3 Days Post: “I’m not doing it,” she said, crossing her arms and legs simultaneously, her lips thinning and her eyes focused firmly on her husband. “You can’t make me, no one can." “So you’re just going to go your whole life living like a pilgrim, then?” her husband replied, taking a seat next to her. They were in the kitchen, the lights off, along with everything else in the house. They sat across from one another at the circular table, she reeking of obdurance, him of alcohol. Not that that was exclusive to him though—most everyone had been having a few drinks these last few days. The centerpiece of the argument was on the counter, situated just between the rice cooker and the sink. It was a microwave, a good one at that, 1100 watts and brand new, though unplugged, last week’s casserole inside it, just begging to be reheated. “You know,” the husband started, rubbing his fat fingers across his greasy face, “if we don’t use it, it’s all for nothing. There’s no going back.” “We don’t know that!” his wife contested, and she stood up so fast that the chair flew over. She was red in the face now, in utter disbelief at what she was hearing. “We don’t know that, no one knows anything about that, we-” Now it was his turn to rise, though rather than flipping it over, he slammed the high-backed seat in the table with one hand, using the other to point to the appliance that, it seemed, would end his second marriage. “It’s a damn microwave! Look outside! Look at the streetlights, the people mowing their lawns, this isn’t making a statement! What’s thirty seconds, nuking some dinner huh? You don’t want the TV on, fine, the lights, okay, we’ll do candles, but this- this- this has to stop! How long is this going to go on for?” The wife exhaled deeply, crossing her arms once more. Then, she smiled. “It’s your house,” she said, and he rolled his eyes, though she continued. “It’s your house, and you can do whatever you want with the things inside it. But I’m letting you know, you-” “-are on the wrong side of history,” he finished for her, exasperated; it’s all she’d been saying since he’d voiced his support for the vote. “Okay, fine. Believe what you will. But guess what, sweetheart, this didn’t work out, there’d be no one around to take a side. Think about that.” “Oh I do,” she replied curtly. “And it changes nothing.” 2 Weeks Post: “That’ll be all?” the cashier asked, placing his palms down on the counter and producing the kind of smile that only two days of training could fashion. “Uhh...yes. No, actually,” the customer interrupted himself, "let me get the rest of that on gas.” “Gas is free here sir,” the cashier said, maintaining his smile. He was a young thing, probably half the age of his patron, with slicked back red hair, a pimply face, and beady little blue eyes. The customer pulled at his salt-and-pepper beard, his wallet in the other hand. “Didn’t know they’d started that already,” he gruffed. “Not everywhere,” the cashier answered, now starting to bag the items. “Only a few spots in a few different places to start, we just heard this morning actually. You’re one of the lucky first ones!” he beamed, now starting to tie the bag he'd placed the milk in. His face sunk though ,when he saw that the man across from him had turned stony. It was just the two of them there in the convenience store. “Lucky, eh?” The cashier converted his expression into a nervous, apologetic grin. “Meant nothing by it,” he said hurriedly. “You have a good day now-” “You reckon it was really random?” “I beg your pardon?” “Do you think it was actually random,” the older gentleman repeated, enunciating each word carefully. He did not take the bags placed in front of him. A few feet away, a tiny bell rang, indicating another shopper had entered, but neither of them paid it any mind. “I...couldn’t say one way or the other. Sir,” the cashier added quickly, clearly intimidated. “Oh but you followed along, I’m sure, you’re a bright young one, what do you think? Don’t be frightened now boy, I’m not going to bite you. I didn’t know him.” “I...the- the way-the way they made it sound,” the cashier started to say, his eyes now darting around to check that the other customer was occupied somewhere in the back; he was perusing the lottery machines. “The way it sounded on the TV, it seemed pretty random yeah. Except no children of course, but that’s, I mean- I get that, I guess.” “Do you support it?” the customer asked, straightening up a little. He finally took his bags, wrapping them around his thick wrists. The cashier’s eyes widened. He hesitated for a moment before giving a clear answer. “I think that, all things considered, it could have been worse.” “How’s that?” The cashier sighed. “Well, guy was in his 50’s-” “He was 51,” the customer interjected, his voice rising slightly. “I’m 53.” “Right, okay, he also didn’t have a family, wasn’t married, had no kids-” “He had a sister and a niece, I heard-” “Okay well everyone has some family, not denying that, I just meant, in terms of it being random and all- I mean it could have been any of us, some of us maybe it would have- well, it- it would have been worse-” “Excuse me,” chimed in a voice from the corner. It