--B.T.L.: Before the Launch
--Dura-Chamber Archive Scan * 001557
"No, uh, I'm busy tonight, too. Love you," Forster said.
Click.
She hadn't said it back.
This, more than anything, convinced Forster his wife, Chabon, was sleeping with their neighbor.
He couldn't entirely blame her. After Annie's death, Forster made every excuse to avoid coming home. Avoidance was easier than talking to his wife. Talking would make it real. He didn't want to think about how meaningless life was.
No future.
No one had any future, and everyone was too scared to say so. Instead, they went about their lives with passive wrecking balls. Like Chabon and her not so-secret beau. Or Nadine, their youngest, and the new meetup she had joined.
Post-Storm, a myriad of groups had popped up. Many claimed to have a cure. Some claimed to have answers to life behind death. A few were devoted to the new state of the world.
"It's a Green-Eyed sympathizer group," Forster had plainly told her.
She hadn't responded to him. She'd been too busy packing her stuff.
"You had Lete look into them, didn't you?"
Nadine had tossed the question at him quickly, hiding her eyes again to zip her bag.
"Yeah, I did. As long as you're with them, our contact needs to be minimal."
Forster hadn't needed to say to rest: if we speak, it'll look bad for my public image.
Finally, Nadine's dark eyes had locked with his. "Oh, that won't be a problem."
It had been one year since he'd heard Annie's voice and six months since he'd heard Nadine's.
~*~
Dinner alone.
That was his future.
Forster sipped his beer, gaze sweeping the near empty restaurant.
While he enjoyed the privacy, it was unsettling knowing it stemmed from population decline.
Beyond the clear glass panels, the tech bar across the street was packed. The patrons looked like they averaged age fourteen. A furniture store and bank flanked the bar, both with SPACE FOR LEASE signs plastered on the windows. In a world that never aged, there was little need for financial planning or house decor. Or houses.
Forster chortled and took a healthy swig of pale ale.
"Sir?"
He expected the waiter. Instead, a kid in a bike helmet stood, hand extended.
"Yes?"
The kid shoved an envelope in his face. "Delivery, sir."
Forster didn't accept. "Am I being served?"
A laugh. "That's all online now." He could've added, old timer.
Online. Ephemeral.
Like everything else in this un-life.
He reached for the package. "Thanks."
"Yup." And the kid was gone.
Forster tapped the envelope against the linen- covered table. Whatever was in it, it was hefty.
Two minutes later, he still waited for the food. The envelope was the only thing on the table, as the beer mug never left his grip.
Might as well.
He ripped it open, and a thick card fell out. Large, bold lettering declared the impossible:
THE INSTITUTE INVITES YOU ON A MISSION.
THIS IS YOUR CHANCE TO CURE THE STORM.
7890-786
Suddenly, he wasn't hungry.
"Check," he called out.
The word echoed off the ceiling, reverberating off the empty tables surrounding him.
~*~