Yvern
Just quirky
I'm currently writing a short story on death, set in a dystopian type world. I need to hand it in tomorrow and I need to redraft it, so I was hoping to maybe get some help here! 
If you find any mistakes, inconsistencies and other problems I'd love to know, but mostly, I hope you'll somewhat enjoy my story! Please leave a comment if you do ^^
~~~~~~
Zero.
Zero. The number swims around in his eyes. Gracefully it moves and flexes; a buzz of static interfering with the way it follows him around every step, every move, every corner. Haunting him. It changed shape like clay in a toddler’s hand. Only it’s not their hand playing with the number without substance. It’s mine.
~~~
As usual, I bring him the newspaper. It still has that fresh ink smell to it that I love. A page reluctantly sticks to my fingers, as if drawn to the cold that had spread into them over time. The small header on the right corner of the page might have something to do with its preference. Two Hundred and Fifty Five Dead. Not even a headline, just a page-four-forgotten side note that has been forced to share its space with an ad for Incarnex®, Prozac's new sibling, and an article on the extinction of sea mammals. Respect for Death has faded over the last few years.
“It’s never easy, is it?” The voice that woke me from my daydreams has a singsong tone to it, calming me soon after my surprise. I’m not alone. I only barely know the owner of this voice, but the fact that I do know it at all is enough to bring a mild smile to my features. The past few days have been exhausting.
“I don’t know what you mean, but you’re right.”
“Death.” That I can agree with instantly. My death was far from pleasant, and I’m sure hers wasn’t a walk in the park either. Knowing my own reluctance to address that subject, I don’t ask and instead decide for a neutral subject of mutual interest.
“Wouldn’t want to put anyone else through it, really.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to… You can’t save them out of compassion, it’s our only rule.”
She was the one to teach me this. She was the one to slip. His fault; that’s what I used to think. I blamed him for her disappearance when she broke our one rule. I wanted to hate him for what he’d done to her, but it was impossible. How can I hate someone she loved so much? For months he merely knew me as his girlfriend’s friend, The One Who Never Says Hi. It was true, I never did introduce myself to him when they were still together as a couple, walking that thin line above the abyss that was love, balancing just barely. She knew all too well what she was doing, and despite my constant warnings she kept following the destructive path. I lost her.. I will lose him too. Don’t focus on that. You can’t do anything. I walk into the claustrophobia-inducing set of walls that is our temporary hideout.
“Bram, your daily article is here.”
He is bent over a piece of paper on the coffee table in the middle of makeshift living room; it is the only solid surface accompanied by seating in the entire apartment. Aside from the cheap, dumpsite-salvaged furniture - which consists of one hideously scarred orange couch, the aforementioned plastic coffee table and a garden gnome I’ve named after my old dog Frank - the place is empty. Bram always carries his digital notepad, so I can’t truly count it as part of what belongs here. Neither can I count us. The room still reeks of cleaning spirits and mould, a damp scent that always rests on my lungs and makes me feel itchy for no real reason. The hypochondriac in me never left with the promise of immunity.
“Just a second.” Two seconds later he looks up at me with two soft green eyes. They changed now, only the number Two left in them.
“What were you working on?”
“Quantum coding. A zero-day.” The name is too apt… I wonder what he’ll use the computer virus for. Or thought he would, anyway. His smile wears an edge of pride as he speaks, that one corner of his mouth tugged up a bit. I make sure to memorize it before it fades. “To breach Techpress’ security.”
That sounds hopeful. “What will you do when you’ve gotten past it?”
“Find updates, block communication, shut down whatever operations they have going. Anything to stop what they’ve done… To me, to all the others they put through suffering.”
I understand this better than anyone. No one could have foreseen the effects of keeping this man alive. I shift my weight from one foot to the other and back again, trying to get comfortable, but how can I? I know what will happen. He won’t have the time. If only I could warn him; unfortunately the Seal in my eyes prevents me from disclosing information. We’re both trapped. When I’m confident enough my voice won’t waver, I speak: “They’ll never stop hunting you…”
“I know that.”
“Will you manage to do this from a distance?”
“It’s possible, but could be revealing. They track everything. My system isn’t as advanced as theirs. It might be safer to do a direct transfer with an external drive, but that needs to physically reach their systems. It’s challenging.”
He fetches an external drive about the size of a fingernail and places it on top of the notepad device, where it instantly lights up and begins to absorb the coded data like a metal creature hungry for information. He’s so passionate about this, I can’t resist. He needs me.
“I could do it. They check everything they get their hands on, don’t they?” I know they do, I watched them as they arrested a group of protestors and took their belongings to make sure every scrap of threatening information was first stolen then wiped from whatever held them. Nothing remains.