was the second customer. He was tall, with a long nose and a baseball cap. “Excuse me,” he repeated, and both of them turned to him. “Yes sir, how can I help you?” the cashier asked, looking relieved by the interruption. “The uh- lottery machine is acting up a bit-” At that moment the lights flickered. The faint music in the background, not even noticed before, cut out and then turned back on, while the cash register gave a little whimper at being reset. Then it happened again, and then a third time. It was as though the entirety of the store had something in its eyes and was trying to blink it out. The three of them stood there, in some isosceles shape, a stand-off of blank expressions. And then, it came. From the cash register. It was a soft moaning, the kind of noise one makes when trying to bury a wail in their knees. The lights turned back on, as did everything else, but the sound came again, accompanying it this time, only now prolonged, petering out with a soft, coughing noise, something like choking; a voice, cracking, infant-like. No one said anything. The noise had, impossibly, been equally distant to all of them, a characteristic that they somehow were all aware of. It seemed to linger around them, an echo of an echo almost, with no sound preceding it. The faint background music continued to tinkle on, now much more prominent, the lights stayed bright, and the register, still rebooting, churned and chucked, as the receipt from the previous transaction slid into view. 3 Months Post: “Turn it up! I wanna hear this.” The bartender clicked rapidly at the miniature television, though even without doing so, it would have been audible; the establishment had quieted down considerably as the newscaster had started speaking. “-interviewed outside today in regards to the current status of public morale following the U.N’s implementation of the program. Protesters flocked-” “Who they talking about?” a man at one of the tables asked. “This the British guy? Did he vote?” “Not the delegate, no” someone answered him from the back. “But he was there.” They turned their attention back to the television screen, which now showed a portly, well dressed man. He was clean shaven, bald, and sweaty, a far cry from the visage of whatever statue stood in the backdrop, some government building just barely in view. Even with the close up of his face, it was easy to see dozens of microphones aimed in his direction. “Obviously, this decision was the first of its kind, there was no- uh- no real way to prepare for the effects it would have, there was preliminary polling done obviously, individual nations, uh- more- more often than, individual nations held separate votes, and those votes factored heavily into the vote that took place in the embassy some three months ago-” “Minister,” one of the microphones interrupted him, “will the complete details of that vote be released to the public?” “Uh- yes, well- eventually, not at present, some nations elected not to share complete tallies, but the representatives of each nation were asked if they wanted to participate in the vote, and a majority did, and obviously, that- that is uh, how we made it to the larger vote-” “Do you believe the man is feeling any pain, minister?” interjected another voice. At this the politician actually gave a strong cough, the sweat visibly dripping down his neck, which had turned red. “I have been told, by the many, many researchers involved in this project, and others outside of this project, that pain was not a- a uh, concern, factored- factoring in to this decision, nor is there any evidence that the individual who was...ch- s- selected, is currently capable of feeling anything-” He was cut off by jeers then, the crowd off-screen evidently not satisfied with the direction of his answer. Such was the clamor than the next question was lost, though the interviewee seemed to have a handle on it, for he’d straightened his posture and was looking excited. “Oh absolutely, absolutely, yes- uh yes. I think that we’re still in a...a mindset now, where we’re focusing on the negatives, but well, the- the reality is that this program has been a resounding success. Numerous countries—not just the ones that took part in the vote—numerous countries have saved, uh- combined, trillions of dollars on energy costs, funds that have been redirected to other very important ventures, global ventures. The money has been allocated into areas like- like medicine, infrastructure, communication, transportation. And trans- the environment is- is flourishing, now that we have sources of energy outside of carbon, in fact, there- there was just a report, scientists ten years ago said it would take two centuries to repair our atmosphere, and today it was announced that reduced carbon emissions, uh- coupled with the technology we’ve created with this renewable, free energy, has set us on pace to be stable within the decade. Things are going very well right now.” “Very well for who, minister?” came a piercing female voice from the microphone in the corner. “For everyone,” he replied smugly, now looking comfortable. “By the end of this year we expect that no nation on this planet will be regarded