Downtown Rooterdale is abustle: drivers curse their way through afternoon traffic, some self-censoring with their car's horn; pedestrians dart from between parked cars and into the street; cyclists hurtle down bike lanes, straight through red lights, and — in the case of one — into the passenger window of a violently green Volkswagen Beetle.
Albert's gut curdles. Staring upon the spectacle from Topiary Corporate Plaza's thirty-second floor, they shake their head. "Total disregard for life. An unnecessary commute in the morning — equally as fraught; eight hours in an office chair; then this. All to go home and sleep until tomorrow where they'll start again. It's like they don't realize just how fragile they are or how little time they have. Why do they do it? Why don't they stop?" Albert sighs. "Ants following the orders of a decrepit queen. Her life sustained by the masses' ignorance and a comfort of the already known. Shame, isn't it? Just how close we are to something great, while at the same time, being so far?"
A woman's voice comes from behind them, each word weighted by age, the echo of a sparsely decorated room, and a healthy helping of sass. "Banal of you." She says.
Albert glances back, just over their shoulder. "Humans are rarely anything else."
Atop a state-of-the-art hospital bed, a woman sits upright. Translucent skin stretches over a network of veins and pale bone. She's more skeleton than human; more ghost than living.
Gina. Waylon's mother-in-law. She stares out another of the room's ceiling-to-floor windows, silent.
Albert twists about and settles their back against glass, careful to make sure that — from Gina's perspective — their figure is framed in a menacing way by the skyscrapers outside. "You've got to keep the conversation going, Mrs. Thomas." They say.
Letting her eyes roll closed, Gina collapses against a pile of pillows. "Yeah. So you said. My grandson is on his way, right?"
Redirect.
Albert spreads their arms to encompass the whole room, prompting the unfastened blazer sleeves dangling at their elbows to sway. "Why would I go through all this trouble if he wasn't?"
She grimaces. "I don't know why you would to begin with. We're not important people; never have been."
"And that's exactly why! Two insignificant people. One: you. The other: a son-in-law. Widowed before his time, caring for the mother he never had, and going to lengths unthinkable just to keep her safe. Alive. Well, was the idea, anyway. A moving story, isn't it? Inspiring?"
Especially after two dwindle to one. They add in thought.
Gina shifts. She places her gaze on a giant, blank television affixed to a windowless stretch of wall. "I've reconsidered. You can go ahead and let me die now."
A lie.
"Why is that?" Albert says.
"You don't strike me as a kind person."
A simple comment; one that teases at most unwelcome introspection, but there's no time to linger. Albert's inner monologue drives them on with two words spoken a thousand times: Keep going.
So, Albert forces a laugh so well practiced, it may as well be genuine. "And would you say that you're kind?"
"No."
Silence.
For precisely two seconds, Albert lets it hang. Two precious seconds of nothing that should really be filled with something. Their game is a game against time, and Gina's has all but run out. An hourglass clinging to its final grains of sand.
It's not enough for an effective dramatic pause, but two seconds will have to do. Albert casts an upturned palm through the air. "If you truly want out of our deal, why are you still talking? All you've got to do is stop and that's that. There's nothing I could do."
She whips a glare Albert's way. "You know damn well why: one more time. He'll say his piece, I'll say mine, and then that's that. To use a bastard's words."
"Fair. Then are you set to continue on?"
It's a pact. Albert shares their uncensored self — for the most part — and she provides conversation. Then, eventually, she takes everything she learns to her grave. Each word spoken strengthens the link between the two of them. The link itself is ethereal; unknowable. Except to Albert. Albert's power is simple: a favor for a favor, and what's a bigger favor than listening to someone share their candid, unsavory thoughts?
With a constant forcing of will, Albert lets time flood from them into her. Tons of it; years upon years upon years. None of which originally belonged to them. Politicians, corporate enemies, the unfortunate journalists whose noses were a bit too apt.
Despite the flood, Gina's life still seeps away. Consumption. Consuming faster; every second, ever more until there's nothing left. As designed by— well, Albert isn't quite sure by who, but they've got guesses.
It won't be long until the cost to keep her alive is too great.
Turning back to the window, Albert sets their jaw. Joel will find him. Soon.