Bram eyes me with furrowed brows, his fingers clamped around the edge of his notepad. “Yes…”
“If they arrest me with, say, suspicious behaviour or anti-Techpress propaganda, they will check everything I have on me. Imagine that containing a drive with your zero-day…”
His eyes widen, a hint of excitement visible in them while the clock inn them keeps ticking. Changing already… The minutes merge too quickly. She died for him. Now I understand why. I understand why she’d ruin herself to save him. I understand too well.
I know he’s doubting before he speaks again: “I don’t know, man…” The drive lights up green, telling us it’s successfully stored the information inside. As he picks it up, his eyes shift to my hand and the newspaper in it.
“What’s today’s story?”
“Suicide. Suitable for the Wall.”
He nods. “Hopefully it will be one of the last ones to go up there.”
I hand him what is left of the small stack of musky recycled paper and watch him as he cuts. Well-practised and impeccably aligned, the silver blades of his scissors slide; no jagged edges are allowed. A perfect square drops from the newspaper when he’s finished.
Almost every day, he repeats the process. Cutting. Sticking. Watching. At first, his habit – no, obsession – mystified me. It is an expensive one too. Newspapers like the ones he cut to pieces had become a novelty item as internet took over the purpose of the printing press, and paper became more and more expensive with the deforestation laws enforced by Biotech™ ministers. But guilt keeps us both trapped in a treadmill. We have to buy them. I can almost hear his thoughts mirroring mine. My fault. She’s gone. They’re gone.
I turn to gaze at the wall-length mural of cut out paper fragments, all perfect rectangular shapes with not a single tear or fold, aligned to fit into one another with unmatched precision. Only we know why. In the middle, the heart of the problem:
REINCARNATION PROVEN BY TECHPRESS® SCIENTISTS
Years of research finally reveal the truth behind what the project called ‘the Unknown’.
Surrounding it are the first articles of the chaos that was ensued. Christians protest against recent discovery. Religious Rebellion Against Techpress®. Times Square Shooting Kills 43. Suicide Rate Increases Rapidly. Shortage of Workers Causes Economic Crisis. Religious Practices Banned By Law.
Bit by bit, one square at a time, the chaos was forced to the background where it didn’t belong.
Bram is the key. No one could’ve known beforehand that he would be the human to cause the proof of reincarnation. The experiments he’d undergone left permanent marking on him; physically and mentally. Guilt has both of us in its tight iron grip, but neither of us deserves it. I know where to put the blame. All those victims, Techpress, the government; what none of them understand is that a person is more than merely a soul. It’s Soul + Experience + Memory + Body = Person. A formula. A code like Bram’s. Intricate and fragile, devised over years of time and influencing the lives around it as they’re caught in its spell. Like she was caught… Like I am now.
He tapes the new cut-out to the wall with a feather light touch to make sure nothing would shift or crinkle or overlap. I stand by him silently.
“No one will forget. They ruined lives.”
“I’m sure no one will” My hand rests on his shoulder. I don’t have to see it to know, I’ve been counting down for ages. One. His hand is still clenched around the zero-day drive. My hands itch to save him. Doesn’t he have a higher purpose?
It’s time. I feel the presence before the sound of a knock reaches us. They’re here. I’m losing him… My friend, her friend, our destruction. He knows it too as he rushes to get his notepad, then turns to me.
“Here.” In my hand is the tiny square holding a possible ticket to freedom. Zero-day… “If they get to me, you know what to do.”
I want to tell him they won’t get to him. That he’ll be safe. But I just nod. I can’t lie, not to Bram.
Their voices are muffled by the mouth piece of their suits as they yell: “Open the door!” and “Show yourself!”
“Time to move.”
Then I know what to do. “Go. I’ll follow in a minute.” Knowing me, Bram doesn’t ask questions. I know my rules. I can’t bring him back to life. Killing the threat, however, is not unspoken of. My hand is about to grip the iron handle on the front door, when it flies back into my arm under the force of their kick. Life is not something I may decide about, but death… Death is my specialty.
My scythe materializes before their fearful eyes. All I have to do is slice. One swing. Cut through the expensive black suits they wear to protect themselves from my wrath. I raise my scythe and bring it down upon their faith. It’s all it takes.
“Move!” I shout as I jump into the seat. Hands shaking, breath raging, I wait for some signal. Some proof. Something to show me he’ll stay. Please stay. I can’t bring myself to look at him. I look back.
No one follows.
“Did we lose them?”
“I think we have.”
A small grin materializes on his features. A celebration. He looks. Just a quick look over his shoulder. One slip.
“Bram!” Wheels skidding on asphalt, screaming as we slip too close. Slow motion racing. The impact of the tree. His hands clenched around the steering wheel, notepad in his pocket. Zero-day in mine. I shout, yell. I know it’s too late.
Zero.
