The beginning of the end of everything was not a fiery cataclysm, nor was it the rippling effect of a scientist's blunder. The beginning of the end was a thought that materialized, slipping heavily out of a space between gears in the brain. Profane knowledge had been born into the world, and the Old Gods were unhappy. Their experiment had failed, and it needed to be terminated.
The people living in the final huddle of society — their cheeks lightly powdered with the dust of buildings, their skin exfoliated by rubble — struggled to rationalize this new existence. Every last one of them had been ripped from the chain of gestures, pleasantries, trifles, and interactions that we see as life; they had been deposited in a shrinking circle of matter in which their ambitions were being viciously, intentionally stamped out by immutable forces. The failings of reality made themselves clear immediately, and so the remaining living things were ousted from the physical world and had to rapidly make terms with the cognitive one.
Web had not eaten or drunk in seven months. All the mundane tasks that had once interspersed his days were gone. The Convergence, this harsh, shrinking place, was the last remnant of what the human race had known as "life." The changes were terrifying to him, or at least, he knew that they should've been. He did not feel the need to eat or drink or burp or yawn or cry or scratch the upper third of his back or pee or poop or . . . feel. All he had now was boredom and sleep. Dreams were the only luxury the Old Gods had left the remnants of existence. It was faux escapism — false in the sense that many inhabitants of the Convergence still felt trapped, even in their dreams. They were still tethered to reality, even in its withered, shriveled state.
Web had been staring at the Boundary for two days. It moved and sounded like a living, breathing wall of flesh, yet it dripped like ink; it was abyssal, a black so deep and dark that it made long-buried caves look like they were bathed in gentle summer sunshine. Humming, quivering sighs emanated from the holes in its quilted surface. He saw more life in this monstrosity than in any of the people around him. It felt as if the very sight of it was slowly enveloping him. It's pulsing surface beckoned him to come just a little closer --
"Hey. Stop." A soft-spoken woman dressed in all black — save for a white trench coat too large for her — called out to Web. "I don't think it's a very good idea to touch that thing. It'd probably swallow you up, just like it did to everything . . . everyone . . . else."
"Yeah. Yeah, thanks," he said. There was a momentary silence, and then the woman, the hue of a dead channel, static blurring behind a screen, said, "Could you deliver this letter for me, maybe? I'd appreciate it, and I'd bet you probably would too. Something to do . . . ?" Web didn't even need to consider the offer.
"I could do that, sure. What's the occasion?"
"Well, me and this stranger, we've been in correspondence for a while. It's a comfort of mine, with . . . all this." What she left unspoken loomed among the clouds.
"Where exactly am I bringing it?" Web said.
"Just across town. Tallest building still standing. There's a red door on the fourth floor." She smiled, slightly. It was an expression Web hadn't seen in a long time — its unfamiliarity was bitter in a refreshing way, like coffee in the early hours of morning.
"He'll know who sent it," she said.
Web began to walk. The carcasses of infrastructure and the bones of buildings formed a beautiful topography. The Convergence contained its own small hills and mountains, flatlands and valleys, though it was all compressed into a circle with a diameter just short of a mile. He passed people on his journey, but was ignored. Isolation was burnt into every pore and crack of this place and its people; Web had been a severe introvert, previously, but that was a luxury compared to the sinkhole that currently existed within his mind.
He found the towering building soon enough. As he climbed the stairs, he was forced to step over people lost in sleep. He left the stairwell, and quickly found the door, knocking three times. A man answered and beckoned Web inside; he seemed unusually quiet, even for a resident of the Convergence, until Web understood that he was deaf. The man's house was startlingly well cared for, though teetering stacks of books seemed to occupy more floor space than furniture.
He handed the man the letter. The man opened it slowly, carefully, then read it. Web stood there awkwardly, careful to avoid knocking over the books. The man smiled. This confused Web. People did not smile in the Convergence — certainly not two people in one day. Web fumbled for something to write on, and then scribbled a quick note. It read: What's in the letter?
Web tapped the deaf man on the shoulder, pointing to the note. The deaf man wrote something on a separate piece of paper, then showed it to Web.
It is a story. I send her stories from my life and she sends me stories from hers. We are both good storytellers. We have to be.
Web half-frowned, half-nodded, then stumbled out of the apartment, down the steps, into the raddled rubble. He stumbled through the next few days. His mind struggled with new possibilities. Then, one night, he dreamed of friends, from so long ago, friends who were all dead now. It was a powerful dream, poignant yet joyful; it had somehow slipped past the notice of the Old Gods. Darkness melted into light as his eyes opened, and then Web sat up, blankets pooled around him, the suggestion of a smile on his chapped lips, and he felt something like life.