Downtown Rooterdale is abustle: drivers curse their way through afternoon traffic, some self-censoring with their car's horn; pedestrians dart from between parked cars and into the street; cyclists hurtle down bike lanes, straight through red lights, and — in the case of one — into the passenger window of a violently green Volkswagen Beetle.
Albert's gut curdles. Staring upon the spectacle from Topiary Corporate Plaza's thirty-second floor, they shake their head. "Total disregard for life. An unnecessary commute in the morning — equally as fraught; eight hours in an office chair; then this. All to go home and sleep until tomorrow where they'll start again. It's like they don't realize just how fragile they are or how little time they have. Why do they do it? Why don't they stop?" Albert sighs. "Ants following the orders of a decrepit queen. Her life sustained by the masses' ignorance and a comfort of the already known. Shame, isn't it? Just how close we are to something great, while at the same time, being so far?"
A woman's voice comes from behind them, each word weighted by age, the echo of a sparsely decorated room, and a healthy helping of sass. "Banal of you." She says.
Albert glances back, just over their shoulder. "Humans are rarely anything else."
Atop a state-of-the-art hospital bed, a woman sits upright. Translucent skin stretches over a network of veins and pale bone. She's more skeleton than human; more ghost than living.
Gina. Waylon's mother-in-law. She stares out another of the room's ceiling-to-floor windows, silent.
Albert twists about and settles their back against glass, careful to make sure that — from Gina's perspective — their figure is framed in a menacing way by the skyscrapers outside. "You've got to keep the conversation going, Mrs. Thomas." They say.
Letting her eyes roll closed, Gina collapses against a pile of pillows. "Yeah. So you said. My grandson is on his way, right?"
Redirect.
Albert spreads their arms to encompass the whole room, prompting the unfastened blazer sleeves dangling at their elbows to sway. "Why would I go through all this trouble if he wasn't?"
She grimaces. "I don't know why you would to begin with. We're not important people; never have been."
"And that's exactly why! Two insignificant people. One: you. The other: a son-in-law. Widowed before his time, caring for the mother he never had, and going to lengths unthinkable just to keep her safe. Alive. Well, was the idea, anyway. A moving story, isn't it? Inspiring?"
Especially after two dwindle to one. They add in thought.
Gina shifts. She places her gaze on a giant, blank television affixed to a windowless stretch of wall. "I've reconsidered. You can go ahead and let me die now."
A lie.
"Why is that?" Albert says.
"You don't strike me as a kind person."
A simple comment; one that teases at most unwelcome introspection, but there's no time to linger. Albert's inner monologue drives them on with two words spoken a thousand times: Keep going.
So, Albert forces a laugh so well practiced, it may as well be genuine. "And would you say that you're kind?"
"No."
Silence.
For precisely two seconds, Albert lets it hang. Two precious seconds of nothing that should really be filled with something. Their game is a game against time, and Gina's has all but run out. An hourglass clinging to its final grains of sand.
It's not enough for an effective dramatic pause, but two seconds will have to do. Albert casts an upturned palm through the air. "If you truly want out of our deal, why are you still talking? All you've got to do is stop and that's that. There's nothing I could do."
She whips a glare Albert's way. "You know damn well why: one more time. He'll say his piece, I'll say mine, and then that's that. To use a bastard's words."
"Fair. Then are you set to continue on?"
It's a pact. Albert shares their uncensored self — for the most part — and she provides conversation. Then, eventually, she takes everything she learns to her grave. Each word spoken strengthens the link between the two of them. The link itself is ethereal; unknowable. Except to Albert. Albert's power is simple: a favor for a favor, and what's a bigger favor than listening to someone share their candid, unsavory thoughts?
With a constant forcing of will, Albert lets time flood from them into her. Tons of it; years upon years upon years. None of which originally belonged to them. Politicians, corporate enemies, the unfortunate journalists whose noses were a bit too apt.
Despite the flood, Gina's life still seeps away. Consumption. Consuming faster; every second, ever more until there's nothing left. As designed by— well, Albert isn't quite sure by who, but they've got guesses.
It won't be long until the cost to keep her alive is too great.
Turning back to the window, Albert sets their jaw. Joel will find him. Soon.
