A Call to the Stars Something Matters by Rose Marie Travel read by Jonathan Cox.
There are a few facts you need to know about Dave. The first,
and arguably the most important one is that he works as an IT support
technician for planetary Connections. Secondly, it Dave doesn't use his last name under
any circumstance. This makes it somewhat difficult to distinguish him from HR Dave,
Marketing and Promotions Dave, and Corporate Dave. He believes that being on first
name terms with everyone gives him what the kids are definitely not calling Edge.
See him now as he exits Lifty and trudges on to floor forty two.
The employee identification lanyard around his neck, swinging sadly in time with his steps.
Note the despair dancing in his downcast, downtrodden eyes. He may have
been genuinely happy once, there's no sign of that now. The foundation of
everything Dave has known for the last two years of his existence is crumbling.
Humans are fragile, feeble things. The shadows beneath his eyes are from a
long sleepless night in which he meticulously designed his own beverage. He carries a
precariously balanced tower of packed raw gluten free doughnuts and a full jar of passion
fruit and pomegranate coffee free coffee flavored punch. Despite his obvious fatigue, Note
the barely perceptible sheen on his skin as he walks below the office's dangling strip
lights between percolating cycles. Dave made himself a skin peel mask from his ex's
lemons. After all, when life gives you lemons, why make sweet lemonade
when you can make an acidic facial treatment instead. Dave is as vitriolic,
has a citrus slice dunked in a vat of sulfuric acid. But mostly he's
just confused. It isn't that his relationship with Quinn ended badly. It's that
they didn't get the opportunity to end at all. There hadn't been a fight,
An argument might have given him something to fix. In the end,
it was like they just faded away from one another. Alas, the narrative
is getting ahead of itself. For context, let us go back before everything
went so terribly wrong. In fact, for true understanding, it's necessary to
lay the scene for a different protagonist. Altogether, it starts with a knock.
Mister Something stands up from his ergonomic office chair. He amends the elegant
winds a knot in his tie, and adjusts his Boho silk pocket. Keeping
up appearances is important in his line of work, lest anyone comes to expect
that he has anything other than a simple ceo. The last pias de resistance
a pair of Aviator classic RayBan sunglasses. Their purpose is not to keep the
light out, but to shield onlookers from glimpsing the truth behind the dark.
Tint swirls a myriad of possibilities, shimmering auroras, burning stars, the rings
of planets lit up by the light of a thousand suns. The eyes of
mortals are windows to the soul. Mister Something's are portals to the universes,
or, as many renowned experts say, universe. I come in. He
clears his throat and smiles, though not too broadly. Mister Something's smiles are
legendarily illuminating. Karen Simmons his pa enters. A smart tablet is tucked under
her arm. Usually Karen is a happy, go lucky, fibrint sort of
person, but there is no sign of that. Karen. Her eyes indicate
a darkness, one that makes mister something stand taller and take notice. Sorry
to disturb you, she apologizes, nervously, tucking a coil of her auburn
hair behind her ear. It is obviously important, he says, turning his
back to her. She nods. Your meeting with doctor Cranium has been canceled.
Apparently he forgot I've booked him in for next Tuesday. That old quack
can never keep to a schedule, ironic given that he owns this country's largest
memory clinic. The tightness in his shoulders relaxes, though I sense he is
not the reason you are wound so tight. You received another message. His
jaw clenches tight. What pray tell? Did she have to say for herself?
Karen remains silent, emphasizing the pause, then says she would like to
request your presence. His slender fingers twist into knots behind him. He gives
a small sideways nod. Thank you. You may take the rest of the
night off. In fact, he pulls a slither of platinum gold plastic out
of a pocket dimension and holds it up. Take this. Tell everyone to
go home early. It's on me. It's bad news, isn't it.
She takes the unlimited credit card from him. It is family and Karen.
She pauses her hand on the doorknob and waits for him to continue. If
things go sideways, I'll take care of it. Mister Something is eternally grateful
for Karen's discretion. He knows he can count on her. He hopes it
won't come to that, but hope when it comes to his sister is not
something that exists in abundance. The moment Karen is safely on the other side,
he clicks his fingers and the entrance disappears, as though it had never
existed in the first place. He clicks again, and the rest of the
room folds like a pack of cards. Walls, ceilings, and an extensive
collection of World's Best boss smugs implode into atoms. Then, with one final
stap, he sheds his vessel, and his true visage fills a vant to
black landscape. This is where you like to spend your time. He looks
around, disapprovingly. The void is a perfectly acceptable method for travel for ordinary
people, but that descriptor applies to neither of them. I like it.
Nothing responds from somewhere close by. The last passenger that came through here was
well seasoned, sister, he admonishes. I thought we discussed this, We
decided you would be could only consume the universe's waste products. Could you at
least try to put in the effort. Ah, I'm a cosmic entity,
a vacuum that sucks up every bit of goodness in my path. I was
made to consume to digest. Did you really think you could put me on
a diet? He lets out a long, drawn out sigh. This argument
between them has been going on forever and a day, like an EON's long
headache that he just can't shake. He is tired of the drama between them,
and bored of the unnecessary preamble? Are you going to tell me what
is going on? Or shall I extract that information out of you by force?
