F3: ‘The Terminal’

Now, I’m not quite sure if this is flash (it’s just over 1000 words), or the opening chapter of something a bit longer. I’ve got some vague ideas of what might happen next.

As ever, crit and comments more than welcome.

THE TERMINAL

Open to the void, the terminal’s absent ceiling is unnerves and unsettles. I’m sitting on the main steps, running my hands over the simulated marble – the texture is right, but the lack of heat data compounds my discomfort.

(20:25:05) RED: Is she there yet? I need another 100 to get the lunchbox into range. At least.

Yanking my attention back from the void, my pupils dart from left to right, picking letters on an invisible keyboard. With a blink, the message is sent.

(20:25:43) Diver: Not yet. Wish you could see this place, Red; it’s bizarre.

In the silence, the clattering of a mechanical departures sign. I turn my head, expecting movement, but there’s nothing. A foolish expectation, particularly taken in the light of the environment’s lack of roof.

“So, what do you think?”

Grace wears a charcoal skirt and matching jacket. Her hair is a mass of tightly wound fronds, the colour of burnt cherry. The only colour in this place, in fact. Grayscale elegance in a haptic mausoleum.

But everyone has their quirks, and my paycheck relies on my willingness to accommodate hers.

(20:27:21) Diver: And I’m on. You ready?

“Stunning.” I say, tipping my trilby. Nice touch; another of Red’s recommendations.

(20:27:40) RED: Think I can see the TV tower. Give me a little longer?

Returning the smile, Grace looks down. “Not me, Perry; the terminal.”

“I know.”

Silence; a window long enough to let my words sink in, but not enough to pass the baton of conversation.

“I was particularly impressed by the-”

(20:29:01) RED: Ha! Think I’ve found the vats.

Red’s comment is the push which topples the tower. Distracted by the floating text, my thoughts dissolve to dust. Grace leans in, touching me gently. The skin texture is real enough, but – as with the marble – the absence of body heat highlights the illusion.

“You okay, Perry?”

I shudder, hoping to dislodge the spectral presence. Or, at the very least, willing Red to stay silent.

“I’m fine.” Standing, I turn to gesture at the monochrome cavern. “Tell me more about this place.”

“Well,” Grace begins, pursing her lips, “Most of the mesh was a favour from this Swedish guy from college. In the year before the crash, he was part of some open source survey of famous sites and spaces. One of those geospatial things.”

I tilt my head sceptically.

“And what about the textures? The sounds? The lighting?”

“Added afterwards. I’ve got a good team working on this. We’re dragging it through beta at the moment – polishing, and plugging the gaps with archive photos and video footage. Right now, there’s a Canadian artist rendering the last of the roof.” Glancing over at the terminal clock, she allows a moment of silence. “Well, perhaps not right now.”

She smiles. Suddenly, I’m extremely aware of the ungrounded artifice of the pinstripe and trilby. I’m not supposed to be here. She’s going to find out, kick me back to the surface, and I’ll watch as the sister’s promises of cash evaporate.

(20:32:15) RED: Keep her talking. I’m trying to kick out the cameras; it shouldn’t take long.

“And what then?” I ask, frowning slightly.

“Well, once testing finishes, we’re hoping to turn it loose on the vintage crowd.”

Her face softens into another smile, triggering a faint pang of guilt. I stand, and walk over to her. Suppressing the niggles of uncertainty, I attempt to inject some amusement into my voice.

“Which explains the clothing.” I say, raising an eyebrow.

“Exactly.” She clasps my hand in hers. “Thanks for coming, Perry. It really means a lot to me.”

(20:34:58) Diver: Shit. Remind me why we’re doing this, Red.

“But you barely know me.” I say, dismissively.

We both listen to the mechanical clattering of the non-existent departures board, giving a dimension to the silence between thoughts.

(20:35:21) RED: A pile of cash? A way of ensuring the long-term mental health of a deeply unstable woman? You tell me.

Rhetorical questions aren’t supposed to have answers, and this revelation is a fist in the stomach.

“A deeply unstable woman?” Red’s words escape my clenched molars. “You didn’t think to tell me that much, did you?”

And then, quiet as a whisper; “She doesn’t seem particularly unstable.”

It takes a couple of moments for my actions to percolate the surface of my monochrome, simulated skull, birthing a moment of pure terror. Her smile hardening, Grace asks who I was talking to. I try to remain nonchalant.

“I didn’t … I mean, I wasn’t-”

She sighs.

“It’s okay, Perry, I think know why you’re here.”

“You do?”

Grace folds her arms.

“And here’s what’s going to happen next; I’m going to ask you to leave.”

“What? Why?”

Back in the vat, my heart and stomach strain against my chest.

(20:37:32) RED: Damnit, Simon, can you hold her a bit longer? I’m almost there.

“You’re going to walk out of that big door over there” – she gestures at the terminal’s main entrance, also opening onto the void, “And, you know what?”

“What?”

(20:37:49) Diver: How? Suggestions would be useful!

“I’ve had enough of your type, Perry – assuming that’s even your real name. You’re going to stay out of my life.”

Anticipating a response from Red, I stay silent. Grace looks at me with determined eyes. Gradually, the initial punch of ventricle-blowing panic dissipates. Screw Red; it’s time for the truth.

“Did you hear-?”

I raise an index finger to my lips, and the question dies in her throat.

“Well, you’re right on one thing, girl; Perry is no more my name than Grace is yours.”

She does a good impression of confusion.

“What the hell do you think you’re talking about?”

“Grace is a pseudonym. What happened to Rosanna Garcia, second in line to the Garcia ethanol fortune? Do me a favour, Rosanna, and look around you-”

I gesture at the gaping darkness.

“How can this be escapism? Without colour, without warmth, this can only be a pale emulation of the real. And the real wants you back, Rosanna. Your sister’s in the real, in Manaus, and she wants you back.”

“Really, I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

On my part, a split-second of doubt.

“… my name is Grace, and-”

(20:39:07) RED: And we’re done. Now, let’s get the hell out of here.

And with Red’s final comments, Grace is expelled from the terminal.

This work is licenced under a Creative Commons Licence.