Okay. Let’s do this.

My name is Ichigo Natsumori, but most people call me Itch. It suits me. I’ve always been a restless, twitchy type. Like I’ve always got an itch that I can’t figure out to scratch.

In a way, it’s true.

And the reason you are reading this is that people seem to think I know more about the Guardians than everyone else. It’s berserk, I can’t go anywhere, light or flesh, without people asking me a million freaky questions.

So I thought I would write this text for you so you could all get your peep at the same time and maybe I could get some freaky peace for once.

Also, I really need the money. Damfool.

So let’s see. You all know the story, I guess. I was super bored one day and decided to find out what the hell the capital G crowd did and where they went when they weren’t breaking up bar fights or stopping wars.

I ain’t the first to wonder about our sudden saviors. People have been trying to follow them and figure out what the fudge they are since they showed up seventeen…. no, eighteen years ago. All kinds of top brains got their brows all furrowed trying to figure out where they came from, what they want, what are they made of that makes them able to shrug off a nuke to the love basket, all that shit. None of them came up with a damn thing^[1]. One day there weren’t here, the next they were everywhere. And suddenly it was damn near impossible for people to hurt one another. They could yell and scream all they wanted, but if they so much as tried to throw their drink at someone, there’d be a G there to stop them.

Anyhow, I got to following this one G whom I named Chris because he reminded me of this big kid I knew in my middle grades. Great guy, Chris. Big as a house but gentle as a lamb. Never even seen him mad.

Just liked the G’s.

And for a while, it was different, but it wasn’t interesting. Sure, it was fun to keep up with him (her? it?) on my zipboard when he did that freaky running like a rampaging rhino thing, but for the most part, I just watched him get in between two hot-heads or keep some woman from attacking another woman over some damfool thing, and that got old real fast.

So to try to keep my interest up, I started making notes of this and that, and my implant sends everything to Forebrain as a default, so it starts putting things together, and the next thing I know, I got people following me around and crowding me in and
touching my board and fudge, and my lifestyle has been severely compromised.

I don’t know how many times I told people that if they wanted to know so bad, they should just ask Forebrain. But you can’t worship a public brain like in the old days any more, so I guess I am the closest thing they have to a Messiah of the Guardians, and they’re all that people worship these days, so that makes me their Jesus.

That’s all I fucking need.

Anyhow, here are the “personal observations” about the big G’s that people have been clamoring for. A lot of this is shit you probably already know, but I don’t get paid unless I meet my wordcount, so suffer.

First, the basics. They are all exactly three meters tall, two point something meters from shoulder to shoulder, and built like Hercules. They are all the exact same shade of dark neutral blue, they are all as naked and sexless as an unprogrammed holoform, and they all have black eyes with no holes in them.

Slow me down if this is getting too technical.

As far as I can tell, they are total pacifists. And I mean total. They can stop a maverick rail rocket without anyone inside even getting their ‘do wrinkled. They can make an out of control buzzhead with a busted implant become limp and meek just by looking at him. They could take a dude who had just taken a fifty story fall out of a commapt window and put him back together just by touching him and closing their eyes.

That was a bad day. You know, when I put it all together like that, I can see why people worship them.

Oh, and of course, nothing can harm them. Nothing. When I was a buzzhead teen, we liked nothing more than to start a fight to make a G show and then throw everything we could think of at it. Nothing even got a reaction, even when we poured Vas-X oil all over it and light it on fire.

So that’s the basics. Now, to correct some vacant cranium fudge that people think about it.

It’s not true that they never talk. It’s just that they only talk when necessary, and brothers and sisters, they don’t think it’s necessary very often. I followed Chris around for two days before I heard a word, and that was just “Stop. ”

Oh, and it’s not true that they beat people up in secret or torture people into confessing or any of that hot fudge. Anyone who tells you it happened to them is just pulling cred and should be met with compassionate disdain. As far as I can tell, they don’t do anything in secret, and they don’t give a damn what information you have or what you plan to do in the future.

All they seem to know or care about is what you intend to do right now, and they seem to know that without asking anyone.

As for the “powers” debate, for my part, I do think they have some kind of freaky mind powers. Not that, I care, or anything I got nothing to hide. But they are way too good at being around when the fudge is about to go down for there not to be something we can’t see going on.

And what about that healing shit? Nobody knows how they do that, either.

I guess that’s it for now. My flash-high is dying and I gotta go spend some time in Greytown.

Maybe I will do this again tomorrow.