Can't as sister simply want to spend some quality time with her brother sisters?
Can you? On the other hand, I have come to rescue you
from your dreary, little desk job. How chivalrous of you. But my
job is neither dreary nor little. I recently won Entrepreneur of the Year.
That was quite the feather in my celestial cap. You can't be serious consorting
with mortals, absorbing all their frail human habits, presenting in that disgusting mistuite.
Look how low you've sunk. It is called being grounded, he says.
I miss the old you. This fashion is so stuffy. We used
to be bold, beautiful, big devourers of whole worlds. Your obsession with
one planet makes no sense. Earth might not seem like much to you,
but I have assimilated myself into their culture. They lie of in boundless capacity
and destroy in equal amounts. Nothing counters. They are better than us,
he says defensively. Yes, they war and they vanquish, and their politicians
are slimier than decaying frosted pickled fishcakes. But they also create and build and
unite in the face of doom. It is not all bad. There are
good people. Forget them, she begs. Come with me, Let us
join forces and coalesce once more. I have made a home for myself.
My employees are mindless apes that will continue to act moronic even without your larger
than life presence hanging around like a lump of astronomical lad I am not going
to leave, he states, simply, Are you really choosing those philistines over
your own family, She hisses. Her jealousy doesn't come as a surprise.
All powerful, all purposeful beings usually despise being told that they can't have what
they want, and his sister is no exception to that rule. It won't
belong before she inevitably throws her metaphysical rattle out of the interdimensional pram. I
miss being by your side. But it just seems that every time there's a
fork in the road, you choose the wrong path. I err on the
side of life. You are on the side of demolition. If I can't
have you, jealousy drips like venom from her words, then no one can.
Suddenly there is silence, Suddenly nothing isn't there. Suddenly something is happening.
And so that is how two ancient cosmic beings enter into battle, driven
by hate and love. No different from people in that respect, except they
aren't people in every other respect. Perhaps if they were, they could have
talked it out over a nice glass of Pinot noir. Instead, they continue
to draw closer to the realm that long ago stole mister Something's fabricated heart.
Blood is thicker than water. Something has more substance than nothing, and yet
one can't exist without the other. Further and further they spiral light and absence
of light, and twining like two great serpents, constructing binding, until they
collide. The office rematerializes, and to something lands with a catastrophic clatter.
The air is knocked out of his chest. His lungs burn furiously beneath batted
and bruised ribs, and he spits out blood that shines irridescent with starlight.
It will take weeks of intensive cleaning to get out the glow. He stands
up and wipes the fluid off his chin, groaning with demonstrative displeasure. His
sister's laughter is tauntingly near, but he cannot pinpoint its exact location. Here
her lack of form is even more obvious. She thinks it is an advantage,
but it is not. His eyes dart around the room, and he
waits for an opportunity to present itself. Remind me again, why you cling
onto existence? She asks, Because I can, he responds, calmly.
Seems a mighty stupid reason, Maybe, he agrees, Probably life hurts you,
she remarks, yes, sometimes quite deeply. Then why she asks again?
Her persistence is biting. He feels her attempts to borrow doubts into his
head. She is playing a game with him, and he can see the
cards she has in her deck clearly. Now she is frightened, spiraling out
of control. He cannot pinpoint the source of her fear. However, because
pain isn't forever, and something is better than nothing, he says, biding
his time as he conjures a plan to put his sister back in her rightful
place. On that topic, we will never agree. The desk draws rattle.
Mister Something purposefully feigns ignorance and looks in the other direction, toward the
door. He lapses in to silence. This only frustrates her. She begins
to shout at him. Her wrath causes the room to shake. The path
you have chosen is finite. You will see the truth and wish you chose
differently, but by then it will be too late. Leave with me.
Now, I beg you, brother peace. This gives him pause for thought.
It is true that when he chose this form, he also chose a
mortal existence. Granted, he does not grow old in the same way humans
do, but there will come a time when he will perish. Death does
not discriminate all that is. Flesh fades to dust. It is how it
is meant to be. And it is a fate that he has come to
terms with. His sister's truth do not match his own, and yet he
feels deeply sorry for her. I understand, he says, his voice softer
now that he knows what his sister is suffering from. Anticipatory grief is a
volatile beast, and it appears his sister is locked deep into its jaws,
so very tight that she cannot appreciate his current presence. You understand precisely nothing.
She disagrees. You're scared, he says, slowly, all too aware
of the treacherous territory stretching between them. The drawer to his desk begins to
slide open, and this time his sister is difficult to ignore. It is
easy to see why your mortal senses must be failing you. I have not
yet lost my faculties. My third eye still sees sees what she scoffs scornfully.
Mister Something has a third orb in the center of his forehead. The
nature of the ocular oval is a mystery. With it, he sees that
which isn't beyond the corporeal and the tangible. And usually it is that ability
that allows him to look upon his sister. This eve, he had not
been able to see her as clearly as previous times, for his vision was
made blurry not by hate but by love. But now, as his breathing
slows and he reaches deep within himself to a place where he does not wish
to go, but simply must, the mist clears, and there in the
periphery of the solid world is nothing befalls him once more. But this time
his sister is quiet too, perhaps sensing and knowing that she is seen in
every possible way. He approaches her carefully and reaches out his arms as though
moving to embrace her, even though such a touch isn't truly possible. She
evaporates away from his attempt to connect a swirling cloud of somber smoke. With
a heavy sigh, he breaks the suffocating soundlessness, trying a different tact.
