What Is This?: In the wake of several dark RRs, Dex the character left the House Of Strange Dimensions to vanished. Dex the writer then penned a story/essay of sorts on the various aspects and undersides of Subreality from the POV of his missing avatar. He sent pieces of it to other writers and asked them to write stories introducing each piece. This is the result...
Warning: disturbing imagery and mature themes. But worth being disturbed. ;)
Walkabout
by Dex & various
Part Three -- Inspiration's Legacy
By Seraph
There's something about coming home after a long day at work, kicking off the shoes and just laying back. In time there'll be dinner to think about, a shower and the question of whether to actually wear the pyjamas, or be lazy and sleep in the nude again. Sometimes, there's an S.O to snuggle up to, a cold night and a warm blanket -- and other things. It doesn't really matter who you are, or what you come home to, just that you're home, and there's no one looking over your shoulder, or asking you to meet that deadline.
Seraph watched the scenery pass by as she sat in the 5:00 pm train from Central station. A book lay open on her lap, but she'd given up reading it several minutes ago. She was content to merely watch the world pass her by, the warm train lulling her mind to sleep as she slowly lowered her head to the window her eyes drifting shut.
Subreality...
Why was it she always returned to this place, even in her dreams? It was as if some fundamental part of her were always here, would always be here. She was in the Cafe of course. It always started here; even the stories that didn't still started here. It was the first image, the first dream. You couldn't think Subreality, without adding Cafe at some stage.
"Just what in the hell are you doing in here?"
Crap.
The Bouncer grabbed her by the scruff of the neck, a feat considering that he had to manoeuvre through her wings to do it. Seraph squirmed in his grip and swore.
"Give us a break would ya? I mean, I just fell asleep on the train -- is it my fault I automatically appeared at the bar?"
"Might have worked if you was Phil, girlie. But you're not, so don't try and pull that crap with me. You don't drink."
"Well, I could start!"
"Not tonight, you won't. It ain't Writers' Night, and you bloody know it."
"But...it's cold out there."
"Makin' kitten eyes at me won't do nothin' either. Out you go -- you've got a whole Writers' Cafe down the street, made especially for you buggers, so go use it."
"Fine, be that way. See if I get you a present at Christmas."
Seraph disentangled herself from the Bouncer's iron grip and with a sniff wandered vaguely downwards. well, okay, more to the left a bit, and somewhat south, but doesn't wandering vaguely downwards sound sooo much better to you?
Anyway, after a time she reached the hallowed confines of the Writers' Cafe, which due to the day was doing a bustling if somewhat disgruntled business. Nothing says "I love this Cafe" more then Writers moaning about the fact that they couldn't get into the Subreality Cafe. The staff was suitably annoyed, and made this fact known with sundry subtle hints.
The horse head in a particularly loud and obnoxious newcomer's beer was well noted, and the clientele quietened their grumbles, at least within hearing of the Staff. Seraph entered this wretched hive of scum and villainy with the vague hope of finding where she'd last stashed her laptop. If you think that you couldn't misplace such an expensive piece of equipment without a lot of trouble, and then frantic searching around with multi-lingual swearing escapades -- you'd be wrong. Seraph regularly misplaced her laptop, it was why she was never without one when she needed it.
She'd long ago stopped questioning this little piece of skewed logic, and just gone with the flow. Whenever she most needed it, it would be there. Which was why, when she reached into the bag beside her, and discovered her laptop, she knew something important was afoot. Of course, it could have been ahand, but we'll assume it had a certain footish shape to it, as most things do in these parts.
Seraph looked unsurprised at the little blinking icon. Sighing in such a way as for it to be known to all around her that she was "putting up" with something, she thought. Words appeared on the screen and a little dialogue box opened, a tinny jingle-jingle sound coming from within.
>:< Al, what the hell is it this time?>:<
>:< What, no, I'm so happy to see you? No, I'm so overjoyed you've got inspiration for me? >:<
>:< I thought tonight was your "Male Muses Staggering Around Subreality Three Sheets To The Wind" Night? >:<
>:< It is, but I thought I'd leave you a little something while I'm away. Garibaldi gave it to me. He said he found it in Shantytown, near Blind Man's way. Think it's from one of your old friends. >:<
>:< What the hell would anyone I know be doing up at Blind Man's way? There's nothing there but bad Science Fiction scenery. >:<
>:< I'm just the Muse, toots. Anyway, I've forwarded to your e-mail account. Have fun. >:<
>:< Toots? >:<
Seraph sighed in resignation and ran her finger over the small inbuilt mouse pad thingie, moving her little angel cursor up to the e-mail icon and double clicking. A small jingle sounded and an annoyingly cheerful voice giggled the words: "You've got mail."
Seraph pondered the bizzarities of Subreality mail, not the least of which was how she could figure out who this person was, and who exactly she should convince to kill this person horribly. Several scenarios trickled through her brain as she waited for the e-mail to stop coming in. It was surprising the amount that could build up when you were away.
