Christopher's really insecure without his caps, I have no idea why. It really ticks him off when his head is uncovered, and it's highly amusing when he is annoyed.

"Look mum, I'll talk to you later, okay?" he shot daggers at me while I paraded with his cap. I know, I was being childish, but I could only torment Chris when he was at home now because he lived in his dorms for the better half of the year on the other coast. So sue me for making use of the precious time.

"Yes, okay, I know, I- mum! I'll talk to you later, okay?" Chris looked ready to fly off the handle as he grabbed a handful of his mousy hair. "Buh-bye mum. Geez, okay, I love ya. Satisfied? Bye!"

I squealed as Christopher leapt at me, dodging expertly from his clutches and charged for the backyard.

"Can't you two stop acting like babies for once?" grumbled Colette as we rushed past.

"Ooh, looks like it's someone's Adidas special edition gold cap!" I yelled over my shoulder, running as fast as my legs would take me.

"Give it back, you twit!" Christopher yelled back, getting closer each second. Geez, life is unfair. He's six feet two and runs like a deer. I'm five six and run like a hippo.

"Ahhh! Have mercy on me, Christopher!" I screamed in mock terror.

He pounced right on me and I nearly choked laughing. I somehow managed to crawl from his death grip and he growled, "You little-"

I screamed both from Christopher's wrestle and a enormous bang from our kitchen. I stared in open-mouth horror as black smoke billowed from the kitchen's large bay windows in large clumps, my brother took advantage of my momentary shock and snatched his cap back, screwing it back onto his head.

"Holy shit," he swore as he scrambled onto his feet, me doing the same.

I heard our neighbour Mr McLaughlin, shout at us and his hyperactive Yorkshire terrier barking like crazy, but I ignored them. My heart pounded wildly as I ran across the backyard, confused and scared.

"Shit, shit, shit," muttered Christopher, each shit getting louder than the one before. I suppose he swears a lot when he panics. And he had every right to do so now.

I screamed again as both my sisters came running from the kitchen, screeching and flailing their arms like chickens, and collided straight into us.

"Eep!" I yelped, falling butt-first onto the hard floor, with Colette nearly knocking the wind out of me.

"Get off me, you fat pig!" I shrieked, though she was a far cry from a fat pig.

"What the heck happened in there?" demanded Christopher, rubbing his back.

"The oven exploded!" cried Francesca almost triumphantly. Almost.

I winced. "The cookies or the baked potatoes?"

"The cookies!" shouted Colette square in my face. "I told you! It's light brown sugar! Not brown sugar!"

"Brown sugar doesn't blow ovens up like that!" I screamed right back.

"Well, tell me why else it exploded?" she returned, getting hysterical.

"Woah! Calm down, you two!" intervened Christopher, playing the peacemaker. "Faye's right, ovens don't blow up because you don't follow the recipe exactly. They're not freaking recipe-readers."

I sneered rather nastily. "I've always questioned the presence of a brain in that head of yours, I guess there is no brain after all."

Colette looked angry enough to explode herself. "Why you-"

Okay, let me get this straight. I'm not the one to provoke others under normal circumstances. But when there's just been a blast in your mum' s kitchen and your sister keeps shoving the fact that you used brown sugar instead of light brown sugar in your face, it gets a bit irritating.

"Ugh, snap out of it, will you?" barked Christopher, pushing the two of us apart. "Let's find someone to check the gas and stuff, then clean up the mess, alright?"

"So much for guidelines, Fifi," scoffed Colette, dusting herself.

"Shut up, Dotti," I grumbled. "Mum's gonna kill us."

"Shut up, you two, and grab a broom or something," said Christopher, exercising his brotherly authority.

"Shut up, Isidore," snapped Colette. "Grab a broom yourself."

I groaned when I saw the state of the kitchen. A chunk of the wall had been taken out from the blast, and there was a gory mess of cookie dough, flour, brown sugar, chocolate, and… footprints?

"What the hell?" I said aloud, staring at the choloatey footprints leading to the guestroom next to the kitchen. "Did you guys make those?"

"What?" asked Colette, frowning at the footsteps. "Geez, looks like Big Foot's been here."

"A lot of Big Foots!" piped up Francesca, excitedly.

"Big Feet, Franny," corrected Christopher. "Does that mean…" he trailed off.

"Someone's in our house?" I suggested, my voice falling to a whisper.

"Someone… other than us?" added Colette, her eyes widening.

We glanced at each other, silent.

"Maybe we should… grab a saucepan?" I whispered.