An eternal entity such as you are has no need to be afraid of the
corrosive tides of time. You do not fear the sweeping tsunami of death.
You exist far above the highest wave. It is the aftermath that scares you,
the ceaselessness of life. There will come a day when you are truly
alone, and you will long to feel the water filled your lungs, but
such relief will never find you. It is perhaps with no great surprise that
these words did not evoke a happy response. I'll destroy everything you hold,
dear, then we'll see you scared. Nothing seeps into the drawer and her
visage begins to enter a mobile phone that is hidden amongst a variety of other
treasured curiosities. It is a crude and bulky thing, one of the very
first products to have been sold by planetary connections. Mister Something has kept it
purely for its sentimental value. Though it is not a sleek smartphone, it
is also not completely archaic, and it still has direct access to the Internet.
He flushes with horror as he realizes what his sister plans to do.
The World Wide Web is a link to every vein in the world, and
she intends to infect the bloodstream with herself, much like bacteria entering a vulnerable
wound. Should that happen, the ripples of emptiness would leave no one untouched,
and the people he had grown to admire would fall even further into artificial
misery, where nothing is real and all authenticity is lost. And perhaps that
is where the people are all heading to anyway, But surely they deserved a
chance to break free from falsehoods and live out their natural truths. Mister something
lunges forward. There is a chant on his lips, words that hold shapes
that do not belong in the standard English alphabet, or any alphabet on record
for that matter. His incantation isn't powerful enough to stop her entirely, but
she has knocked off course, away from the phone and into a newer product
that is still in beta phase of testing, a watch that isn't good for
much else than telling the time. You can't control me, The timepiece rattles
as she screams no, but I can contain you. He clasps his hand
tight around the digital face to stop the erratic movements, and he murmurs one
last damning edict, effectively stealing off her exit for good. Perhaps you can
become better in this form, he says, sadly. At least you can
do no harm. Not like this. I hate you, hisses the sister
watch. The screen glares read with un matched rage. Mister Something's heart is
torn asunder as he sees all now and views the lie for what it is.
Without a word, He places the enraged watch in the drawer, and
then he locks it for good measure. As he leaves the office, he
cries silent star dust. His tears fill the sky that night and form constellations
that will baffle astronomers for centuries to come. Dave and Quinn lay embraced in
a field, far away from the bustling city, gazing up at a canvas
of bluish black and jewels of white light. Unbeknownst to them, the stars
above are not the ordinary sort. Quinn asks a question, then, quite
out of the blue. Do you think there's something more than this than what
Dave asks, than us right here, right now, this place, this
time. Ah, that's a question and a half. Dave muses, then
links his hand with Quinn's and squeezes tight. Ah. I don't know about
all that, but I'm happy with you right here, right now. That's
all that matters, Right right, Quinn says, But it sounds more like
right right, Dave affirms, almost to reassure himself that there's truth in what
he said. A phone rings, then, interrupting the sudden, unexpected tension.
Quinn goes to answer. Dave knows who the caller is. He doesn't
have to see the caller. I d don't, he begs. If I
don't answer, I'm pretty sure we'll both get fired. It's our night off.
Dave tries to protest, but Quinn's already swiping the green phone symbol.
The voice on the other end is as deep as thunder and as smooth as
liquid gold. Instructions are given, Quinn nods, the call ends. The
atmosphere shifts. I've been called in unbelievable. Dave scoffs. I know,
Quinn says, and Dave aches because he knows. Two. If it's that
important, I'm coming too. There's no need, Just drop me off and
head home. Dave blinks, barely suppressing his hurt. Don't you want me
there? Quinn's lips grow thin and worried. I was told to come alone.
You know how the boss is? Yes, Dave knows. Not wanting
to add to Quinn's stress, he relents, all right, let's get packed
up. There are no words, but Dave hears the thank you anyway still
as they dismantle the tent behind them and pack away their camping supplies. The
moment, he thinks tastes bitter sweet. He clings onto it all the same.
Then they drive away from the countryside, and Quinn practically darts from the
car, and Dave can't shake the feeling that he's missed something. The next
time they see each other, that something seems to have grown exponentially. Quinn
becomes more insular and is obsessed with a new bitter phase product, the Cosmic
three thousand smart watch. Quinn seems unnervingly attached and even takes to sleeping with
the strange little watch that doesn't feel like a wash at all, because watches
are cold matter halleck things, and this one is warm, occasionally glows red,
and has a suspicious habit of whispering. Sometimes Dave catches Quinn whispering back
whenever he tries to bring the topic up. The conversation changes direction, and
with each new flowing subject, Dave observes a change in Quinn too. It's
disquieting. The morning Quinn leaves, Dave awakes to the familiar cuckoo of the
resident woodpigeon outside their window. He rolls over in their bed, only to
find an empty space in place of Quinn and their lime patterned bedding, empty
and lukewarm. Then the less familiar thump of packed belongings crashing against creaking floorboards.
