“What’s it like?”
He laughed at the question. It was more of a chuckle, really. Deep, resonant, tinged with something like longing or regret, but short. First time I’d heard him laugh—ever. It was also the only indication that he knew I was even there. No hello, no response when I mentioned the others, nothing. He just kept staring at his hands; he hadn’t taken his eyes off them since I’d gotten there five minutes before, not even to blink.
His fingers were in constant motion, each one at a different speed, all in different directions. Occasionally, they’d contort in ways they had no business contorting, the acute popping of joints coming in loud and clear through the intercom on his side of the window between us. Every time, I’d reflexively look up at him for a reaction, any semblance of pain—but his blank expression never changed and his focus never shifted. All he did was watch. I couldn’t help but wonder if he saw hands at all.
Impatient, I tapped my own fingers on the metal table in front of me. “Hey. Jackass.”
“I’m thinking,” he whispered, lips parting just wide enough to utter the words before freezing in place again. I could barely hear him over the florescents.
Finally. Progress. “Yeah, well,” I started, glancing at my phone’s ambient display. Seven past six. “They’re only giving us half an hour today, so think faster. Look, I don’t need some philosophical bullshit this time. Just answer the question with whatever comes to—”
“Mind if I smoke?” His gaze darted to the half-spent pack of Camels on the tabletop as soon as the words flew out—and just like that, as if snapped out of a trance, he was himself again. With a roll of his shoulders, he plucked a cigarette from the pack in one fluid motion and slipped it into his mouth. I could see a tension that wasn’t there before fall away from him in waves, even before he struck a match—the last in the book—to complete the ritual by fire. Only after he took that first long drag did he look up to the glass, and it was then that I could see with absolute clarity that whatever unblinking, finger-twisting thing had crept into his mind had inexplicably crept back out—at least for the time being. All that was left was the man I knew.
He looked so tired.
“Sure. Be my guest,” I said, deadpan.
“Pardon my asking, but you were an addict, right?” He ignored the sarcasm. It sounded more like a statement than a question.
“My mother died of lung cancer,” I exhaled, deflating into my folding chair. “I don’t smoke.”
“Never said cigarettes.” He smirked. It was the tiniest gesture, a twitch, but I’d swear the corner of his mouth raised for a fraction of a second. Smug bastard, even as a Sleepwalker.
“What about my face screams addict?”
He shrugged and tapped his cigarette over a glass, the ashes mingling with what little remained of some dark-brown liquid not yet dried. “I hear things. So?”
I let the question hang. He was right; I was no stranger to addiction, and not so far removed from it that it didn’t remain a sore spot. We all handle grief in different ways. But I wasn’t about to tell him that, no matter what the hell he heard.
“I ask,” he continued, “because you asked. You want to know what it’s like, being this connected? I can only think to describe it as an addict would, and it takes an addict to understand—current or otherwise. So what’ll it be, Ms. Riley?”
He eased back into his chair, blowing smoke skyward. “Will I be wasting my time?”
“Feels like I’m wasting mine,” I mumbled. Despite myself, I gestured for him to continue.
“Control,” he began between drags. “It’s always about control. At first, it’s about the absence of it, the need for it. Sometimes, people want to drink, or smoke, or shoot up, sleep around—whatever—because they so badly want the freedom to make their own bad choices.” He punctuated every other sentence with a silence just long enough to expel the poison from his lungs. “‘I’m ruining my life because I want to, not because it’s in the cards, not because sometimes bad shit just happens.’ It’s an unrivaled, unwavering propensity for self-destruction.
“But other times, it’s something much more basic, more primal—it’s a craving for some feeling or emotion, something that you’ve been starving for. Starved of. So what do you do? You look for it, in alcohol, in pills, in sex, anything that makes you feel again. Before long, it’s the only thing that does. That’s when you’re screwed. This thing, whatever it is, becomes the most important thing in the world. You build your day around it. You think about it when you lay down to sleep. And just like that, any delusion you had of being in control shatters—and you don’t care.
“I’ve had my fair share of vices.” He let the half-spent cigarette fall into the glass, gesturing with both hands to the lead-lined room behind him. “Nothing compares to this. I see everything, layers of life that you can’t even—that you’d never know existed. Things we don’t even have words for. ‘What’s it like?’”
He leaned forward.
“It’s the best bad dream I’ve ever had. I don’t want to wake up.”
An edit/addition to something I wrote five months ago.
For the full experience, I recommend that you read through this twice. For the first time, go read it straight through WITHOUT looking at the ‘Keep reading...’ part (or everything after CALL ENDED, if you’re looking at this directly from my blog?). For the second, open up the “Keep reading...” portion, and use it as a reference while you read through again.
