The Phoenix Project (Starcaller&Abstraktia)

[Starcaller]

First breath of the morning seemed to be the most difficult yet, he found, that moment in time, trapped between dream and reality, the moment when the two different worlds broke apart from one another, disentangled. It felt like coming back to the surface after a long dive to the bottom of the ocean, so far down and so long that he could feel his lungs hurting in need of air; that first breath caused so much more pain than good. The remnants of dreams were slowly fading from existence, disappearing completely once his eyes opened, washed over by brilliant, white light that invaded his brain, causing discomfort and making him close his eyes again for the time being. How was it that each time, he woke up facing the window? It was strange, it was as if his sleeping-self sought that, tried to find a way to chase away dreams that didn't feel like they belonged to him. As nights went by, it seemed that these dreams became more prevalent and more complex, and at some points they blended in with the reality thereafter so well that they were causing him to be confused. And yet, there was something not quite right with these dreams, almost as if they belonged to someone else entirely; he knew he'd glimpsed his own arms in one, and they were adorned with tattoos, both, tattoos which he didn't have. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps it was his imagination playing with him.

Shyly, he fluttered his eyelids opened again, squinting, gradually letting the particles of light filter through. If only it had been a more benevolent, pleasant kind of light. This felt almost as bad as being made to stare at a lightbulb from up close. The outlines of the tall buildings just across from his apartment block became shadows in the bright glow, and through the spaces between them he could get a glimpse of the city proper; after all, this was the periphery. He brought his hand up to his eyes and gazed at it against the light, almost as if he was curious about it. He moved his index finger, following the movement with a curiosity that was more befit of a child than a grown man. His middle finger was next, and then all, the open hand closing into a fist, then opening again as if to check for something. It was, more than anything, a deep state of contemplation, a reason for him to spend a little more time in bed.

Thoughts swarmed his mind again, questions he'd asked himself a million times over in the past month and a half. Each new day, they became more elaborate the more indepth he was thinking about all this. About that day when he'd woken up at that hospital, confused as to where he was and, more importantly, who he was. About being told that no one knew a thing about him, that as far as the system was concerned, he did not exist and about how he apparently suffered from a rare form of amnesia. And here he was now, given a new identity, a new life, and a new home.

Although in all fairness, one could hardly call "boxes" homes.

In 2050, few could afford the luxury of having extended living quarters, apartments, condos, and even fewer, houses. And those on the lower end of the spectrum? For them, there was an entire area surrounding the city dedicated to tall blocks of small, claustrophobic living quarters called boxes. Small rooms, barely enough for one person to move in, consisting of a main room with a kitchenette and a bed, and a very small bathroom with just a toilet, a small sink and a shower cabin for one person, all just barely enough to fulfill the basic needs. Mighty uncomfortable, but better than sleeping with no roof over your head, or, in his case, in a medical facility. This was preferable to either option.

He pushed himself up on an elbow to better gaze out the window his bed was right next to, a broader view to the world from his little box. One more day of braving it, and today, of all days, today should be a rather interesting day. A few more moments of gazing out the window were enough before he at at last pushed himself into a sitting position, turning around and letting his legs dangle off the edge of the bed until feet finally planted against the floor. He let out a yawn and scratched the back of his head, blinking a few more times to drive any sign of the sleep away.

"Coffee." He ordered, groggily, and right away a small coffee maker on the kitchenette's counter turned on, beginning to prepare the drink. He rubbed his eyes and finally stood up, dragging his feet along to the bathroom.

With morning routine out of the way, he began preparing to leave the house. He sat himself down to drink his coffee, gazing out the window contemplatively as he did so. The more he thought about it, the more this day painted itself out to be a strange one; after all, he was going to visit the grave of a man he never knew. Yet for whatever reason, he felt some sort of connection. Perhaps they knew each other before all this, and maybe he could've been the key to learning who he really was. Too late, however, that man had been dead for more than a year. What was visiting his grave going to accomplish? He didn't know, but he felt that he had to.


With the mid-autumn weather, he had to grab a coat before heading outside, coat which he pulled onto himself as he headed for the elevator. Did all box blocks feel so empty? Because his sure did, even in spite of the fact that it was packed down to the last man, and in spite of that, it was quiet as a graveyard, and even lonelier than that. Come to think of it, not once had he even seen any of his neighbors, not from up close, anyway. Out in the streets wasn't any better, not in this part of town, not in this grey concrete jungle with so little in terms of diversity. All blocks were built all the same, symmetrical, nothing but copies of each other, there was a severe lack of the neons and flashy lights that stole one's eye in the city's center, nothing to even look at, really; life on the edge of the city didn't get more interesting than that.