as third-world, or- uh “developing”, or- or anything of the kind.” “Is it easier to say that when the sacrificed man wasn’t a fellow countryman, minister?” The politician’s mouth thinned. “There was no sacrifice,” he said. “We don’t use that term.” “So he volunteered then?” He cleared his throat. “The delegates from Angola were aware, when taking part in the vote, that it was possible for one of their citizens to be selected. The selection process was very well outlined-” “But did the man volunteer?” “Any man or woman over the age of consent in their respective country- uh- did not volunteer, but, yes- yes, they volunteered, they volunteered when they entered into a contract with their government, when they were conferred benefits by their government, and no differently than- than- than paying taxes, or being restricted by any law, or anything of that kind, and that goes for everyone. It could have been me, it could have been you, it could have been this young lady over here, it-” “Minister,” someone called out abruptly, and the politician raised his eyebrows. “Can you respond to the claims that the man can sometimes be heard crying when devices powered by him are in use?” There was a brief pause while the minister’s face sank back into one of defeat. Even the off-screen crowd had gone silent. “That is- a, yes. We have spoken with...many...of those researchers, those researchers and scientists mentioned before, and the...the uh- consensus is that the phenomenon in question appears to be psychological.” There was a roar at this, and the questioner waited for it to subside before continuing. “Psychological?” “Yes, psychological. Our physicists and psychologists agree that it likely a- a manifestation of guilt, guilt on the part of some who do not agree with the program, and that it is a- a hearing, a heard, an- an auditory hallucination.” “How do you respond to the claim that multiple individuals have experienced it simultaneously?” “That everyone hears it differently seems to be part of the evidence supporting that conclusion. It is still being discussed.” “Minister-” “No more comments, thank you.” The screen shifted away then, back to the newscaster, who had a stack of papers in her hands and a pensive look on her face. “Obviously still a lot to discuss on the matter, you saw there, still some questions for the representatives of the U.N, as well as for those who support the decision, as polling shows that, contrary to the noise, enthusiasm for the program is high.” The camera cut then to a young woman with glasses, the strap of her backpack visible and with nothing but a brick wall behind her. The blue bar underneath her identified her only as “college student”. “We talked about this in class,” she said, “and there was a lot of agreement on it. People- you know- people got drafted back then, and all kinds of things, they went to war, and they...they died for nothing sometimes. And this guy, you know, there’s talk about what happened to him, if he’s alive or...or something- something like that, in between, and you know, he, this- this wasn’t for nothing. He’s a hero. It’s an honor.” She was replaced almost immediately by an elderly man, his white beard down to his collar and his cheeks sagging. His bar said “veteran.” “No,” he said, giving a slight shake to his head. “No, no, I hear that time to time, get asked that, not the same, not for me anyways.” “It’s not the same?” regurgitated a voice off-screen. “No, not the same. Even if you don’t sign up for war, you know what you’re getting. This fella...he probably still doesn’t know. No one does. Disagree with that completely.” The camera panned away again, this time moving through the city streets. For a moment it lingered on a wall covered in graffiti, the same message emblazoned across it in hundreds of unique scrawls, angled and intersecting. “Turn that off” someone at the bar said, and a moment later, the screen had gone black. 11 Months Post: “And it is with the one-year anniversary of that very impactful, and...frankly, critical vote taking place, it is with that anniversary approaching that we welcome our guest tonight.” The talk-show host kept his face supported on his chin as he turned, briefly glancing in the direction of his audience, many of whom were muttering. His hair was combed forward, his slender body contorted in a way that it betrayed his own discomfort. Across from his desk, on a tan couch, sat a stout man, handsome, square-jawed and with glasses. He looked very confident. “Thank you for having me tonight, it’s a pleasure to be here," the guest said. “And it’s a pleasure to have you,” the host replied, now lounging back slightly, a stack of cue cards hanging limply from his fingers. “So—we’ll get to the book in a moment—why don’t you first tell us a little bit out your involvement in this project.” “Sure,” the guest replied, patting his hands on his suited pants. “Sure, uh- as you mentioned, before, my role goes back a...it's a bit further than most, I conducted—my team and I—we did a lot of the research that led into that vote-” “So let me briefly interject,” the host asked needlessly, “you yourself, your team, did not actually perform the