Not sure this really counts as a wip, it’s more like a drabble that i never intend to work on ever again? As in, this entire universe begins and ends with these 800 words. This is NOT Fallout, it is NOT any fandom i’ve ever interacted with here, it’s a scifi universe that’s been stuck in my head nagging me to write it for a few weeks now and this morning afternoon in the shower it half wrote itself and spent the rest of the day forcing its way out of my brain like a very bloodthirsty enraged Athena. Is COVIDpunk a genre yet? Uh, here, enjoy?
Warnings: pandemic, quarantine, breaking of quarantine, touching during quarantine
It was inevitable that humanity would end this way, obvious if they just thought about it. It was never going to end with the bang of mutually assured destruction; they might talk a big game, but the human spirit or compassion or love or cowardice or negotiation or prudence or luck or whatever they chose to blame it on would always win out. No, it was always going to end with the whimper of a sick patient on a hospital bed. Humans were brilliant and their problem-solving skills legendary; the only problem they couldn’t overcome was the one that lived, mutated, evolved along with them. Not when the only sacrifice it required was the only thing humans couldn’t live without: the physical presence of other humans.
No one remembered what strain it was this year, or even what species, bacterial or viral or something unique, except for the ones whose jobs required it, the army of scientists churning out medical responses or the politicians churning out social responses. Always changing, always new, it was just the Pandemic, as it had been since the first one, and it was life now.
And two humans wanted to meet. In person, Outside, not through a screen or a microphone. Because they weren’t Outsiders, the few regularly allowed to exit the small dense arrays of apartments to work the few highly coveted jobs that can’t be done through a cable. Well, many humans wanted to meet, but these two were actually doing it. The wall screens that kept them entertained with shows, or news, or relaxing Just Like the Real Thing! streams of scenic landscapes or humming, people-filled “cafes” weren’t sufficient; nor were the gym rooms included by default with each unit to keep the occupants fit. These two had met online, as everyone did now, in a virtual cafe or game or class. They had become close, as close as two can be when separated by walls and connected only by cameras and microphones. Which is to say, close in every way that matters, except for the primal human need for proximity. These two, lucky ones really, were still living with their families, on the boundary between childhood, life with family in the home, and adulthood, when they would be expelled to apartments on their own, barred from human contact until they legally claimed their own families and the associated risk.
And though these two were lucky enough to live with others, they were young enough to be tired of their others and desperate for new others, and they were reckless enough to make a meeting happen. So they schemed and they planned, despite the danger of the Pandemic, despite the risks they were putting on themselves and their families and the rest of humanity. And when their families were asleep they slipped out of their apartments and met in a hidden corner, behind an incinerator, hidden from camerasight.
They wore their PPE, airtight from head to toe, of course, they weren’t that reckless. They were reasonably confident that they would avoid being caught, but it would have been bad enough being caught Outside and Together. The consequences of being caught Exposed were too great to bear consideration. And of course they still feared the Pandemic.
And because they were human, smiles at distance became touching became fumbling, and perhaps a glove was slipped off here or a mask pulled away there. Because after so long in isolation with naught but immediate family to share a space with them, the need for proximity was too great, and humans have always been weak to this need. And after they had spent as long as they dared together, they returned to their homes, happy and sad and partially fulfilled.
Some short time later, the brother of one contracted the Pandemic. There’s no knowing the source of the contagion. Perhaps it was from the slipped-off glove or mask. Perhaps it was from the equipment itself, hastily cleaned by hand rather than properly sterilized to avoid alerting the family to its use. Perhaps it was just from contaminated air or water and had nothing to do with the meeting at all.
Perhaps the brother alone dies and the rest of the family is safe. Perhaps the brother is an Outsider and the Pandemic is spread by him to a new crop of innocents before his curse is discovered. It doesn’t matter, in the end. These two don’t cause the end of humanity, nor do the others that have or will have snuck out in their own grasping attempts at companionship. One finger on one button was never going to be sufficient for that. Humanity could only ever end as it lived: together.