He rushes to their landing staircase, just in time to see Quinn pick
up a bulging canvas travel bag that weeks before they had shared during their prematurely
canceled camping trip. Their matching recycled cotton socks and pajamas no longer neatly pressed
together, but separated by space, too much of it. Leaning over the
railing, A hurricon of questions wells frantically in his chest, but the storm
sticks in his throat. Quinn picks up the fallen bag and looks up with
a small, sad smile, eyes distant, foggy like an overcast day.
Quinn's expression is off, like it isn't Quinn at all, but someone who
was wearing a mask that is morphed somewhere between the person he loves and something
far more insidious. Goodbye, Dave, Quinn says, voice hollow, saying
everything whilst saying nothing at all. Wait. Dave calls after Quinn, but
by the time he runs down their stairs and reaches the door, there's nothing
of them left, just the eerie quiet in the two big hallway and the
surreal loudness of countless unanswered questions. But then something brushes against Dave's barefoot.
A singular lemon swivels across the cherrywood floor. It must have fallen out of
the bag in Quinn's hurry to leave. He picks it up and clasps his
palm around the cheerful yellow fruit. His heart empty, his world turned inwards,
He stares at the speckled rind and sees fond memories and lost opportunities in
each indent. He vows to savor every last droplet. The next bit is
reminiscent of a dream. The images are just out of reach, swimming under
the surface. He knows there is a scream, or at least he thinks
there is. At first, the shrill, sharp cry of desperation only haunts
him during his sleeping hours, but increasingly its echo has begun reverberating through his
waking ones too, Only he can't remember who screamed or why. A kaleidoscope
of color and shifting fractal patterns bleed into his memory. Every time he gets
close to ripping away the veil, the light burns, the pigmentations explode like
a warning shot, and his mind scuttles back to a place and time when
pain wasn't a constant, gnawing knot in his throat, his stomach, his
everything in the present. Dave blinks away the damp, prickling sensation in his
eyes and tries to project indifference. Floor forty two appears to be unremarkable.
It is designed to look like a stereotypical open plan office. No one questions
why there are only forty one windows from outside of the building, or why
the lift never seems to stop at any of them. Of course, as
so often is the way, the place is of no importance. The location
could morph into a mansion the same way a caterpillar turns from a chrysalis to
a butterfly, and it really could do so, but it would be no
more worthy of an eye bat than in its current state. Whilst the office's
physical manifestation is a very little note, the same can't be said of the
people. Each employee is a receptacle, their eyes glazed windows, their lips
moving to the tug of a ventriloquist's masterful string pulling. Whilst they attend their
desks under the illusion of selling over priced tat to customers and bargaining with stockbrokers
to secure lucrative deals for the company. Their fingers fly across their keyboards,
typing downwards that do not belong to them. Although they are perhaps aware on
some level, albeit not on a conscious one, they are all pawns in
somebody else's egotistical game. But lately Dave seems to have transcended his usual state.
He moves past rows of desks with agency. His colleagues momentarily look up,
dazed and drowning beneath an ocean of lies. There is still some light
flickering from within them, but it is a diminishing candle in comparison to the
rich embers roaring within Dave. He used to be one of them, but
now he is other. As Dave blusters past rows of desks, his colleagues
suddenly seem invested in piles of procrastinated paperwork. Dave grins outwardly, although he
appears oblivious to the way their eyes don't quite meet his. His head is
a swarm with spatulas slathered in thick yellow lemon paste. He imagines bittersweet flesh
biting torment, because anything is better than the furtive looks and the gossiping whispers
and the burning, pulsing prism of light in his head. Grief may come
in stages, but no one ever tells you that it's possible to experience all
of them at the same time. Dave feels every stage bar acceptance. He
doesn't imagine he'll ever feel that. He at least finds some comfort in the
other Daves. In this particular universe, there are so many Daves that there
is an office union dedicated especially to them. This has resulted in a camera
uddery like no other. After all, it takes one to no one.
Hi, Dave, Dave Pritchard greets with embracing warmth. Hey yourself, Dave,
I te Dave greets back his fake smile, threatening to turn into a
real one, but not quite. To avoid confusion and to prevent the focus
from being taken away from the most important Dave in the story, Prichard and
all the other Daves will be referred to by last name following their introductions.
Prichard is planetary connections marketing and promotions Guru, You may presume that someone in
his line of work would prefer to live the high life. Marketing is all
about selling stories, after all, But Pritchard is a prime example of not
judging a book by its tatty cover. His casual Fridays are also casual Mondays,
Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. Given a choice, he opts for well
worn tank tops and jogger bottoms over snazzy suits that have been woven out of
alpaca wool under a golden sky next to a mauve vineyard in Italy. Unlike
our Dave, who is fond of the finer things in life, I t
Dave places the fruit punch and tupperware packed doughnut tower on the cluttered kitchen counter.
These look fantastic, Prichard says, and reaches over, looking hopeful.
Go ahead, Dave nods, They're just a little something I knocked up last
night. I thought i'd make the most out of my leaf. Pritchard doesn't
need to be told twice. He unlatches the lid off one box, snatches
a doughnut, and pours the drink into his favorite off white chipped cup,
you know. He bites into the doughy circle and takes a thoughtful gulp.