Well, I hoped for the best. What else could I do, right? This wasn’t the first time that she missed a date. Always said it was due to work, which was usually true. Normally she’d text me, though, if she couldn’t make it. She’d apologize profusely, promise to make it up to me in very convincing ways. Y’know, the year that we were together, I think we had more makeup dates than actual dates. For a while, I was convinced that she was stringing me along, like she maybe had someone else on the side, or I was the ‘someone else.’I had no idea what she was really up to—not until she told me.
She, uh, wasn’t a reporter. I don’t know who she worked for, not exactly, but it wasn’t media. Government would be my pick, although I can’t get more specific than that. Can’t. She never said. What she did say was that the work she was doing, if she succeeded, could save countless lives. Yeah, I know; originally, I thought she was being dramatic too—she was good at that—but there was this one day, about six months before the pandemic hit. She just showed up. Looked like she’d been crying, something I’d never seen her do. A friend of hers passed, she told me, and wouldn’t say more than that. There was more to it, of course; I could see it on her face. That, and she kept looking out through the blinds. It was that night that she gave me the cipher there. Said that one day—maybe one day soon—she’d need me to use it, then left as quickly as she came.
But, I’m sorry, you were asking about the night she...Like I said, it was the day before the pandemic, so July 3rd. She was supposed to meet me for lunch during my office hours. No-show. Didn’t hear from her until after I got home, several hours later. That was the longest she’d ever gone without getting back to me, and it was during that time that I did one the thing I promised her I’d never do: I panicked. I called her about six times, I think? Sent twice as many texts? I knew as I was doing it that it probably wasn’t helping—but I didn’t know what else to do. Didn’t even know I cared that much.
I was three or four beers into the evening by the time she got back to me, half-assing the homework grades for the summer classes I was roped into teaching, some TBS sitcom going through the motions in the background. My heart about stopped in my chest when the phone rang.
Bzzt.
Bzzzzzt.
Bzzzzzt—
“Hey, you.” She spoke first; her usual greeting.
“Hey, yourself. Where have you—”
“Miles? I can barely hear you.”
“Shit, hang on.” I fumbled for the remote and jabbed the mute. “There, that better?” Silence. “Elaine?”
“Mhm. Yeah, hey, I don’t have long. Just wanted to say sorry about missing our thing earlier—”
“Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, yeah. I—.” Hesitation. “I was just caught up in meetings all day. Got this career-making project that’s kicking into full swing.”
“Meetings.”
“…Yup.”
“You couldn’t sneak away for two seconds to send me a text?” I tried to mask my anger. Don’t think I did a very good job.
“Sorry.”
That was it. That was all she had for me. None of her usual promises of late-night visits, or clandestine campus meetups—just a palpable chunk of nothing. I waited, too.
“…Okay, uhm, do you want to maybe try again tom—”
“Hey, did you get Mrs. Cooper’s package for her?” She cut me off. The question came out of nowhere; there was an urgency there that wasn’t before.
“Mrs. Cooper…my neighbor, Mrs. Cooper?”
“Yeah, she asked me to ask you if you’d sign for it ‘cause they were going out of town.”
“...When was this?”
“A few days ago, when you had me go all the way over there to feed Max while you were working.”
I froze. Max was my cat. Emphasis on was. By that point, he’d been dead for three months—something that she knew very well, having been the one who found him. Something wasn’t right. She continued.
“She caught me as I was leaving. She went on and on about how she picked up this filing cabinet for cheap online, how it was some big name-brand so it was a steal, and god, she wouldn’t shut up about the drawer space. I left you a post-it about it on your monitor. Did it fall off or something?”
“…Uh, I dunno. Maybe.” I understood now. “Let me go check.”
I pushed up from the couch and made the trek from the living room to my office, chest thumping, legs like straws. Immediately, I went straight past the desk and to the filing cabinet. It was this silver piece with deep, locking drawers. Name-brand. Found it online for a third of its regular price. It was a steal. I pulled open the bottom drawer as delicately as I could; I had to be quiet. Blindly, I sifted through the folders and found my way to the back—the very back—and grabbed what I knew to be the notebook that I was looking for.
“Got it.”
“The package?”
“The note. Found it next to my keyboard. You sure it was supposed to come today? I don’t remember seeing a slip—actually, let me make sure.” I tried to be as genuine as possible, but the realization of was happening hit me hard.
Out the office, through the living room, right out the front door. Crickets. As soon as the porch light flickered on, I looked around for a slip I knew didn’t exist.
A car went by.
“Yeah, no, not seeing anything. Do you want me to—”
“No, it’s fine,” she sighed. “It’ll probably get there tomorrow, though, so be on the look-out.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I dusted off the porch chair by the door and sunk onto it, already flipping through the notebook to the appropriate page. “So, have you eaten?” A beat of silence. “I mean, you’ve been in meetings all day, right?”