Christopher nodded wordlessly, and we scuttled around the bar table dividing the kitchen from the dining room, me taking a saucepan and a wooden spoon, Christopher a frying pan, Colette a rolling pin and Francesca a banana in each hand, grinning like mad. I was starting to question my little sister's sanity.

Our big brother started following the footprints, a mass of brown smudged together, cautiously moving around them. He pressed his back against the wall next to the door leading to the adjourning guestroom, holding his frying pan up like a gun, and gestured us to stand to his left. Then he peered around the door, then motioned us to follow. We crept into the empty carpeted room, and I found myself scanning the room, staring hard for a pair of feet peeking under a sofa or curtains.

I suddenly felt like Inspector Clouseau from the Pink Panther. You know, the part he does every time he walks into a room.

"Lovely weather we're having," I broke the silence, faking a French accent.

"We are?"

I screamed like there was no tomorrow and swung around, eyes closed, as my saucepan made contact with something solid. The thing yelped in agony and my eyes snapped open to find one- two- three- four- five pointy things in a semi-circle, surrounding me.

And those pointy things were swords.

Christopher more or less squealed. "Who the hell are you?"

I shrieked as the victim of my almighty saucepan swing sit up, rubbing his pink cheek painfully. I stared at the guy, who looked about Christopher's age, with a lot of facial hair, dark curls that would have put Mozart's wig to shame, dressed in the most exquisite costume I've ever seen- head to toe medieval with a real sword at his belt.

I looked up and stared at the five other guys.

"Um, can you, like, remove your swords? If they're real?" I asked them, rather nervously.

They exchanged uncertain glances, then the one with the red cape nodded, and they all returned their swords to their sheaths. I guess they were real, then.

"You have quite a swing, my lady," my victim told me with a wry grin.

"Erm, thank you," I said, blushing.

"I am Arthur Castus," the Red Cape Guy said suddenly. "And these are my men. May I inquire our exact locations?"

"You're in my house," answered Christopher, beyond tense.

"Not your house, it's our house," Colette spoke up, eyeing the man on the floor. "Hi, I'm Colette," she told him, flashing him a flirty grin.

"Shut up, Dotti, we don't know who the hell these people are," I snapped, aggravated by her attitude.

"You look like the guy from Sin City," said Francesca, staring up at Red Cape Man.

I turned to her. "Sin City? Don't tell me you've watched that movie." I gave Chris an accusing glance.

"What? It's not my fault she came barging in," said Chris, exasperated. "Look, Faye, we have something way more important to deal with here. Like these people."

"Have you lost your way or something?" Colette asked the guy on the floor. "The local theatre's just a few streets down."

"Theatre?" the guy asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I mean, why else would you be wearing this weird stuff?" Colette pointed out.

"This is normal attire," insisted Red Cape Man.

I gaped. "Are you kidding me?" I turned to Chris. "Can you please go and call 911? I think we have a situation here."

"Are you mad?" squealed Colette. "The police has much more important stuff to deal with. Like catching murderers."

"How do we know if they're not murderers?" I scoffed. Then stopped short. "You aren't a murderer, are you?" I squinted at him. "You do look like the guy from Sin City."

"We are not from 'Sin City'," replied Red Cape Man, ignoring my former question. "We are from Hadrian's Wall. We were tracing certain strange noises, then we found ourselves here."

"Where the heck is this Hadrian's Wall?" asked Colette.

"Now, look man, this keeps getting off-topic. Who the heck are you? What are you doing here?" I asked, my tone serious.

Red Cape Man opened his mouth to answer, but was cut short by the shrill wails of sirens.

"Shit," commented Christopher as we watched a fire engine and a police car pull into the driveway through the windows in the room. Francesca jumped up and down, waving to the officers.

I was too busy looking smug to notice the completely bewildered looks on the guys' faces. I turned to Colette, "Who says the police are too busy catching murderers?"

Wow! A new story, a new start! This idea's been hanging around too long to be ignored, I had to type it out. So, my second attempt at a humour fiction, with a bit of romance as a side dish. This is rather long for a start, but I want to establish a strong base of my characters, I hope this is appropriate.

For my readers of Destined To Be, I'm sorry to say that I have no inspiration whatsoever for the story. I've tried to write, but I just can't get anywhere. I'll still try, but it'll probably be a long time before I can type up a decent update.

Anyway, I hope it was an interesting start! And yes, please review and tell me what you think! I'll update asap, though I can't guarantee one within this week because I'm like SO busy these few days. It's late and I have drama tomorrow, so good night! And review! )