It just hasn't been the same here without you, mate, Everything fell apart,
did it? Dave jokes, though his birds lack all trace of humor.
He gestures to the general office area because it seems to me things are
running smoother than ever. Don't talk like that. This place needs you.
Pritchard moves closer and grabs Dave's shoulder in a show of friendly solidarity. How
are you holding up? I'm not Dave thinks he wants to say things like
I'm not sleeping and everything is too much. I can't stop thinking about Quinn
or that scream or the red hot lights on the way the colors dance and
burn and bleed. But he says none of this, thanks to outdated,
archaic and quite frankly prehistoric social codes. Instead, he gives a nonchalant shrug
and says, not too bad you. The hand around his shoulder eases its
grip and Pritchard, let's go all good, but you should go see hr
Dave. Something's up, something techy, Dave asks, hopefully he can do.
Techi machines are easy to fix. There isn't a computer problem that is
beyond Dave's expertise and capability. Sometimes he thinks life might be easier if he
were one himself. I heard him threaten to throw his monitor off the roof,
so what a guess? Yeah? Right? Then he turns to Leaf,
I better go see what all the fuss is about. He thinks his
deflecting technique has successfully done its job, but before he can get far,
Prichard stops him dead in his tracks. It isn't the same without Queen either,
Prichard says. Dave doesn't know how to respond to that remark, so
he glances back and wordlessly nods, swallows thickly around an unbearable lump. He
can't resolve the ache beneath his rib cage, but at least he can make
someone else's day moderately less miserable. He goes in search of HR. Dave
Mormons to fix one of the few things in his control. He discovers the
head of HR taking a power nap in the part of the office known as
the corner where careers go to crash and burn. Dave Page is splayed out
across a giant beanbag sofa bed like a starfish. Come to think of it,
I Dave can barely remember a time when he's actually seen Page do anything
that remotely looks like work with him at the helm. It's a wonder that
the company hasn't gone into administration years ago. Dave nudges the bean bag and
Paige sits up, suddenly quite animated. I heard you are having issues,
he inquires, eyebrows arching quizzically. AH, I'd almost given up hope.
Page stands up and, with dramatic flare, saunters over to his desk.
Whi's the problem, Dave asks, as Page sits down and scooches forward.
This thing had a meltdown. Page bangs the side of the monitor, And
now I appear to have lost all of the resource files. Ah, don't
you worry. I'll find them in the jiffy. Dave gets to work,
and with a few clicks and scrolls, he locates the misplaced file, but
not before he finds something else. The pallor of his skin fades to the
same shade as the gray keyboard. Can't you find it, Page groans,
exasperated, that's half my job down the train. No I found it,
He swallows, around, the tightness forming in his throat. It was right
next to our four retired, redundant and replaced. Oh of course, how
daft of me. I'm so sorry, Dave. I didn't mean to waste
your time. Ah, you didn't, Dave. It's my job. These
files here? Are they all Freks employees? Yes they are. Why are
there any notes on why they left? Some have notes as some don't.
It depends on whether they attended an exit interview or not. Right, okay,
thanks. Suspicions starts to form, sowing seeds beneath his skin, germinating
in his mind, blooming like great, big flowers made from doubt. His
gaze furtively flits to the main office, and he recalls the cause of Quinn's
strange behavior, and he suspects, and he wonders what kind of person is
he really working for? The storm of questions is back, and this time
he refuses to choke. He finds courage and is bolstered enough to make a
move that to most is utterly unthinkable. He leaves behind a baffled page,
marches up to a grandio doorway, and lifts his hand to knock, but
before his clenched fist can so much as tap the wood. The door swings
open. He is expected. It's dark inside, and there is an air
of wrongness that clings to the atmosphere. His confidence almost fails him, but
a silky, musical baritone beckons, and he follows its lyrical command to close
the door. You are letting in a dreadful draft. Sorry, sir,
The old fashioned title rolls off his tongue as he crosses the forbidden threshold.
Referring to anyone else as such would be cringeworthy, especially to a man who
revels in calling everyone by their first name. But the foreboding figure on the
other side of the room seems to demand reverence. Dave feels very small.
He wants to cower, but there is nowhere to go. The door shuts
behind him with a click of finality. You are a good employee, Dave,
Mister something says, as his shoulders slump into a posture that signals defeat.
Beneath the dimly lit office lights, Dave sees him swirling a glass of
dark brown liquor, not drinking the beverage, but simply staring down into it
from behind his sunglasses, searching for clarity beyond the murky surface. Thank you.
His thanks sounds more like a question than a statement. I have not
been a good employer. No, this time, Dave agrees wholeheartedly, and
he feels bold and brave once more. You've been doing an awful job lately.
You are honest. You have no idea how much this pleases me.
How so? Dave blinks in surprise. He thinks it's a miracle he hasn't
been axed on the spot. I need someone I can trust to do what
Dave asks. I thought I could change it for the better, but I
could not, and now something terrible has happened. What's happened? Dave sees
red crimsons and burgundies and blotches of raging ruby. The accompanying pain is debilitating.