“Nope, not since breakfast, now that I think about it. I meant to grab a donut or something between presentations, but got caught up.”
My heart sank. “Can you—I know it’s late, but can you order something? Have it delivered, maybe?”
“I would, but I think everything’s closed. Everything that I’d want, anyway.”
“Well, how about this?” I tried to keep my breathing even. “I’m pretty sure the Thai place is still open. I’ll go grab you something and drop it off? It’ll probably be cool, but you can always nuke it—”
“Eh, that’s okay,” she broke in. “I’ll be fine. We’re at one of the other offices today, anyway.”
“Oh, uh, didn’t know you guys had more than one location. Where’s this one located?”
“Connecticut. Not the most ideal commute, but you know how that goes.”
“Oh.” I barely squeezed the word out, my throat was so tight. How was she so damn calm?
Another car crept by.
“…Miles?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Listen, no pressure, but uh, think you’ll be done anytime soon? Should I wait up, or…?”
“Mmm, probably not. Looks like it’s going to go on for a while. I’ll text you when I make it back home, though, ‘kay?”
“Sure, yeah.”
“’Kay. Look, I really need to get back to it, alright? They’re waiting for me in there.”
“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to keep you. Good luck in—”
“I love you, Mi—.”
CALL ENDED
MILES,
THIS IS A PRECAUTION.
I HOPE THAT WE NEVER HAVE TO USE THIS, BUT I’M AFRAID IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME.
STICK TO THE CIPHER SCRIPT BELOW, AND YOU’LL BE FINE.
USE ONLY WHEN INSTRUCTED.
NOT BEFORE.
I’M SERIOUS.
E.
INDEX:
AR/NR - AFFIRMATIVE RESPONSE/NEGATIVE RESPONSE (YES OR NO) | SR - SPECIFIED RESPONSE (ANYTHING ELSE)
EASY, RIGHT?
1. “HAVE YOU EATEN TODAY?” - IS YOUR COVER INTACT?
RESPONSE TYPE: AR/NR
AR - YES
DO NOTHING
PROCEED TO QUESTION 2
NR - NO
RELEASE INFORMATION VIA INSTRUCTIONS PROVIDED (NEXT PAGE)
PROCEED TO QUESTION 2
2. “CAN YOU ORDER SOMETHING?” - ARE YOU CURRENTLY SAFE?
RESPONSE TYPE: AR/NR
AR - YES
PROCEED TO QUESTION 3
NR - NO (OOPS)
PROCEED TO QUESTION 2(b)
2(b). “WANT ME TO DROP SOMETHING OFF?” - CAN YOU GET OUT?
RESPONSE TYPE: SR
“I’LL MEET YOU” - YES (YAY!)
PROCEED TO QUESTION 3
“I’M AT A DIFFERENT LOCATION” - NO
PROCEED TO QUESTION 2(c)
2(c). “WHERE ARE YOU?” - HOW LONG DO YOU HAVE LEFT? (MORBID, I KNOW)
RESPONSE TYPE: SR
“ANOTHER OFFICE DOWNTOWN” - I SHOULD BE FINE
DON’T WORRY
PROCEED TO QUESTION 3
“STATEN ISLAND” - CALL THE NUMBER (NEXT PAGE)
GIVE THEM THE CODE (ALSO NEXT PAGE)
PRAY
PROCEED TO QUESTION 3
“CONNECTICUT” - I’M SORRY
THIS IS GOODBYE
PROCEED TO QUESTION 3
Well, I hoped for the best. What else could I do, right? This wasn’t the first time that she missed a date. Always said it was due to work, which was usually true. Normally she’d text me, though, if she couldn’t make it. She’d apologize profusely, promise to make it up to me in very convincing ways. Y’know, that whole year we were together, I think we had more makeup dates than actual dates. For a while, I was convinced that she was stringing me along, like she maybe had someone else on the side, or I was the ‘someone else.’I had no idea what she was really up to—not until she told me.
When we first met, she introduced herself as an investigative reporter with the Times. Said she was digging into a story on, and I quote, “political espionage and corruption at the highest level so sinister that it could very well topple our government.” She was trying to scare me. She knew—and she didn’t say how she knew, but she knew—that before I taught economics, I was a tax guy. Most of my clients were, well, in the upper income brackets. That means CEOs, state officials, politicians; people who paid top dollar for the best loopholes—namely exactly the kinds of people that she was looking into. In particular, she wanted a peek at the records for just two of my clients: Barbara Miyamoto and Dean Castle. Yeah. The senators.