~~~
On the wall, above all others, a new article. Finally a headline again:
TECHPRESS® BANKRUPT AFTER SCANDALS EXPOSED BY ZERO-DAY
If you find any mistakes, inconsistencies and other problems I'd love to know, but mostly, I hope you'll somewhat enjoy my story! Please leave a comment if you do ^^
~~~~~~
Zero.
Zero. The number swims around in his eyes. Gracefully it moves and flexes; a buzz of static interfering with the way it follows him around every step, every move, every corner. Haunting him. It changed shape like clay in a toddler’s hand. Only it’s not their hand playing with the number without substance. It’s mine.
~~~
As usual, I bring him the newspaper. It still has that fresh ink smell to it that I love. A page reluctantly sticks to my fingers, as if drawn to the cold that had spread into them over time. The small header on the right corner of the page might have something to do with its preference. Two Hundred and Fifty Five Dead. Not even a headline, just a page-four-forgotten side note that has been forced to share its space with an ad for Incarnex®, Prozac's new sibling, and an article on the extinction of sea mammals. Respect for Death has faded over the last few years.
“It’s never easy, is it?” The voice that woke me from my daydreams has a singsong tone to it, calming me soon after my surprise. I’m not alone. I only barely know the owner of this voice, but the fact that I do know it at all is enough to bring a mild smile to my features. The past few days have been exhausting.
“I don’t know what you mean, but you’re right.”
“Death.” That I can agree with instantly. My death was far from pleasant, and I’m sure hers wasn’t a walk in the park either. Knowing my own reluctance to address that subject, I don’t ask and instead decide for a neutral subject of mutual interest.
“Wouldn’t want to put anyone else through it, really.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to… You can’t save them out of compassion, it’s our only rule.”
She was the one to teach me this. She was the one to slip. His fault; that’s what I used to think. I blamed him for her disappearance when she broke our one rule. I wanted to hate him for what he’d done to her, but it was impossible. How can I hate someone she loved so much? For months he merely knew me as his girlfriend’s friend, The One Who Never Says Hi. It was true, I never did introduce myself to him when they were still together as a couple, walking that thin line above the abyss that was love, balancing just barely. She knew all too well what she was doing, and despite my constant warnings she kept following the destructive path. I lost her.. I will lose him too. Don’t focus on that. You can’t do anything. I walk into the claustrophobia-inducing set of walls that is our temporary hideout.
“Bram, your daily article is here.”
He is bent over a piece of paper on the coffee table in the middle of makeshift living room; it is the only solid surface accompanied by seating in the entire apartment. Aside from the cheap, dumpsite-salvaged furniture - which consists of one hideously scarred orange couch, the aforementioned plastic coffee table and a garden gnome I’ve named after my old dog Frank - the place is empty. Bram always carries his digital notepad, so I can’t truly count it as part of what belongs here. Neither can I count us. The room still reeks of cleaning spirits and mould, a damp scent that always rests on my lungs and makes me feel itchy for no real reason. The hypochondriac in me never left with the promise of immunity.
“Just a second.” Two seconds later he looks up at me with two soft green eyes. They changed now, only the number Two left in them.
“What were you working on?”
“Quantum coding. A zero-day.” The name is too apt… I wonder what he’ll use the computer virus for. Or thought he would, anyway. His smile wears an edge of pride as he speaks, that one corner of his mouth tugged up a bit. I make sure to memorize it before it fades. “To breach Techpress’ security.”
That sounds hopeful. “What will you do when you’ve gotten past it?”
“Find updates, block communication, shut down whatever operations they have going. Anything to stop what they’ve done… To me, to all the others they put through suffering.”
I understand this better than anyone. No one could have foreseen the effects of keeping this man alive. I shift my weight from one foot to the other and back again, trying to get comfortable, but how can I? I know what will happen. He won’t have the time. If only I could warn him; unfortunately the Seal in my eyes prevents me from disclosing information. We’re both trapped. When I’m confident enough my voice won’t waver, I speak: “They’ll never stop hunting you…”
“I know that.”
“Will you manage to do this from a distance?”
“It’s possible, but could be revealing. They track everything. My system isn’t as advanced as theirs. It might be safer to do a direct transfer with an external drive, but that needs to physically reach their systems. It’s challenging.”
He fetches an external drive about the size of a fingernail and places it on top of the notepad device, where it instantly lights up and begins to absorb the coded data like a metal creature hungry for information. He’s so passionate about this, I can’t resist. He needs me.
“I could do it. They check everything they get their hands on, don’t they?” I know they do, I watched them as they arrested a group of protestors and took their belongings to make sure every scrap of threatening information was first stolen then wiped from whatever held them. Nothing remains.
