Prompt #23 - Soul
The soul is not subjective. That’s the only line he could remember, from a long-forgotten book. He wasn’t sure why it popped into his head just then, while he was standing there holding a clipboard up against the white stone wall of the customs office, trying to sign off on a shipment. “Here you go,” he said, handing the clipboard over to the humorless arcanist. “Signed, sealed, and delivered.” “Yes.” The little Hyuran man adjusted his wire-framed glasses and accepted the board. “Thank you.” It was not the first time they’d crossed paths. The Maelstrom occasionally had cause to dig around in shipments containing more dangerous articles (technically a job for the Yellowjackets, but if they were stretched too thin...) And this seemed to be the fellow on the night shift. Darien didn’t even know his name, just knew he’d come by several times for inspections or deliveries, and this was the utterly silent man who always handed him a clipboard and a pen and waited patiently for him to finish.
He didn’t smoke (Darien had offered him a cigarette). His robes were always neat and clean. Other than adjusting his glasses, he hardly moved unless he had to. But the man must have something going on in his life. A wife, a husband. Or parents, or...friends? Maybe not. A pet, perhaps. At the bare minimum he must LIVE somewhere, and have hobbies. “Well, better get going,” Darien said. “I’m just about off duty, and there’s a concert down the Octant I’d like to catch.” Perhaps if he shared something, the man might open up. He nodded. “Good evening, Lieutenant.” Damn. Darien headed back to the barracks, got changed, and headed down to the Octant. The soul is not subjective. Everyone had some...interiority, didn’t they? It was too easy to move through your life assuming that you were the only thing that was real, that all the bodies moving past you were just empty vessels. I mean it wasn’t as if you really stopped to talk with people, most of the time. But they were just as real as himself. Even the boring ones had things they cared about. They made choices--say, to become arcanists and work at the customs office. While he was thinking, he wasn’t looking. The shoulder-to-shoulder impact sent them both spinning off course. “Oh gods, sorry...” Darien stopped, turned, but the other party was already moving on. Another empty vessel. Of course, from their perspective...he was the bit player, wasn’t he? A body moving through space. They had no reason to assume otherwise unless they stopped to talk, and how often did you really have a meaningful conversation with a total stranger? He could hear the distant strains of music from the Octant, up ahead. The crowd moved past him in either direction as he paused. Eventually he pressed forward and found a small crowd gathered around the little lawn, where a young Miqo’te girl strummed a guitar and sang. There weren’t a lot of seats, but he saw a little spot along the wall next to a woman with curly hair, chin propped on her hand. “Excuse me,” he said, “mind if I sit here?” She startled, smiled, and shook her head. “Go on, then.” He sat. They listened to the song end, and another one begin. “She’s quite good,” he said. “Isn’t she?” the woman closed her eyes. “I just love this song.” He watched the lamp-light on her face for a moment, then returned his attention to the singer. Some things you just had to take on faith.