I told her off. It wasn’t a matter of ethics so much as self-preservation, really. I wasn’t much of a conspiracy theorist, but those people—I went over their financial records cent by cent. They had clout, and not all of it was in reputable circles, and not everything added up. If you value your livelihood, you learn pretty quickly not to look at the numbers too long. Just do the math, move on.
For what felt like weeks, she harassed me about it. At home, at work—one time, she sat in on one of my lectures. Whole thing. Stared at me for fifty straight minutes and left without saying a word. That was the tipping point. A few days after, I dialed her up set to up a meeting at my home office and demanded that she tell me what the whole thing was really about; otherwise, I’d go to the authorities. Admittedly, I was curious—about her and her story. She had a way of breaking you down, of saying just the right amount of cryptic bullshit with just the right amount of charm to keep you interested. It was a gift.
What she showed me that night was like fiction. The whole package was presented in an unmarked manila folder twice as thick as my hand, separated into two sections with a laminated divider. It started off light; a bunch of financials from dozens of businesses, most of them local, all of them small-time. Didn’t make any sense at first. I spent a good forty minutes trying to spot an interaction between any two of them, but there was nothing. When she finally got bored of watching me flounder, she gave me a hint: Oswell Industries. From there, it was easy; the name came up multiple times for each business. They were all clearly linked in some way, but a link without context was next to nothing. I told her that if that was all she had, she was wasting both of our time. Then she told me to open section two.
Oswell Industries; that entire half of folder was dedicated to that one company. First, there were several local police reports and evidence lists about various organized crime rings dating back as far as ten years, for things as minor as bootleg DVDs, to things as major as drugs and human trafficking. In all of them—and we’re talking at least a hundred—Oswell Industries came up in some form or another. Invoices, phone numbers, computer desktop backgrounds. In truth, individually most of the cases would come off as innocuous at best and circumstantial at worst—but when combined, it all overwhelmingly pointed to something nefarious, and I couldn’t believe that any police department could miss that kind of connection. Turns out, neither could she.
O.I itself was a shell. For what, exactly, I still don’t know, but the documents in that folder tied it to corporations and banks in at least thirteen different nations. Now, I said before that I wasn’t much of a conspiracy theorist—and I meant it—but this was strange. Multiple New York businesses were monetarily linked to a company that did not exist. This same company left a meticulous paper trail leading to numerous others across the globe. And if that wasn’t enough, its name was connected to organized crimes over the span of a decade. All of this led me to a single burning question: what the hell did any of it have to do with two United States senators? I checked their records. Between the two of them, Oswell Industries came up in their finances three hundred and fourteen times in 2015. That smelled like a conspiracy to me.
“Civilization is akin to a fungus; it grows like mold in the wake of calamity. Perhaps that is why there is a such a resilience in the living beings of this world, why we walk among what was left behind and carve life out of the bones of those who came before. Or perhaps is it our fate that we, too, will wither and die, despite all our efforts.”
“...Our ancestors fought long, and they fought hard against forces well beyond their understanding--and well beyond ours--but we have something that they don’t: retrospective.
We are not our ancestors, and we have a responsibility to ourselves, to our children, to their children, to be better. Where they failed, we will succeed. Where they fell, we will walk firmly and proudly atop their bones and away from their mistakes.
We are not our ancestors. We are survivors. This is our right, and our duty.”
“You can still find traces of them in the world, their lost halls and great statues long ago reclaimed by the wild. Sometimes if you walk among them you can feel the memories of these places whispering at the edge of hearing. These are lonely, forgotten kingdoms; all that remains are ghosts.”
Someone asked for this, so here’s the sphere puzzle text from Shards of Iso session 8:
…And so they stood, their backs to neither side, at the brink of annihilation. She, in all Her splendor, knew that the worst was yet to come, that Her brother would stop at nothing, and thus set forward to save us from ourselves before Night fell once more. And there She was, Her Light radiant as the dawn itself. She spread Her warmth to all that would have it:
“I beg thee, lay down your burdens. Your Sight blinds you so. Shed your malice and embrace the Light. Relinquish all that you know. The Night lingers just beyond. If only you could see! I beg thee, renounce your ways; you need only believe in me.”
Those that gave themselves to Her brilliance were met with salvation. Those held steadfast to the hatred in their hearts knew no peace, for Night was in its witching hour, and the worst was yet to come.
And here are the words on the wall in the main room:
Air
Animal
Bathe
Bore
Bright
Brink
Color
Dawn
Death
Earth
Fight
Fire
Height
Home
Kick
Life
Light
Mask
Night
Rabbit
Run
Rust
Save
Seed
Sight
Silk
Swift
Trap
Verse
Water
titsay
