Chapter Text
The wheel of time turns ever on, and you must turn with it. Sleep, and enjoy your peace. You will miss it, soon enough.
---
Your name is Karl Vates, and today is your eighteenth birthday. Nothing special is happening, nothing at all, because nothing ever does. It's early, too early, the sun just barely cresting over the horizon, but there's nothing unusual about that, even if it is a school day; you've been having a difficult time sleeping lately.
Not just lately, really. Ever since you were a baby. Your father used to joke that it was because you hated everything so much, you wanted to stay awake so that if the universe did anything objectionable overnight, you'd know about it. Funny man, your father. He'd like to think so, at least. Too bad he's too busy with his mistress and their son to pay you any attention.
You dreamed of him last night, and you can still feel his ghostly fingertips on your skin, if you try. You're not a homosexual, you're sure of it (alright, like, ninety percent sure, okay, Solomon? Is that good enough for you, asshole? Get off my back.) but every time you wake up with an unknown name on the tip of your tongue and an empty ache in your heart, you wish just a little more that he was real, that he lived somewhere outside of your head. Not because he's stunningly handsome, or anything-- the twisted horns and ash gray skin rather prevent that impression from becoming a thing --but because he knows you, the secret parts of you that you'd never give up to anyone... and he doesn't judge you for it.
The alarm clock is still screaming at you, and you throw a pillow over it, muting its constant wail for attention. Today is your eighteenth birthday, and you cannot come up with a single reason why you should want to drag yourself out of bed to meet the the morning-- blink the sleep out of your eyes, stagger into clothes and out the door, head to school and home again. Every day is the same, and every day is awful, bland and washed out like a half-finished watercolor done by a reckless art student cursed with a muse's wanderlust. Today you are a man, and you are entirely displeased to realize that you have no idea what the fuck that means.
Another pillow is placed over your face, and you consider smothering yourself for only the briefest second; you hate yourself, yes, but not that much, and not nearly as much as you hate the rest of the world. Would you see him then, though, you wonder? In the last seconds, would he come to take you away, grinning with that mouth of teeth like steak knives, gray skin flushed with pleasure at the sight of you?
Would you finally, finally be able to learn his name?
You were so close, last night. You can feel it. You ran down a hall, long and dark and empty, and suddenly you were afraid; you'd never been afraid with him before, but he wasn't there. There was only shadow and nightmare, swirls of paint splashed on the walls like the works of Salvidor Dali's 'murderous fuck' period, your footsteps ringing empty in your ears. You weren't sure why you were running, but it was imperative that you not stop-- your hands were covered by some thick yellow liquid that smelled like blood but didn't look it, half dry and disgusting. The whole place smelled like a charnel house, and you'd longed to find him, to see some indication that things weren't as fucked up as they'd seemed. He'd been there, at last, at the end of the hall, and you called out to him.
Hey, fuckass! Who the hell are you? Answer me damn it!
and other such pleasantries. And he'd replied,
It's time to wake up.
What he always said. The only thing he ever said, really.
It's time to wake up, Kar--
And then beep, beep, beep, shrill and screaming and nearly rupturing your eardrums.
Your name is Karl Vates, age eighteen, and you could just cry.
---
You are twenty minutes late to school, but that doesn't matter-- so is the teacher. Your dad is a normal guy, works for an accounting firm, nothing special, so it's not like you can afford some fancy-ass private school like that asshole Eric. Most of your friends, your real friends, anyway (and you have so few of them, it's not hard to keep them in check), are in the same boat. You can count them off as you walk in the room, familiar faces. Kate, who loves fashion, one of the only people who thinks she understands you, whether or not she does. Teri, who you're pretty sure you loved, once. Nell, who is just a little bit too into roleplaying games for girls. Also: you.
Then there's Alice and Solomon, who are pretty much only into each other. It doesn't entirely surprise you to see that they're skipping today-- Sol is too smart for this damn school, the damn hacker (you were always jealous of him, for reasons you can't define) --but it does rather irritate you that your best fucking friend can't even show up to wish you a happy birthday.
The mood in the room is unexpectedly gloomy, a pall cast over everything; there are the usual rumblings of whispered conversations, but the register is much lower than usual. Normally, at this point, with no adult supervision the room would be in absolute pandemonium; not so today. Nobody even looks up when you throw yourself down in Solomon's normal seat, off to Nell's left. "Yeah, and a very happy birthday to all of you, too," you grumble, irate, drawing attention to yourself for just a moment; Nell looks askance at you, eyes wide. It occurs to you to notice that there are tears in the corner, and her cheeks are puffy.
"Didn't you hear? Oh, Karl, it's just awful--"
"What?" you demand, voice raised slightly, and now the whole room is looking at you, a reverent hush over the crowd, like witnesses at the scene of impending unimaginable carnage. "The fuck happened, anyway? You're acting like somebody died."
