End Game

Monday morning

It was only Monday but entering the warehouse felt to Tim almost as if it was already his daily routine. Everything looked much the same as before, with all the debris cleared away, no sign of yesterday's chaos unless you looked up and saw the tarpaulin strung across where the roof had fallen in.

Or, rather, just one difference. Today there were other people. Two differences: the other people didn't include Min.

Had she bailed on him? Tim couldn't bring himself to believe that. To block further thought on those lines, he allowed himself to fall into the mood of the moment – Monday morning was in full swing. People mooched, their faces misted by steaming mugs of coffee, muttering to each other, using words but not much sense, more just an acknowledgement of mutual existence.

"Hi," he said to a passing beard. "I'm Tim. I'm your new token normie."

"Pleased to meet you," the man mumbled before wandering off, failing to take up the conversational opening he'd been offered.

Discouraged from any further attempts, Tim – for whom never volunteer wasn't so much a philosophy he had acquired as an instinct he had been born with – took his own coffee to a quiet corner where he could observe proceedings, such as they were, without attracting attention. His daydream began as musing on the wisdom of waking up sleepwalkers, morphed from there to the topic of zombie movies. When Min finally arrived, it came as a great relief.

"You're late," he said, failing to eradicate the hint of accusation in his voice.

Min shrugged. "Did I miss anything?"

"Er, no. But ..."

"So, no problem. I had things to do." She spoke with a distracted air, one that did not encourage probing questions.

They went out together to introduce themselves, doing the rounds with more success than Tim had had on his own. Whether because the caffeine had finally kicked in or because Min was a girl, Timothy found it difficult to judge. He let her take the lead, conscious of a nervous energy in her that he hadn't noticed before. It manifested in part as a repeated fiddling with something on her finger. This Tim identified as a ring, another thing he hadn't noticed before.

A while later someone came looking for them.

"Here you are – my two live phantoms. Time to start earning your keep ..."

*

Tim lay back, watched the lid of the coffin as it levered down upon him, clicking into place. Then he waited. It was dark but he couldn't say he was feeling especially sensorially deprived. Apart from anything else there was an itch on the side of his nose that his confined position prevented him from doing anything about. He scrunched up his face but it didn't help, tried to rub himself against the coffin lid but succeeded only in bumping his forehead. The more he willed himself to ignore it the more it itched. At least I'll have some consumer feedback to tell the man, he consoled himself.

Then there was the churning of thoughts inside his head, something that even the nose-itch was failing to deflect. It was a complex brew. At its most superficial level a sense of excitement, laced with trepidation at what might be about to happen. Below that, another deeper feeling, a trepidation of a different flavor. One that fed on his current situation but had its roots elsewhere. An ill-formed awareness of the possibilities of this sudden change in his life – coupled with the potential for it all to be ripped away. Min, too, was somewhere in that mix.

He took a slow breath in, let a slow breath out. He wriggled in position, attempting to relax and clear his mind, to leave it open for whatever was coming. Whatever it was it hadn't come yet. Too slow, he added to his list of constructive criticism.

Might he just drift off to sleep? It seemed a distinct possibility were it not for his nose. Then he was aware of a change.

It began as a vision. Timothy had opened his eyes, closed them again, studying the elusive pulsations of light that ghosted across the blackness. Was this it? Or just the normal thing that happens when you close your eyes in darkness? Then came shooting stars. Faint vapor trails that hovered around the threshold of what was real and what an artefact of his visual system. Had it started?

Tim had assumed these lights were just the teaser, that the main show would soon follow. He was disappointed. The stars continued their shooting – eyes open or closed, it made no difference – and as the novelty faded so did Tim's attention. His mind resumed its customary wandering. When the casket opened and daylight restored it came as something of a shock.

As Tim climbed out of his box, blinking and shaking his head to clear the fuzziness, he glanced across to Min who was doing the same. She gave him a shrug, as if to say, "Me neither".

*

"It was just a calibration run. Nothing was meant to happen."

"We saw shooting stars. What was that all about?"

"Did you? That's interesting. I'll tell Natasha." He began to walk away.

"Hang on a minute. Interesting how? What was that thing doing to us?"

The man kept walking. "All in good time," was all he said as he marched back to his desk on the far side of the room.