The people living in the final huddle of society — their cheeks lightly powdered with the dust of buildings, their skin exfoliated by rubble — struggled to rationalize this new existence. Every last one of them had been ripped from the chain of gestures, pleasantries, trifles, and interactions that we see as life; they had been deposited in a shrinking circle of matter in which their ambitions were being viciously, intentionally stamped out by immutable forces. The failings of reality made themselves clear immediately, and so the remaining living things were ousted from the physical world and had to rapidly make terms with the cognitive one.
Web had not eaten or drunk in seven months. All the mundane tasks that had once interspersed his days were gone. The Convergence, this harsh, shrinking place, was the last remnant of what the human race had known as "life." The changes were terrifying to him, or at least, he knew that they should've been. He did not feel the need to eat or drink or burp or yawn or cry or scratch the upper third of his back or pee or poop or . . . feel. All he had now was boredom and sleep. Dreams were the only luxury the Old Gods had left the remnants of existence. It was faux escapism — false in the sense that many inhabitants of the Convergence still felt trapped, even in their dreams. They were still tethered to reality, even in its withered, shriveled state.
Web had been staring at the Boundary for two days. It moved and sounded like a living, breathing wall of flesh, yet it dripped like ink; it was abyssal, a black so deep and dark that it made long-buried caves look like they were bathed in gentle summer sunshine. Humming, quivering sighs emanated from the holes in its quilted surface. He saw more life in this monstrosity than in any of the people around him. It felt as if the very sight of it was slowly enveloping him. It's pulsing surface beckoned him to come just a little closer --
"Hey. Stop." A soft-spoken woman dressed in all black — save for a white trench coat too large for her — called out to Web. "I don't think it's a very good idea to touch that thing. It'd probably swallow you up, just like it did to everything . . . everyone . . . else."
"Yeah. Yeah, thanks," he said. There was a momentary silence, and then the woman, the hue of a dead channel, static blurring behind a screen, said, "Could you deliver this letter for me, maybe? I'd appreciate it, and I'd bet you probably would too. Something to do . . . ?" Web didn't even need to consider the offer.
"I could do that, sure. What's the occasion?"
"Well, me and this stranger, we've been in correspondence for a while. It's a comfort of mine, with . . . all this." What she left unspoken loomed among the clouds.
"Where exactly am I bringing it?" Web said.
"Just across town. Tallest building still standing. There's a red door on the fourth floor." She smiled, slightly. It was an expression Web hadn't seen in a long time — its unfamiliarity was bitter in a refreshing way, like coffee in the early hours of morning.
"He'll know who sent it," she said.
Web began to walk. The carcasses of infrastructure and the bones of buildings formed a beautiful topography. The Convergence contained its own small hills and mountains, flatlands and valleys, though it was all compressed into a circle with a diameter just short of a mile. He passed people on his journey, but was ignored. Isolation was burnt into every pore and crack of this place and its people; Web had been a severe introvert, previously, but that was a luxury compared to the sinkhole that currently existed within his mind.
He found the towering building soon enough. As he climbed the stairs, he was forced to step over people lost in sleep. He left the stairwell, and quickly found the door, knocking three times. A man answered and beckoned Web inside; he seemed unusually quiet, even for a resident of the Convergence, until Web understood that he was deaf. The man's house was startlingly well cared for, though teetering stacks of books seemed to occupy more floor space than furniture.
He handed the man the letter. The man opened it slowly, carefully, then read it. Web stood there awkwardly, careful to avoid knocking over the books. The man smiled. This confused Web. People did not smile in the Convergence — certainly not two people in one day. Web fumbled for something to write on, and then scribbled a quick note. It read: What's in the letter?
Web tapped the deaf man on the shoulder, pointing to the note. The deaf man wrote something on a separate piece of paper, then showed it to Web.
It is a story. I send her stories from my life and she sends me stories from hers. We are both good storytellers. We have to be.
Web half-frowned, half-nodded, then stumbled out of the apartment, down the steps, into the raddled rubble. He stumbled through the next few days. His mind struggled with new possibilities. Then, one night, he dreamed of friends, from so long ago, friends who were all dead now. It was a powerful dream, poignant yet joyful; it had somehow slipped past the notice of the Old Gods. Darkness melted into light as his eyes opened, and then Web sat up, blankets pooled around him, the suggestion of a smile on his chapped lips, and he felt something like life.