The silence continues, and the bottom drops out of your stomach as Nell gives a small sniff, obviously troubled. "We heard just a little while ago," Teri explains, sounding both annoyed and embarrassed on your behalf. "There was... an incident on the 51 crosstown this morning." She takes a deep breath and just says it, the words coming out in a quick jumble, like she's pulling off a scab; the faster it's over, the better. "Alice was stabbed in the chest. They're not sure she's going to make it."
Just like that, your heart stops, mouth dry, and the teacher steps in, slamming the door behind him like this is a normal day, and nothing amazingly terrible just happened. And for some reason, all you can think is, all this has happened before, and all this will happen again.
---
It is dark by the time you can manage to drag your bike out of storage in the garage and peddle yourself down to the general hospital. They won't let you in, of course not, but you wander through the halls as long as you can, to the empty cafeteria and past the gift shop filled with stuffed rabbits and puppies in disgusting plaid, their soulless eyes glaring out at you in condemnation, looking for Solomon. You find him at last, on the street just outside the emergency room, watching the ambulances scream past (goddamn it, Sol, I was literally just in here twenty minutes, why do you make everything so fucking difficult?) and his eyes are like the rabbit's behind his glasses.
Your first impulse is to think, He's not Solomon anymore. But if that's true, then who is he? He's a boy whose girlfriend is very close to death now, dancing on the edge of a knife, and he has every right to look like that, mouth twisted into an ugly line, sparks of fire raging in his eyes. For the barest second, they seem to glow.
"Go home," he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours; you have to look away, lest the force of that gaze burn you.
"How is she?" you ask, even though you know, choosing to ignore the roughness of his tone.
"She'll live," he tells you, and then laughs, sudden and crazed, unnaturally high-pitched, adding, "this time, anyway."
You have no idea what the fuck that's supposed to mean, but you do notice that one of his arms is in a sling, swaddled in enough gauze to hang a small horse. "...How are you?" you ask instead of what you want to, which is have you taken your meds today? because that's always a topical question with Solomon and never a tactful thing to bring up.
And instead of answering with something other than a non sequitor, he asks in turn, "Have you ever wanted to start over, Karl?" he looks over at you, eyes darting, and then back up at the stars, a sudden breeze playing through his hair. "Start everything over? This world is diseased. Maybe it's time to burn it."
A chill runs down your spine at those words, and you almost laugh, nervously. "The fuck's that supposed to mean, Carter?"
"Someone tried to kill her today, Karl," Solomon says, ostensibly to you-- but he acts as though he's playing to an audience, speaking to the sky. "I'm tired of this. We can do better. I can do better." And then, proving that there is no statement so crazy that it cannot be topped with a little bit of black humor or poor timing, Solomon rifles through his coat pockets, drawing out a package that he presses into your unresisting hands. "This is for you, by the way. Happy birthday." You look at him incredulously, and he raises an eyebrow in your general direction, switching from enraged to amused so fast that you're getting second-hand whiplash. "What, you thought I forgot? I finished it last night, before... all of this."
Hands shaking, you rip off the plain brown paper, revealing a disk, shiny and new, with "SBURB" written on the front in black sharpie. "...You coded this yourself?" you ask, not really surprised by that, either. "What is it?"
"It's a game. The game. And we're all going to play it together, so you can't touch it just yet." He sounds pained, and you can understand why; he doesn't want to play without Alice. Of course not. But maybe... maybe if you just started it up... he'll never need to know. You can figure out the basic mechanics on your own and be awesome at it when the time comes, blow everyone else away. Maybe you can pour all your energies into this, find some purpose in your useless husk of a life.
Maybe you can become who you were meant to be, your mind whispers, a seductive hiss in the dark corners of your deepest thoughts. Maybe, maybe.
The two of you watch the stars for awhile, cars and trucks and travelers on foot rushing past, the mechanics of the world turning steadily around you. Life, you must remember, goes on, even when for some it does not. The trick is to learn how to keep going, in the moments where there is nothing left to keep going for. "Want a ride home?" you ask at last, thinking of the twenty dollars in birthday money your Nana sent you, currently burning a hole in your pocket. "We can call a cab, if you want."
"Save your money," Solomon tells you, turning back towards the building, hands shoved in his pocket. "I'm going to stay a little longer, even if they won't let me in. Just... just a little longer." You watch him go with an inexplicable pain in your chest, and then watch the stars a bit longer, pinpoints of bright light against a wave of black, of nothingness, tiny spots of something in a universe that is so alone, so empty. You think of the darkness in your dreams, in your heart, and you wish you could scream, wish you could cry, but nothing will come. There is nothing left now but to go home. The chain of events that will seal your fate has already been set in motion, though you cannot know that yet. It has already begun.
Your name is Karl Vates, and this is your life.
But not for very much longer.