He's held under an ocean of million for what seems like ours but could
only possibly be minutes. And by the time he breaks through the surface,
gasping, mister, something is staring at him expectantly. His boss is holding
out a watch, but not any watch, oh no, Dave recognizes it
the Cosmics smart watch, the very source of Quinn's madness. There's a stone
in his stomach and lead in his chest. As he takes the offering,
he stares at it with equal hatred and longing. Well can you, mister
Something asks impatiently, Can I what? Dave asks, dumbfounded he'd zoned out
from the conversation. Find a way to reprogram the watch from within? He
thinks about it, then knots again. This is a techy issue, and
he would find a solution, even if it would bring no real peace to
the ache in his hollow heart. I think I can, he says,
you think? Or you can? I can with some time, I think.
Don't take too long. This product must be handled with utmost care.
Do you understand? Dave nods. He thinks he does mostly, but there's
still a matter in which he simply can't comprehend, and no matter how foolish
he knows it to be, he cannot help. But ask, do you
know what happened to Quinn? Quinn has taken leave? I am sorry for
what it is worth. I know the two of you were close. It
makes you wonder, doesn't it, what a person like Quinn could possibly need
leave from? Mister Something lifts the glass in his hand and SIPs languidly.
Dave knows he is being dismissed, but one last surge of foolish bravery urges
him to say, and you're right, Your sorry doesn't mean a thing.
When he emerges from the office, unbelievably still in one piece, he's met
with cheers of bravado and awe. Page walks up to him, utterly gobsmacked.
He if I do, Dave allows a small smile. I was beginning
to think I'd seen the end of you. I'd have had to walk out
of there eventually. There's only one door. Some people don't. Don't be
ridiculous, of course they do. Where else are they going to go?
Paige shrugs, don't know. Sometimes it's kind of like they just fall off
the face of the earth. I've seen people go into that office before and
they don't come out again, at least not whilst I'm on shift. You're
the first I've ever seen walk away. Dave is appalled. And you don't
find that suspicious? Your head of agehah? Who am I to question the
order of things? Who are any of us? Right? Dave says glumly.
I'm going home before your shift is ended. Paige gives him a quizzical
look. I'm sick. It's not a complete lie. He is sick,
just not in b Oh. Now that you mention it, you do look
awful. Page remarks go on, then I won't market in your file.
Dave nods appreciatively and leaves for lift D. He is completely despondent. On
his way down. He passes through reception, doesn't bother to sign out,
and steps into a segment of the revolving door that leads to the city.
When he next registers awareness, he is in the midst of a deep concrete
labyrinth. He doesn't pick up his car where it is waiting for him in
the multi store building on the opposite side of the road. Instead, he
walks. The wind is bitingly bitter, and he isn't wearing a coat,
but he does not feel its teeth on his skin, and when the sky
opens and hailstones pelt against his flushed cheeks, he doesn't flinch. A stag
do party shout in disorderly prize and run for shelter, But their boisterous voices
sound distant, and he is disconnected from the sharp sensations they are experiencing.
He feels nothing. The absence continues long after he finds himself back inside familial
walls, drenched to skin and bone. All he has now is the work
and the voice burning deep in his pocket, his very own anti giminy cricket.
He is following his boss's orders to an extent, but instead of fixing
the watch, he's working on a way to unleash the malevolent programming, to
harness its power and extend it beyond the limitations it had within the Watcher's form.
It's okay, the familiar voice whispers, You're doing the right thing.
The voice is a new addition to his madness. The more he tries to
suppress it or pass it off as a figment of grief and juced imagination,
the more present it is, like a worm burrowing deeper into his brain,
persistent in its mission to drive him to the brink of oblivion. You've got
it the wrong way round, Dave. You're not losing the plot. It's
the world that has gone mad. That's how he knows that this must be
nothing more than an elaborate trick of a mind, and a cruel one at
that. Quinn is inside his headspace, and worst of all, even though
he knows it can't be real, he hasn't the heart to host an eviction,
so he carries on as normal and not as though he is playing host
to a ghost. But that isn't so easily done, not when said ghost
is so very determined to haunt his every waking and sleeping moment. And then,
just as he thinks that he can't take any more, two simple words
push him over the edge. He is too empty to care about his unraveling
mental state, and too despairing to ignore such provocation. You've forgotten, yes,
But what Dave muses, because for the longest time, it's felt like
he's been missing something significant, a piece of the story, a snapshot of
time, a redacted memory. But such thinking rewards him only with red painted
pain. He hisses and presses two fingers against the bridge of his nose,
pinches hard, and rides out the latest wave lies, so many lies,
all of them designed to control you and your perception of reality. Let me
lift the veil, show you what's been kept from you. Then you'll understand,
you'll know why I had to die, and you'll know what you must
do. Dave's tinkering hands come to a standstill. He stares down at the
watch a dangerous storm brewing in his eyes, the last shred of hope and
chance of redemption torn away, leaving him raw. Quinn had been alive,
at least in his mind. He had not allowed himself to believe the worst,
even if he had deep down suspected it. Show me, I need
to know, he says, quickly, before he can talk himself out of
making such a request. So the watch does. The layers of the universe
shed away like snakeskin. The pain is excruciating. He comes a past two
as a crash. He reels an agony and collapses to the floor like a
leaf that has been carried away by an uns current of the wind, helpless
and powerless, being pushed further and further toward the unknown. But then the
pain subsides, and he sees, and he knows, and he remembers.