What is it with these people, don't they have homes to go to? Prolific little buggers, she mused.
And there it was -- the thing Al had left for her. She double clicked on it, scanning the first few sentences, before pausing, looking about, and going back to the start, a sudden air of intensity coalescing around her, and the soft tap of her finger on the mouse pad the only noise left.
|
To: Seraph They could have changed everything we know into a dream of their own devising. Their idea was brilliant. Their plan was flawless. It was a stroke of genius that would make the greats weep in admiration. There was nobody who could have reversed what they were about to put into motion. That's the reason that I had to kill them both in a shabby apartment building, with its peeling green paint and piles of cigarette butts. I killed one future for the sake of another. That sort of thing occasionally gets to me. Muses are such a naturally paradoxical group that it's amazing that the forces of Subreality don't drive the bleeders totally around the twist during their first day. They are supposed to be figures of inspirations that must first be created by their writers in order to inspire. No wonder some of them just go mad. These two are from some unknown writer who hasn't written much other than Muse fics. After he abandoned them to the realms of capricious fate, they got angry. Actually, more appropriately, they got inspired. You see, Subreality runs like the Earth in one of those futuristic E.E Doc Smith stories. It's got a normal looking upper layer, and just below the surface hides the gears and wires and pistons and big metal hammer things of its mechanics. In our case, it's computer programs, rules of language, and the creative cliches and ideas driven by it. That means that there is an engine of sorts that drives every thing in Subreality, and it's fuelled by the creative energy of the writers. Every new idea adds to the complex computer web that makes up this solipsistic world. That also means that it can be tampered with. The two muses planned to crack Subreality and rewrite the code. That's creativity. It's a typically elegant solution to domination by a pair of sad-bastard fictives left to hang in a Darwinesque environment. The fact that they got left to the ShantyTown is even worse. Not only do they not matter, but no one wants them to matter either. Neither seemed excited at being suddenly outdated. The one is tall and lanky in a typically Sam sort of way, obviously a pastiche of sorts on the gawky teen hero archetype. The girl is short and cute, in a pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt. I've got five bucks that says part of her personality is that she hates dresses. They're cliched cliches, but at least none are bloody pets or something. They like to talk too much at the Collegium or the Collegate, or whatever the hell they called that fluted, marble, neo-classical Acropolis rip off they live in. They love to discuss their great ideas, grand inspirations and huge plans, maniacally ignoring the strings of the puppeteers. They also don't like to look too far into the shadows. There are Muses who do that, and a bastard or two who inhabit them. The rest are just as happy to block it out. I picked up the hints of these two skipping town from them. They used hushed tones, like we use at a funeral or in a hospital room: Such a pity that their writer was gone, it seems. So much potential. Just off to drift for as long as they can. Such gifted cyber-philosophers...do you remember their theory about the structures of Subreality? That was enough to key in my interest, and send me hunting for them. Wasn't hard. Muses don't like to be low-key, and these two had been noticeable in their procurements. The guy was the cracker, a repressed and wistful anarchist element in the writer. The girl was the dreamer with the mind of a mathematician. She was the dangerous one. It was nothing more than a simple twist to the fabric of Subreality to emerge from the shadows of a corner into their apartment. Not a use of writer powers per se, but a skimming on a Hellblazer cliche to get me in. Any longer and I'd have been dying for a smoke. The guy was shocked and angry, but the girl was a viper. She recognized me immediately, if not by face then by intent and situation. I was the bastard in the gears for her, and we were too far into the story for her to fight it much. Her last moments were trickling between her fingers even as I spoke. I'll give the guy credit. He talked about the ideas and dreams they had. He spoke of rights and reality and how the loss of existence just because some lazy prick had found girls, movies, and drugs to replace fanfiction just wasn't fair. And he was almost right, save for the fact that his argument was based on one fallacy. Life isn't supposed to be fair. The girl dropped the pretence. She wanted to control things as a means to survive. That was all she had, and needed, to justify her actions. I could have even felt sorry for them, but what they were doing wasn't right. They were just fictives clinging desperately to the last dregs of survival; poor conflicted pop-characters, with as much of a chance as a sand castle at high tide. A tyrant facing a firing squad is not justified in taking over the country to save himself. So her arguments simply fluttered past in the breeze. I shook my head, and she went for my eyes. He went for his computer. Neither of them made it. I deleted the apartment as I left. Takes a lot of concentration, but it was worth it. This is not the kind of thing you leave lying about for others to play with. A truly saddening metaphor for their passing. For a time they were here, and they meant nothing in the end. There was no joy in the streets as I left for the Cafe. Only a whisper of wind, and then nothing. |
Seraph sat back, rubbing her hand over her eyes as she looked around. The place was almost deserted, the Writers having drifted off as the night fell down around them. She stared blindly at the words on her screen, thoughts ticking over softly as Beast placed a drink beside her and sat down. She looked at him, a tumble of questions pursed on her lips. Finally, she sighed and clicked her laptop off. It was getting late, and the questions would wait until the morning.
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