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Even in the vast abyss of eternity, every moment manages to be a struggle.
On this planet, everything works around him in a never ending cycle – all the little grease monkeys in their factories, turning and turning and turning. When night time falls, everything shuts down and goes to sleep. Not him though. The hero never sleeps. The hero never rests. Instead, he lies there in stasis. The Beat Mesa is the only thing that never stops spinning.
The flames of the inferno make his shadow warp against the spinning disc. His mind operates like clockwork. Do the time thing, get the girl, save the world, be the hero. That’s how it’s supposed to be.
Isn’t it?
Don’t worry. You’ve done your job now, and the best that you can hope for is that one of the other Daves gets to the rest. He lets out a small chuckle, but does so without the slightest hint of amusement. Not that it actually matters. So fuck it. Thus he continues to lie. No purpose, no direction, just waiting.
She moves with the speed of sound. She is the eternal vibration in the sleepless silence. The way she flutters through the air only serves to accentuate the boy’s dull lethargy. Not that he notices. Or cares for that matter. She lands on the Mesa, her foot gingerly toeing the record surface. With the slight tap of her step the record stops spinning. Her presence incites no reaction from the boy. Not even as she approaches. Not even when she leans over, head tilted in curiosity. Not even as she continues to stare in that coy way she tends to stare. And so she stares.
And stares.
And stares.
And –
“You know that’s more than a little bit creepy.” She chuckles. She was waiting for him to cave at the silence.
“So we meet again,” she answers, unfazed by his irritated tone, “do you remember me?”
“Yeah I remember you. You’re the weird fairy one.”
“I think fairy is a bit of a misleading term.” Despite the insult, her voice somehow remains a deathly calm, almost slightly upbeat.
“Don’t care.”
“So it seems. From the looks of it, you’ll be lying there forever.”
“I was kinda planning on it actually.”
“That seems a little counter-productive, doesn’t it?”
“If by doing shit all specifies any sort of productivity then yeah, it’s counter-productive alright,” he turns on his side and faces away from her, shutting his eyes. He figures if he can’t see her, she’ll just go away.
“Well perhaps you could use some company,” she takes this as a cue to set herself down beside him, ever so gracefully so that she does not make even the faintest sound as her body relaxes against the vinyl. He does not realize she is even there. Not until he decides to open his eyes and sees two more curiously staring right back at him.
“Okay seriously this weird magic pixie act has gotta stop, it’s giving me the wigs.”
“Troll, actually.”
“Nuance. Anyways, don’t you have more important space travel shit to do?”
“Time actually, if you recall. I can stay here as long as I need to really. Not everyone is made of time after all. That is, except for me. Perhaps you too, although I recall your being the knight,” she pauses, “though your present conduct doesn’t seem very knightly.”
“Yo okay, I’m gonna stop matching insult with insult because frankly I think you could probably kick my ass. But since you are a fellow timebro and everything, I thought you would’ve figured it out by now I’m not the real Dave.”
“But you’re still him aren’t you?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m doomed anyway. I’ve already done what I need to do. The alpha’s gone to do his thing and here I am, stuck like the glue on a pre-schooler’s shitty craft project. ‘Sept this stuff ain’t the normal kind. No horse hooves or puppy dog skulls to be found in here, this stick is made up of all me.”
Caught off guard and somewhat confused by his response, she stops facing him and turns to rest on her back. He too changes his position, and together they stare blankly upward. Considering her words carefully she responds.
“As difficult it may seem to believe, I know how it is. Waiting for your own doom that is.”
“Uh huh.”
“But I will have you know,” she once again turns to face him, “I have a certain fondness for corpses, animated or otherwise.”
Shocked and a little disturbed by her comment, he can’t help but inwardly smirk at her eccentricity.
“That’s fucked up,” a small laugh escapes him. She laughs a little too. He’s not sure how, but there’s something really ironic in laughing at his own impending demise. The light mood quickly dissipates as the sombre melancholy sweeps over him once more.
“How long do I have left?”
“About five minutes.”
He leans on his forearms and lifts himself so that he is sitting upright. He then raps his arms around his knees, looking almost fetal.
“I don’t wanna go out quietly.”
His voice is quieter, deeper, barely more than a whisper. The girl abruptly springs to action. She whips back onto her feet so quickly, it’s as though she was never down.
“Five minutes is it then? You like music don’t you? That’s enough for one song.”
He lifts his head and tilts it with mild confusion, “I didn’t exactly mean that literally. Then again, you trolls always were bad with the whole metaphor thing.”
“There is only so much one can do within such a short timeframe,” she leans down towards him once more, extending her arm out to reach him, “so why not dance with me for a while? Before you have to go.”
“I suppose that’d be okay,” he shrugs. He takes her hand and she helps him onto his feet. Almost immediately he busts out his turn tables from his captchalogue deck.
“Girl, you don’t even know. Music is like, my avenue. I got the sickest jams... so sweet,” he cranks up the volume and begins shuffling his feet in time to the heavy bass. The girl immediately shuts it off.
“I was considering something of a more placid persuasion,” the turntables are gone and in their place there are two music boxes. The sound they emit is less like a beat and more like a trill. Rather than coming out in wallops, it flowed through them like waves. She takes his hand in hers and placed his other on her waist. Holding on, together they started to sway. Strangely and unsynchronised at first, but with increasing fluidity to match the flow of the music surrounding them.
“Yeah... yeah I can dig this.”
“Let’s take it a step further.”
Slowly they lift off the record. The drift wayward, spinning and swaying to their heart’s delight. The feel of her body against his in the air makes the gears in the head stop grinding and instead turn smoothly. Together they are congruous. Like a clock with all its parts. They stay afloat for what feels like eternity, but sometimes even eternity isn’t enough.
He holds her close and rests his head against her shoulder. In her ear he mumbles.
“How much time left now?”
“About thirty seconds.”
“Right. Okay,” he pulls her back and looks right at her. Through his shades he feels as if she can see him, his black lenses matching her coal. Eventually the black will be tinted rust; perhaps one day his other self will live enough to match her red with his own.
“Better make the most of it then,” he leans in and their lips meet. The unexpected pressure lets her grip on him slip. He pulls her in a little tighter.
Five more seconds. Can’t cause a paradox.
“I guess I better go. Catch ya later, Aradia,” he immediately pushes her off and begins to fall.
She does nothing as she watches his descent, but her gaze never leaves his face. His eyes remain obscured by his sunglasses, but she does not miss the faintest twitch at the corner of his lip as he plunges downward. She doesn’t recall ever seeing him smile before. That smile is the final image she retains before he is devoured by the magma.
So with that he is gone; into the inferno he is lost. She moves on with the same gaiety as she arrived. In her thoughts she wonders only when it will be that she can see him live again.