The red mist clears and is replaced by a shadowy street not far from his
home. Dave is now outside of himself, suspended in air, watching as
a scene plays out below him. Mister Something steps out of the murky bleak
beneath the amber glow of the street lamp. He makes a formidable figure.
He speaks, his tone pressed with urgency. She has taken hold of you.
I see now I made a grave mistake. He extends a slender hand
out give her back. You will not receive any repercussions for failing. The
t ask I sent you, or I've ever wanted, was to be part
of something bigger. It is Quinn that responds to his request. My sister
is a merchant of lies. Whatever she has said, I assure you that
her promises hold very little weight. You must cast her influence aside. I
will find another way. She's shown me things I couldn't have dreamed were possible,
all of which she cannot touch, nor feel, nor truly experience.
She is nothing. She is also my problem. This need not concern you
anymore. Let go. I don't know how, but you must before she
empties you out and makes a husk of you. It's too late for that,
Quinn laughs, dryly, no humor present. There is much joy still
to be found, much life to be lived. Quinn's head shakes. I've
just walked away from everything that matters, because nothing matters. I can't be
stopped, though I'd like to see you try. I will not allow this
pantomine to continue. Mister Something extends a slender hand towards Quinn and receives very
little resistance. Quinn just stands there, as though accepting some unspoken fate.
Then, out of the shadows appears a stupefied man with a familiar yet inverted
face, gorping at the scene of his love and his boss, ensnared in
a dark and dangerous interaction that he can't even begin to fathom. There you
are, says the watch. You've arrived, just not in time. It's
an unnatural thing seeing yourself from an outside perspective and present. Dave, floating
bodiless above, feels queasy as he watches, unable to interfere or even remember
the role he had played. Mister Something's finger tips connect with flesh, and
Quinn stumbles forward, body swaying expressionless. His hand steps back, and he
stares in dread, as though he had not been expecting such a reaction.
Quinn's pocket begins to glow and angry red. The violent shade spreads and spreads
and spreads, until Quinn is outlined by the ghoulish light. Dave's former self
makes himself known, charging forward with a shout of his lover's name, but
he isn't quick enough. Quinn goes boneless as a glove that has been removed
from a hand, and collapses. Wait, mister, something warns, but
Dave doesn't listen. He falls to his knees and gathers Quinn in his arms,
and a keening wail tears from his throat, and as the anguish consumes
him and his soul splinters in such a way it will never be the same
again. Read encompasses all do you see now? Yes, Dave whispers brokenly.
But what happened to you after that? How did you come to be
inside the watch? He trapped me inside here? But it is okay.
You can fix this, You know what to do. Thoughts that do not
belong to him are projected deeply into his psyche, Promises of peace if he
lets emptiness wash the world clean. Quinn pressed in his arms once more,
his grief but a small blip in a larger, richer tapestry. I do,
Dave confirms when he awakes in his own home. His rage is as
hot and as pure as soldering iron, and he welds himself to it because
anger seems so much more appealing than unending nothingness, and because he is not
alone. Mister Something looms over Dave, frowning, mouth twisted with displeasure,
you, Dave cries, Scrambling to his feet, He takes several steps back,
placing as much distance as he can between them as possible, which she
isn't that far. His boss is on one side of him, and his
back is pressed against the sofa. What are you doing here, mister Something
reaches towards Dave. Don't touch me. He blindly fumbles until his hands find
the coiled springs of a table lamp behind him, and he lifts it like
a great weapon, despite it being novelty, lemon shaped and not at all
threatening to a being like mister Something. I do not wish to harm you.
Liar, you killed Quinn. You are not seeing the situation with clarity.
You are shown a story, but not the ending, and the narrase
heir is not all that reliable, and you are Dave asked, skeptically,
eyes narrowing. I did not think you would believe me. But there are
three sides to a story. Always there is your truth, my truth,
and then there are the truths that live within the ones we love. What
is truth, after all, but a subjective lens. Dave blinks, brow
furrowing. I am sorry. Perhaps it would help if I showed you.
It is rather hard to summarize in words alone. One must have faith,
and yours has been squeezed out of you. I've already shown you everything you
need to know. Don't listen to him. See his eyes what as they
hide? His trickster lies. Mister Something appears to see through him, right
down to Dave's fractured insides. He tilts his head, assessing. I know
how confusing this must all seem. But the voice you are hearing is hollow.
The creature inside the watch is my sister. She is devious and she
will not stop until she gets what she wants. And what she wants I
fear will bring devastation to all. I imagine she made you a very tempting
offer. Dave nods, then thinks of his pain ending, and he wants
nothing more than to accept. But he hasn't yet because things aren't adding up,
and his techy mind is in desperate need of a solution that makes sense.
Here. I will not touch you, but you will need to put
these on. Mister Something gives Dave a pair of glasses, not too dissimilar
to one's he wears, and though the quin watch protests loudly and insistently,
Dave takes them. It's not sunny, he says, but puts on the
glasses anyway. He is plunged into a darkness that surprisingly soothes his frazzled nerves.
