dark black
by Odious
This is Chapter 17 of King of Spain, the serialized text art that is being channeled to me by a future version of myself called HeirMax98. It's a story about four strangers in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, who discover that they are trapped in some sort of simulation haunted by a strange entity they call, "The Curator".
In Chapter 17 Eden describes the aftermath of Casper's sudden escape from The Grid as she and Dean struggle to remember who they are.
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Paid subscribers can read Chapter 1 here and Chapter 2 here , Chapter 3 here, Chapter 4 here, Chapter 5 here, Chapter 6 here , Chapter 7 here , Chapter 8 here, Chapter 9 here, Chapter 10 here , Chapter 11 here , Chapter 12, here , Chapter 13 here , Chapter 14 is here, Chapter 15 is here, and Chapter 16 is here.
[Eden]
You could get fooled at first. It looks like the old one, it smells and sounds like it (the way things taste, on the other hand, is definitely off), but when you zoom in you notice that everything is drained of natural life/light. Despite the detailed render of the leaves and sparkling river water, we’re being kept inside, like insects in a glass case.
I remember–I think it was just last week–lying on my back and looking up at the fake stars and satellites. They blinked according to a pattern, one that was meaningless but somehow comforting, like waves breaking over and over against the shore. Beside me, Dean arranged and rearranged various objects. Our dead phones were stacked screen down in a pile around which he placed his watch with the band curled into an S, Casper’s lighter, the black vessel of my lipstick container, a metal coil from the retainer Nada had cracked by biting down too hard. There were also twigs (which were strong like wire), tufts of hyper green grass, stones made out of something like concrete. It was the makings of a primitive antenna, with which he said he could hear the language of time itself moving far above us.
“That’s where he is”, I said, “Looking down at us while he hides like a bitch.”
It was something I’d said a thousand times, maybe more. But each time I did I got the same triumphant, tingly feeling.
Now we no longer make it to night so I no longer get to say it.
First thing: I’m on my back waving my claws in the air while Dean tries to wake up Nada. Still. I remember her eyes, the way they are all white. He shakes her and hisses in her ear, like foil crinkling with pressure zaps. But he quickly realizes it’s useless. Part of it is the shock of her naked body, every inch of it carved and oozing with words, some of them not even real. Or maybe they are and I can’t read them anymore. He is holding her away from him a little bit, like a dripping piece of meat as I rush over with my cape, the robot arms flapping together in applause. Sometimes I’m too fast, too loud, and the NPC’s come and it’s already over. Other times I get to cover her up. I get to stroke her hair sticking up like straw.
This world is a zombie: like the NPC’s–like us. At first Dean was adamant that we weren’t being punished–this wasn’t what we deserved any more than the great coral reef deserved to get bleached. But now I know that isn’t true.
Without mirrors I can’t be sure my face still looks the way I remember. I used to see myself in the gaze of the others but now there’s only Dean flashing dark black, slow and then fast, sadness and anger.
Wait, is that a thing? Dark black: is that the way to say it? I’m losing the edges of words. Which is fine because I’m also losing the need to use them. Energy can pass between people outside of their restrictive forms.
I put on my mask and my shades and wait to wake up again.