The train station wasn't much more interesting, either, populated by only a few street punks and a couple of commuters, but such was life here, and he had gotten used to it. The train that arrived was a shocking splash of color, a stark contrast, almost as if arriving from another world entirely. Truth was, really, that edge and city center were two different worlds. And seeing as the train was nearly full of people coming from the better world, it made him feel like an outsider. All through the ride, he sat quietly in a more secluded area, gazing out the window as he continued to sift through his mind. All the while, the train's rails slowly ascended to a position from where they were far off the ground, and thus, the train's windows allowed a far broader view of the cityscape. It was quite magnificent, to say the least, especially thinking about the fact that this all was man-made. But for a man who didn't know all that much, he knew well enough that this was just a facade, and that right down below them was a pit of angry vipers. Too many people in this city seemed to be so discontent with their lives and blaming their shortcomings on others that it was surprising that the crime statistics weren't even higher than this.

An hour later, he was taking a stroll through the long corridors of memorial plaques, eyes scanning each and every one for one name: Matthew B. Walsh. This could have very well taken days, he realized, as there were countless of plaques as far as the eye could see. How many people were even interred here? By the looks of it, it could easily compete with the city's living population, and the numbers had only been bolstered in recent years what with civil unrest as well as unabated gang wars and crime.

Yet, in all that sea of names and sometimes faces, he seemed to find his way easily, and, after twenty minutes, he finally hit on the right one. The one he was looking for.

Matthew B. Walsh

16.08.2023-21.10.2049

People die, memories are forever.

The epitaph, it seemed, was the epitome of irony considering the situation, and he found himself smirking as he stopped in front of the grave, gazing upon the memorial plaque. The date immediately struck him, seeing as today marked just one year since this man had passed. If anyone wanted to talk about strange coincidences, this was it. It couldn't have become stranger than this, and yet, he had not the first clue about what would be next.​

 

[Paillettes]

"You do know you have to stop putting it off, right?" The voice was familiar and it felt like a deja vu which was nothing out of the ordinary. Garett, her coworker, stood over her, the same exasperated look on his face, watching her put away the same file that she had been, for the past few days. She knew she should get it done but something was stopping her from stamping that paperwork or reading it, for that matter. It had his name on it and it was just painful at this point of time. Looking at the beige file cover, she sighed and looked up. "Matthew's been dead, almost a year." He continued again.
"One year," she confirmed and looked out of the window. "Exactly one year today." Eleanor looked out through the window. Even though she had been living here for the past ten-ish years, the lack of trees was disappointing still. There were greys of all shades and neons that only shone in the evening or night. It might as well have something to do with missing her home town dearly. There were trees there, all shades of orange and yellow and red at this time of the year and she wanted to leave here.

Except, well, she couldn't.

"I'm so sorry, Elle," She heard Garett say and Eleanor, at the moment wasn't to sure how to react to him. She just shrugged and gave him a small smile. She had tried so hard to forget this for the past few days but it seemed that the universe wasn't in favor of it. Everything reminded her of him and she found it strange, almost obsessive of herself to find him in the little things around herself. Like the stale coffee from the machine that he hated so much whenever he came to visit and complained, even though he never drank it himself, the clutter of files and papers on her desk, how he mocked her for having too many binders but none serving the purpose for which they were bought and it had annoyed her to no end everyday when he was here. And now that he wasn't here, there was no body to make her more coffee when she finished it, especially in the middle of the night when she was neck deep in paper work. Most of all, there was nobody to put her arm around as she fell asleep only to find his arm around her, when she woke up.

It seemed, as though even the mattress taunted her of the fact that he wasn't here anymore.

And Ellie knew she couldn't go down that spiral, at least not right now. She had some things to do, to solve, fix and there wasn't enough time to mourn. At least not right now. So, she lowered her head down, deciding to glue her eyes to the file in front of her, at least for now till she had enough time to mourn, till she could mourn. For now, it was words, allegations, statements and annoyance. And of course, death. Seemed that the universe wasn't going to let her be in peace but she really hoped that Matthew was.

Hours and hours of toiling through the files, Eleanor finally found her footing, having gone through at least enough of the pile that she didn't have to stay there anymore. She was done, probably an hour after the office timings supposedly ended for the day. Having grabbed her coat and bag, she headed down the steep staircase that spiraled onto the ground floor of the building. She knew that as usual her timing was off, something Matthew usually hated. The night changed the city into something monstrous, not that the day was much better but at least you knew what you were walking into. Luckily, she still had an hour of light on her.