transfer. That’s what it’s been called, right? The transfer-” “Yes, that is correct,” the guest said, nodding his head. “The transfer, or as we call it, the transduction procedure-” “What is that, can you explain that?” “Sure! Umm, well, so- well let me get to this first, the difference here. The actual...procedure was performed by a different team, a team in Stockholm, my colleagues and I simply provided the theory behind it, which led to- to, the question of viability, and- and so forth.” “The ethics, you mean” the host said casually. “Yes. The ethics, all of it.” “So let’s get back to the timeline here then, you developed this technology...what? Twenty years ago, or so, this has been in the works, that seems about right?” “Not even the technology,” the guest said, straightening up, and he glanced in the direction of the audience. “No, not even that. We—so, I was actually- actually working in someone else’s laboratory, at the time, and that’s when we started—so let’s jump back. Let’s jump back to your question from before. So what was the idea. The idea was, basically, uh- consciousness, thought, your, you know, your 'mind' if you will, as energy. You know you hear about ‘brain power’,” he said arrogantly, making quotations with his fingers, “and we took that idea and we worked with it as being more than just the sum of energy, more creating it, as well, not- this is a thing, in science, we have this thing- never creating it, but kind of just pulling it from places you wouldn’t expect. So that’s what we did,” he finished lamely, turned completely to the audience now and letting his arms rest on his lap. “Okay, let me—let me break this down for the- the people at home, and I’m not a scientist-” “That’s okay-” “Oh I know, believe me, with the heat you guys are getting, I’m proud of it—” the audience laughed—”so I’m not a scientist, but as I- as it was explained to me, you basically came up with this idea that someone’s thinking could just be turned into electricity, is that it?” “Uh- sort of, even better, actually. Not merely electricity, any kind of energy. It- it was converted.” “And this will last forever, right?” the host asked, sipping his coffee. The guest scratched at his forehead. “That was the- yes, that’s-” “Because if it doesn’t, if we end up needing to do this again, then it really- well, you say this in the book, then nothing’s really changed, we’re just using people now instead of something else-” “That’s right, yes,” the guest nodded confidently. “This decision, the research was put forth, with that in mind, that this was a- a- a ‘one-time thing’ if you will, because, you see, the idea—” he started playing with his hands, melding his fingers together into a box shape—” the idea is that with other things, the energy gets lost a little bit, but with the human mind you have this- this bank if you will, and it just flows back into it, it’s like conscious thought, effort, is a form of storage-” “Now I want to interrupt there for one second,” the host said, pulling at his tie, and the guest leaned forward anxiously, nodding his head. “Because you said human mind, so obviously, animals, out of the question-” “Oh yes, yes, non-human animals, uh- would not work, not powerful enough, and it doesn’t, it’s- it is really, really incredible, this research kind of demonstrates how much more goes in to human thought, the layers behind it-” “But it would work with children?” The audience went completely silent. “Ahem- yes, we believe so, obviously, when- when, when the U.N was establishing the parameters of how the drawing process would work, it was decided not to use children, because the effects would be identical-” “If it only worked with children,” the host teased, “do you think that-” “Well I don’t deal with those kinds of hypotheticals,” the guest started, now crossing a leg over his lap. “I had, again, no role in deciding to use my research, I just conducted it- “You don’t deal with hypotheticals? You’re a scientist!?” At this the audience clapped and whistled, many of them rising to their feet. The host nodded his head fervently, looking back and forth from the audience, to the cameras, to the guest, who was now looking flustered. “Yes- wait, wait-” he was saying, holding up his hands. “Yes, that is obviously- yes. Everything was considered,” he continued, leaning forward now and looking like he was pleading. “Every idea was considered and accounted for, and this is as good, honestly, as we could get it. Things weren’t working, people ask me ‘was this the best idea’, you know, all the time, I’ve been on the circuit for this, and it’s always the same answer, really. This was the only idea. And when you view it in that sense, it- it just, it becomes- you start seeing things you didn’t see before, that’s it, that’s all I’ll say.” “Okay,” the host relented. “And that’s- obviously, you’re here tonight, you're apart of this too, and I actually- so we have some questions for you, just going to kind of rapid-fire them off, not a lot of time left in the segment, if that’s alright.” “Sure, fire away.” “You said before, just tonight, this won’t happen again?” “That’s correct. I had no part in that decision—I wasn’t even