This is the sort of thing a resolute hacker could have accomplished given the time and the means, but there’s such little style in that, and he didn’t drag himself out of the pits of death with grated-bone and broken nails for banality.
He’s got his crystal ball -- literally -- and dusty, tightly wrapped cords of hyssop and balsam, occupying the rare patch of bare space on one of the many singed surfaces in his apartment-hovel. After his initial dial, the phone rings. He thinks about how gross and dirty the screen of your phone can get, sitting in your pocket and stuff, and thinks twice before pressing it completely against his cheek. When he hears the telltale click of a receptionist and he is, indeed, received, he curls his fingers around the polished quarts of the orb and sees that, yes, it worked, his name is magically penned in for the Once-ler’s two o’clock and there’s suddenly, magically, records of longtime communication.
❝ Oh, you must be ... ❞ the woman says, fumbling with the unfamiliar name written on the timetable that she’s almost certain wasn’t there the day before. He hums a little in recognition, bony elbow clattering against the table as he leans against it heavily. ❝ I’ll connect you to him right away. ❞