Bram eyes me with furrowed brows, his fingers clamped around the edge of his notepad. “Yes…”
“If they arrest me with, say, suspicious behaviour or anti-Techpress propaganda, they will check everything I have on me. Imagine that containing a drive with your zero-day…”
His eyes widen, a hint of excitement visible in them while the clock inn them keeps ticking. Changing already… The minutes merge too quickly. She died for him. Now I understand why. I understand why she’d ruin herself to save him. I understand too well.
I know he’s doubting before he speaks again: “I don’t know, man…” The drive lights up green, telling us it’s successfully stored the information inside. As he picks it up, his eyes shift to my hand and the newspaper in it.
“What’s today’s story?”
“Suicide. Suitable for the Wall.”
He nods. “Hopefully it will be one of the last ones to go up there.”
I hand him what is left of the small stack of musky recycled paper and watch him as he cuts. Well-practised and impeccably aligned, the silver blades of his scissors slide; no jagged edges are allowed. A perfect square drops from the newspaper when he’s finished.
Almost every day, he repeats the process. Cutting. Sticking. Watching. At first, his habit – no, obsession – mystified me. It is an expensive one too. Newspapers like the ones he cut to pieces had become a novelty item as internet took over the purpose of the printing press, and paper became more and more expensive with the deforestation laws enforced by Biotech™ ministers. But guilt keeps us both trapped in a treadmill. We have to buy them. I can almost hear his thoughts mirroring mine. My fault. She’s gone. They’re gone.
I turn to gaze at the wall-length mural of cut out paper fragments, all perfect rectangular shapes with not a single tear or fold, aligned to fit into one another with unmatched precision. Only we know why. In the middle, the heart of the problem:
REINCARNATION PROVEN BY TECHPRESS® SCIENTISTS
Years of research finally reveal the truth behind what the project called ‘the Unknown’.
Surrounding it are the first articles of the chaos that was ensued. Christians protest against recent discovery. Religious Rebellion Against Techpress®. Times Square Shooting Kills 43. Suicide Rate Increases Rapidly. Shortage of Workers Causes Economic Crisis. Religious Practices Banned By Law.
Bit by bit, one square at a time, the chaos was forced to the background where it didn’t belong.
Bram is the key. No one could’ve known beforehand that he would be the human to cause the proof of reincarnation. The experiments he’d undergone left permanent marking on him; physically and mentally. Guilt has both of us in its tight iron grip, but neither of us deserves it. I know where to put the blame. All those victims, Techpress, the government; what none of them understand is that a person is more than merely a soul. It’s Soul + Experience + Memory + Body = Person. A formula. A code like Bram’s. Intricate and fragile, devised over years of time and influencing the lives around it as they’re caught in its spell. Like she was caught… Like I am now.
He tapes the new cut-out to the wall with a feather light touch to make sure nothing would shift or crinkle or overlap. I stand by him silently.
“No one will forget. They ruined lives.”
“I’m sure no one will” My hand rests on his shoulder. I don’t have to see it to know, I’ve been counting down for ages. One. His hand is still clenched around the zero-day drive. My hands itch to save him. Doesn’t he have a higher purpose?
It’s time. I feel the presence before the sound of a knock reaches us. They’re here. I’m losing him… My friend, her friend, our destruction. He knows it too as he rushes to get his notepad, then turns to me.
“Here.” In my hand is the tiny square holding a possible ticket to freedom. Zero-day… “If they get to me, you know what to do.”
I want to tell him they won’t get to him. That he’ll be safe. But I just nod. I can’t lie, not to Bram.
Their voices are muffled by the mouth piece of their suits as they yell: “Open the door!” and “Show yourself!”
“Time to move.”
Then I know what to do. “Go. I’ll follow in a minute.” Knowing me, Bram doesn’t ask questions. I know my rules. I can’t bring him back to life. Killing the threat, however, is not unspoken of. My hand is about to grip the iron handle on the front door, when it flies back into my arm under the force of their kick. Life is not something I may decide about, but death… Death is my specialty.
My scythe materializes before their fearful eyes. All I have to do is slice. One swing. Cut through the expensive black suits they wear to protect themselves from my wrath. I raise my scythe and bring it down upon their faith. It’s all it takes.
“Move!” I shout as I jump into the seat. Hands shaking, breath raging, I wait for some signal. Some proof. Something to show me he’ll stay. Please stay. I can’t bring myself to look at him. I look back.
No one follows.
“Did we lose them?”
“I think we have.”
A small grin materializes on his features. A celebration. He looks. Just a quick look over his shoulder. One slip.
“Bram!” Wheels skidding on asphalt, screaming as we slip too close. Slow motion racing. The impact of the tree. His hands clenched around the steering wheel, notepad in his pocket. Zero-day in mine. I shout, yell. I know it’s too late.
Zero.
~~~
On the wall, above all others, a new article. Finally a headline again:
TECHPRESS® BANKRUPT AFTER SCANDALS EXPOSED BY ZERO-DAY
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