dylan - telephone - for @prototypelq
The telephone cord feels smooth and waxy on Dylan's index finger. He lets it twirl free, watching the long spool of it swing and bounce against the side table.
"Peter said you could hack telephones," he says, voice mingling with the din of a commercial blaring on the TV.
"Hack them? Like... computer hackers?" Jesse asks, flipping over on the couch to face him.
The young siblings arranged pillows on the couch and around the coffee table, with blankets tossed over each to create tunnels and rooms for their fort. The cartoon block on TV ended hours ago, and Jesse had claimed the living room to watch old sci-fi reruns with fake driving scenes and giant bugs. He busied himself with watching the phone, waiting for a call from mom or dad.
"Yeah. He called it something weird though. I don't remember what." The cord stretches, never losing its coil shape, as he weaves it back and forth between his fingers. "He said you can play the right tones and the phone will do everything for you without even having to dial anything."
"That's cool," she muses, settling her chin on the couch armrest next to him. "Do you think you can do it?" Her show comes back on-- something in black and white, where people wear suits and hats and sit in diners. He expects some kind of man dressed as a monster or alien to show up any time now.
"Mmm. He also said you need something to play the tones. Or whistle really good." A grin ekes out across his face. "You couldn't do it. Your pitch is always off."
A corduroy pillow whacks against the back of his head. He laughs.
"Ha ha," Jesse says, face flat. "Funny."
"Hey, I--" The phone rings before he can present his defense. He beats her to it by an inch, nearly knocking it off the table. "Hello?"
No one replies. He strains, listening for background noise, or breathing, or the stifled giggles of a prank call. Someone on the TV screams, and he glances over, watching as some sort of swamp creature storms through the diner.
"Hello? Is someone there?" he tries again.
This time, the steady hum of the dial tone answers him. Very weird. The phone goes back into its cradle with a soft clack.
"Who was it?" Jesse asks, eyes still glued to the screen. "Are mom and dad gonna be out late again?"
"Nobody." The cord loops through his fingers again, like the kids at school who make shapes with string, but all he makes are knots. "It was silent. Dead silent."
"Are you sure? Did you listen?" The old soundtrack to the movie swells, all brassy horns and shrieking strings. "Don't you want to listen?"
The question makes his brain flinch.
"You want to listen," his sister nods, eyes flicking to meet his. "You want to dream. Right?"
A dark, twisting feeling knots itself in his stomach.
"What?" he tries to laugh, but tears prick at the corners of his eyes. Blinking just makes the stinging worse, so he turns back to the phone, hoping whoever that was calls back.
The world comes back into view as the tears fall away, revealing a long, stretched coil of phone cord, spanning across the living room from the phone, completed disconnected from the handset.
"What?" he whispers to himself.
"You want to smile," the person on the couch says. A pillow flings into their blanket fort as he stands, sending blankets cascading. He clutches the phone cord like a lifeline, or like in kindergarten class-- stay together, don't get lost! It feels taut under his grip, vanishing through the kitchen door and around the corner.
He follows it, equal parts cautious and frantic, a buzzing anxiety settling into his skull, into his teeth.
Somewhere far away, echoing, he hears a phone ring.
The cord takes him through the doorway, into a carpeted room with golden wall decorations and wood-paneled walls and no windows. It is definitely not his kitchen. His kitchen doesn't have a cart of alcohol.
His kitchen doesn't have a desk. Or filing cabinets.
The phone continues to ring. The cord stretches through a gap in the wall, down another hallway. He clings to it, swallowing, following it further, down, down the rabbit hole.
The hallway takes him into a tunnel, all tiles and advertisements, until it brings him to a wide staircase and the sound of rain and the stink of cigarettes. He thinks he recognizes the smell, the brand-- not mom's, not dad's, but familiar, sunk into lungs and furniture and lab coats.
Thunder peals. The phone rings. The cord leads up the stairs, into the night.
An empty Manhattan greets him. Cold and dreary and dark. Like the black and white movies Jesse watches. Like a dream he's walked before.
The coil on the cord gets tighter and tighter, reaching its terminus at a phone booth, one warm light pouring down like a safe haven.
The phone is ringing. He swallows, heart frozen, knuckles white, fingernails digging patterns into his palm.
Bare feet guide him across the slick asphalt to the booth.
He picks up, raising the phone to his ear. He can't keep his voice from wavering.
A deep reverberating sound, a bass deep enough to settle in his ribs, answers back. It isn't any language, any noise he's ever heard before, but somehow, he understands.
< FIRST CONTACT/TRYING TO REACH YOU. >
< ALARM CLOCK/WAKE UP CALL! >
Dylan jerks awake with a start, forehead resting against his knees, legs wedged tight under the shelter of a lone phone booth in cordoned-off Manhattan. Long hair sticks to his cheek. Sleep sits heavy on his eyes. Fingers flex and unflex, feet and toes wiggle in tight shoes.
A weapon buzzes on his back.
Reality-- a warped, broken, reverberating reality comes back to him slowly.
Captivity. Waking nightmares. Waking. A job. An order, even. A world he barely knew. Barely knows. Aberrant.
He groans, leaning back, head bumping into the weapon strapped to his back.
"I liked that dream," he mumbles, voice nearly a whisper. "Can't I sleep? Five more minutes?"
The strange weapon shifts against his poncho. He stands with another groan, trying to shake the interdimensional cobwebs out of his head.
"Fine. I guess I've slept enough."