there at that vote, I didn’t represent anyone at all—but I know when we proposed this, it was only considered because it wouldn’t need to happen again. That’s the truth.” “No more turning humans into batteries?” The crowd cheered, and the guest bit at his lower lip, simply nodding along to the clapping, waiting for it to die. “I wouldn’t say that’s what happened,” he said, at the first moment presented to him, “but for the sake of the argument, that is correct, that was the point of the decision.” “Next question then. So—and you know this, I’m sure—but the media has played a big part in this of course-” “-always, yes-” “-and it seems like every few weeks or- or even days, some poll comes out, or some survey, something, and it’s a very contentious thing that happened here, but yet, whatever you might think from our viewers here tonight, people seem to be for it, they say they approve of it, they say things are better, do you agree with that?” “Absolutely,” the guest replied, wiping his sweaty palms on his shirt and fixing his glasses. “Absolutely, I do. We’re not even a year in and we’ve- we’ve, it’s astounding what we’ve done, we have eradicated poverty, we’ve revolutionized industries, we’ve united the world and I think that is so, so- uh, not being talked about right now, but it’s a big thing, it really is, it’s something that I think needs to be said more.” “Is this process reversible?” “No, it is not, as far as we can tell.” “If it was, could you see us ever going back?” The guest replied after only a moment’s hesitation. “I, personally, no. Would it be put to a vote? I don’t know. It’s hard to say.” “Okay. Last question for you then. This man, this man that has been, really, the focus of the entire world for the better part of the last year or so, his name has not been released to the public.” “That’s right.” “Do you know his name? Does anyone?” “I- personally, no. People knew his name though, yes.” “Well ‘knew’ versus ‘know’, that’s a different topic, arguments over the tense of that-” “Right, of course. But whatever the case, uh- people that I worked with did, yes, they were, they were privy to that personal information. I never met him.” “Okay, here’s the question then.” “Let me have it.” “Do you ever think about him?” The audience went completely silent at this. It was as though they themselves had been asked, and were hoping that the answer conveyed their own opinions on the situation. The guest, perhaps sensing this, and knowing that these would be the last thoughts he could share, took a long sip of water from the desk on his left, then turned and addressed the people directly. “I do,” he admitted. “I think of him often. I think of him as often as I do our doctors, and our teachers, and armed forces and police officers, and anyone else that provides an outstanding service to our great society. And no more than that.” The audience applauded lightly at this, which seemed to his satisfaction. The host turned directly to the camera then, conjuring a thick red book from seemingly nowhere as he spoke. “The book is of course ‘Mind Under Matter’, it’s a bestseller, it’s available now, thank you,” he added, turning and shaking his guest’s hand, “thank you for being here tonight and sharing with us, we’ll be back after these messages!” 28 Months Post: “What do we do next?” the teacher asked, her back turned to the class and her arm raised high as she drew on the chalkboard, “remember, we just grouped out variables together, we have our X’s with our X’s, and our Y’s with our Y’s. Anyone? She turned back, her straightened brown hair barely moving. The students were all sitting at their desks, looking rather unconcerned. Uniformed in grey vests and khaki pants, they slouched about, their heads individual computers in front of them, while their phones took photographs of the chalkboard and recorded the lesson without their involvement at all. “What do we do next?” she repeated, and when no one answered, she turned back. “We start the process over, right? Remember, we couldn’t do anything with these numbers before-” She stopped mid-sentence, then turned again, her grip on the chalk suddenly loosed. The students took her lead, altering their postures in preparation for it, turning to one another, wondering where it was going to come from. A moment later, there was a soft wail. The entire class, instructor included, turned to look at her desk, where her cell phone sat. It had started to vibrate in unison with the whimpering, which was fluctuating between a low gurgle and a quick, repetitive sob, which seemed to snap at their ears, sending that all-too familiar shiver down their spines. And then, it went away. The teacher gave a fake cough, then returned to the board. “We couldn’t do anything before, but now that we’ve grouped these terms together, we can simplify, remember? Anyone want to come up and try? I’ll write some out on the board. Don’t be shy.”
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About MeVekin87 is the author of the Albus Potter Series, a 7-book continuation of the J.K Rowling's Harry Potter books. The Things I Write While You're Asleep |
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