Somewhere Surviving
Entry posted by Verdance in Misc writings
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Content Warning: Drugs’n stuff
The artist sighed, staring up at the abandoned church on the hill. He had better things to do with his time than do odd jobs for some stupid church. Unfortunately, he also had to pay rent, and sometimes that meant going out of his way in the middle of the night to get his hands dirty and make ends meet.
That was another strange aspect of the job. Why the middle of the night? They asked him to come clean bathrooms and vacuum and check equipment… did they not have people who could do these things themselves, or at least supervise? Were they really that busy during the day? Apparently the last groundskeeper or janitor or whatever it was called worked himself to death. Bizarre. At least this wasn’t a permanent position. Even more bizarre was that the building seems completely dilapidated, like no one has ever lived there. The artist shrugs, they are offering more than enough money to pay rent for several months, and he can sleep later.
The church is dark, and he can’t find a light switch. Something stings him on the neck, and he swats it away- probably a stray wasp or something. He fumbles his phone while trying to turn on the flashlight, and finds the light switch. The church seems boring and average on the inside, dull colors and cheap ceilings. The chores are dull and monotonous, but not terribly difficult- straightening chairs and tables in every room, vacuuming floors, straightening bookshelves. The wasps keep pestering him, but he can’t seem to get a good look at them or find their nest. Wearing a hood doesn’t keep them from crawling down his neck and stinging him, so whenever he is stung he winces and reminds himself that it’s only one night of misery for several months of peace. Only a few hours pass, but it seems like longer to him. However, he’s not too exhausted, and listening to music while he works, specifically some indie rock band back from the twenty first century, gives him a guilty thrill. No one has probably listened to actually fun music here ever.
Finally, he gets to the last item on the list. “Check all the cables on stage, make sure every instrument is connected to the AV team’s equipment properly for service time”. Odd. This place doesn’t seem like a service has been held here for years. Why would it be now? And why would instruments be left out in the open? Wouldn’t the musicians take them home? Very, very strange. But the room is just like you would expect- a large space with a stage meant for the band and orchestra and preacher overlooking a sea of pews. He climbs the stage and begins checking cables to the instructions. Several have become loose or partially disconnected, and he follows a strangely specific protocol to fix them. The cables feel quite thicker and heavier than he would expect, he had a friend who played electric guitar and would hook it up to an amp with far less bulky cables. These must simply be older, less efficient equipment. He finishes, but something strikes him. The world gets hazy, and he realizes he hasn’t been stung by the wasps in quite some time. What a relief.
The artist finally realizes. He’s not on a stage. He’s not preparing musical equipment. He has a headache, and everything suddenly feels so real and tangible, he becomes dazed and confused. The walls aren’t sheetrock and brick, but smooth metal, with bare rock breaking through in places, like a partially collapsed bunker- though that can’t be the case. His headache intensifies, and he feels suddenly thirsty. The cables he is checking fit to a metal box, near featureless but for a seam and a label. Mono Corp Virtual Stasis Module. There are many, in a row. One lies open, free of dust. He needs to go find water. The artist trips over something- a withered, skinny, parched corpse locked in a sickening smile. Suddenly, the artist’s phone rings. He takes it out and answers. “Thank you for your cooperation. You can leave, now. Payment has been added to your account.” But the door he came from doesn’t exist, and this isn’t his phone. It’s like, like he’s always been here. Something stings his palm, and he drops the phone just in time to see something retracting back into it- a micro-needle or some kind. His vision grows dark. He picks up his phone. The artist feels feels the urgent need to clean his room- when was the last time he did that? But he is too tired. He lays down in bed- just a quick nap, he can drink in the morning. After work of course. There is much work to do, taking care of his grandparents.
Edited by Through The Living Grass
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