Hailing down a cab, Eleanor slid in, telling the driver of her situation while she juggled her bag and her wallet and waited for him to start down, having grabbed some flowers from the little flower shop near the office building and while the cab pulled through the road, she found herself wanting to return back. A year ago, the same day, she had been in the hostel, desperately wishing for a miracle but of course, the universe wasn't a wish granting factory. So, maybe that was that. End of a wishful Eleanor.

The cemetery was all too familiar as the cab pulled up and she paid. Her feet seemed to jam into the ground once she was out of the cab and watched it drive away, and then the gate. It was... cold. It felt all too cold. The stones, the silence, the fall. It was probably just a bit too much to take. Fall was the season of death. Nobody knew that better than her, having lost a lot of her life in the fall. So, she stopped, sucked in a breath and told herself that Matthew didn't deserve to be alone today. Part of her wished he was watching over her, that he knew the conversations she had with him sometimes, that he read the letters she wrote her after he was gone, that he knew how much she missed him and he would come back. Somehow. Anyhow. But it was too wishful.

And she continued giving herself a pep talk for another few minutes before pulling her coat closer to herself, having unglued her feet from the asphalt she stood on and managed to trace her steps to where he had been lowered into the ground. She was ready with words for him that he would never hear, ready with a letter that he would never read and flowers he would never smell. Death was cruel yet realistic. A bit too realistic and it left no open ends for wishfulness, which was something that Eleanor continued telling herself, till she quite almost bumped right into somebody at Matthew's grave.

And it was probably enough for her to lose her composure, or at least, what she had been reeling in, of herself. At first, she believed that her weak motor skills- another thing that Matthew endearingly made fun of - were acting up, but a look at the stone and she knew she was in the right place but this man probably wasn't. Or was he? "Um... Hi?" She said, a bit apprehensively. "Did you know him?" She questioned but it seemed like a bit of a stupid question, depending on how he answered it. Why would somebody want to waste their time looking at gravestones of people they didn't know?

 

[Starcaller]

He'd been standing for a good while there, and why, really? No amount of staring at a date and name was going to help, was it? Couldn't help with the overwhelming feeling that somehow, this man had been important to him in some way. Perhaps they'd been good friends, or maybe, even more. But why then, why did he never see the man's face in his dreams? It was strange. He'd seen so many other things, even the door of the apartment where he'd lived, but his face? This was all too strange.

At last, after at least an hour spent there, simply pondering, meditating, even, he decided that enough was enough. Perhaps it was for the best that he never learned, never got to the bottom of this. Perhaps his previous life had been all sorts of fucked up and this was a fresh, clean beginning. Why not take advantage of it? Not many people got a second chance like that, right? He was fully prepared to embrace it, and, after casting a last gaze upon the memorial tablet, he turned around, ready to leave. But as his eyes trailed the pathway ahead of him, they suddenly stopped upon a figure that had somehow approached him without him even noticing it, too lost in his thoughts.

This face... as soon as he saw it, he remained fixed in place. He tried to recall it from his dreams, but he hadn't seen it there. No, he hadn't seen her face, but for some reason, it felt familiar. And even more familiar was her voice, which managed to evoke a storm of emotions from deep within, ones which he tried to fight with. What the hell was going on here? The more he looked at the woman, the harder it was for him to ignore just how familiar she was. But... why? Why did he feel the way he felt towards someone he'd just met, why in the world did he feel the urge to just...

No. He had to control whatever was eating at him. He took a breath and tried to find words, tried to push away everything else. What was he to tell her? Surely, telling her the truth would sound like utter madness. What, then? Well, it seemed that she had, in her question, served him the perfect lie. Or had she? Who was this woman? His sister? His lover? If he lied now, would he be able to back it up later, in any way? Every new question that came just gave birth to more questions, and all the answers could very well have been with the woman in front of him. Whatever the case, he had to make up something and do it fast, and make himself believable.

"Hm?" He came up, as if taken by surprise, not that he had to act like it. "Oh. Oh, uhm, yeah, I..." He thought for a moment, trying to stall. "Matt and I were uh... we were friends. Kinda grew up together, actually. Sort of." He said, and now, he expected the worst. If this was the man's sister, he knew she could easily call out his lie, unless Matthew really did have a childhood friend."​