There are many suns inside me, mister. Something slides his own glasses
away, and the burst of light that exudes from his eyes is the most
beautiful and baffling thing Dave has ever witnessed, and had he not had protection
from its intense radiance, he might have spontaneously combusted. But he is safe.
And what's more, he feels again, and not just an abyss within
himself, but the deep, pulsing possibility of joy. A blazing sphere oats
toward him, or he toward it. He doesn't know which, for his
feet don't budge, but he's definitely closer to the luminous ball. Waves of
heat roll off of it and lap at the space around him, like a
tropical ocean caressing a waiting shoreline. The shape begins to change until it's one
he knows well, and he longs to embrace and hold onto it. He
half expects to be burnt to cinders when he makes contact, but something about
the glasses protects him, perhaps magic, or a cosmic force, or something
else he doesn't care to understand. He holds onto the bright outline of his
loved one, hardly daring to believe. Is it really you? Dave asks?
Where is this another trick? I'm here? Quinn assures him, No
tricks? How where? Quinn sighs sadly. Nothing is the how? Something
is the where? I don't understand. Do you remember our camping trip?
Dave not? How could he forget what you said that night? You were
right about what he asks, being happy in the there and then that's what
matters. I couldn't see it. Oh. Dave is disheartened by such a
confession. He feels utterly inadequate. I realized it in the end, but
by that point I'd been too badly manipulated the watch. I tried to fight
it, but she wouldn't loosen her grip. I was too weak, and
I died because of that. Dave caress's Quinn's sunlit cheeks. But how are
you here? You still haven't explained that, mister. Something saved me.
It was too late for my body, but he absorbed my essence. Dave
shivers in revulsion. It isn't as bad as it sounds. I think this
place is some sort of multidimensional nirvana. In a way, I was right
too. There is more out there than we can possibly know. I can't
stay here, can I? An unseen force is tugging him backward, as
though in answer, life is an adventure. Quinn says, yours isn't over
yet. I don't want to leave. I'll be waiting if you still want
me, but I won't be if you give into nothing. Promise me that
you won't. I swear it. He pressed his lips to Quinn's, sealing
the promise with a kiss. Then he is dragged away and his love is
left behind. Shrinking from the size of a sun to the smallest speck of
starlight, Dave is reborn, transformed beyond the reach of the orchestrator of lies.
He is shocked with himself that he had almost ended everything, had almost
given into the absence that had grown roots in his heart. Mister something has
replaced his glasses once more and is staring behind the dark surface, waiting for
Dave to take action, watching to see which side he chooses. The watch
fills Dave's headspace with screams. But her mistruths mean nothing. He hears how
truly empty they are. Dave will not break his promise. He will atone
for his mistakes. He reaches for a screwdriver. After all, there isn't
a technical problem that he can't solve, and that's all nothing is to him
now. Later, when the task is done, nothing is removed like a
cancer cell, and mister Something has spirited them both back to floor forty two,
where all the trouble began. Dave apologizes profusely. He can see the
pain on the ageless features of his boss and recognizes the distinct emotion no different
from his own feelings about Quinn. To lose a love of any kind is
never easy. Mister Something waves a hand dismissively, and Dave swallows down another
Sorry, you were stronger than me. I didn't know how to let go.
I don't know that I ever truly will. Grief isn't linear, which
is fitting as neither am I. Mister Something swallows hard to hide his pain,
and Quinn safe, happy, free from mortal pains. I can't go
back, can I forward only I'm afraid, at least until it is your
time what you plan on doing with me. The world stands on a knife
edge every day. The pendulum swings from good to bad every hour. We
are on the brink of oblivion. I think there has been enough bad for
one day, don't you? Dave Nods? You wiped my memory before,
didn't you. It isn't really a question. He knows it to be true,
as he can see that mister Something is a kind soul beneath his intimidating
exterior. And whilst he was not perfect, many errors had been made.
He had tried his best to protect his employees. I didn't do a good
job of it. Quinn was a thorn in the wound, preventing you from
healing fully. But if you got rid of Quinn too, that could work,
and then there would be no more pain. I can make no promises.
Human consciousness has a way of clinging onto memory, but you can try
if that's what you want. Mister Something nods and offers him a kind,
closed lip smile. I'm strangely at peace with it. Seeing Quinn happy it
made me happy. But I think that knowledge would start to get to me
after a while. Okay, if you are certain, I am. He
knows that if he doesn't make this choice now, he will forever live in
the shadow of his lost love. At least by doing this, he knows
he will be stepping into the light and there will be something waiting for him
on the other side. Close your eyes, then, Dave, sure thing.
Thank you, Dave, how did you know? Mister Something, questions,
eyebrows raising in surprise. I do not exactly broadcast the name I chose
for myself. It takes a Dave to no one, he says in mirth,
and closes his eyes. He is ready. Carpet softened footsteps approach,
and mister Something's gentle hands cradle Dave's head, fingers pressing against his temple.
There's a tingling sensation. It doesn't hurt. There's almost a pleasant quality to
it. His memories slip away, piece by piece until only one lemon sized
wedge remains. Bitter sweet. Indeed, that was a call to the stars.
Something Matters. Written by Rose Marie Drabble, read by Jonathan Coxe