“Good morning, New York! Today’s the first day of the year 2101, and you know what that means: a special edition of Self-Improvement 101 with Taylor Winfrey.”
Carl groaned and slammed his fist on the alarm clock radio. Just ten more hours, he thought, holding on to the fragments of his last dream—his wife was dancing in a beautiful red dress. But the moment of waking had been enough for the hangover to introduce itself. The fragments began to melt away. Needles of pressure wove through his head, followed by a throbbing that felt like several hammers were taken to his skull.
“Thanks for nothing. I’m up.” Carl noticed his tongue was dry and his lips were chapped. The temperature in the room chilled his bones.
He made a mental note using the part of his brain that was awake but besieged: hydrate, soon. The rest of his brain moved him through the morning routine: he struggled to get up and balance on two feet, turned on the PC through tangled cables, and refilled the fedora hat on the windowsill with birdseed—George the seagull would come squawking soon. Carl knew the other seagulls could not trick him into feeding them: George flew by every two days and had a telltale scar on his left wing.
The last of the birdseed fell into the hat. Carl flattened the box and smashed it into the cramped rubbish bin with his fists, releasing a pungent odor. He tried to remember what was in the bin, but it proved to be too difficult. Another mental note: clean, soon.
Carl entered his bathroom and splashed water on his face, but it did little to fill the crevasse in his head. Leaning over, he let the cool water run through his lips. He did not know how long he stayed there, drinking, but it was enough time for his consciousness to wander beyond the hangover.
Something was off in the morning’s routine: the flat was too quiet.
Emma, John, and Mindy should have already been up and about, holiday or not. Emma had a habit of turning up the TV too loud to make up for her hearing problem, which the flat decided was more psychological than physical; John’s exercise routine was usually heard from his room adjacent Carl’s—a lot of stomping was involved; and it was Mindy’s week to make breakfast with what little supplies were left. Were they even in the flat? Too bad: Mindy was the best cook.
Carl could not be bothered to remember all the details of the New Year celebration. It was a typical Times Square Count Down; that much was certain. Not that typical meant boring, but fundamentally, nothing had changed in the last hundred years save for holographic fireworks replacing regular ones out of concern for the environment. It had taken a while for people to get used to it, but the holograms eventually became so realistic that they may as well have been “real” to those with less traditional sentiments. Even the smell of gunpowder was simulated.
Typical meant a lot of noise and bottomless alcohol. Carl figured that he would not be surprised if the others had ended up sleeping in.
The water was starting to numb his lips. He shut off the tap and left his room for the kitchen. The flat was still dark. Carl saw that the curtains were drawn. On the refrigerator, a sheet of blue stationery was pinned under a heart-shaped magnet: “With family for the week. Take care, Carl.” It was in Mindy’s handwriting.
“Of course.” Carl opened the refrigerator and glanced through its contents. A can of Mountain Dew caught his attention—it was the last one.
As he reached for the can, Carl was startled when all the flat’s curtains were thrown open. Sunlight flooded the room. His eyes strained while searching for the cause. It could not have been the wind, for the windows were shut. The hangover thumped against his temple.
There was a subtle spark of recognition, as if a similar event had happened to him before, but in a distant memory of another life.
“Once more, Earth’s existential planes are threatened,” a woman said with a solemn air of wisdom. “The darkness has returned, more powerful than ever.”
Carl found the woman standing under his bedroom’s doorframe. She was clad in a suit of bronze armor that reflected the sunlight with intricate patterns, reminiscent of ancient Roman art. Her helmet bore tall wings in the shape of feathers, framing a young fair face with green eyes. Long blond hair spilled over her shoulder guards.
What the hell is going on? Carl initially wanted to ask. But a word came to mind when he had met her gaze: messenger. They knew each other, but Carl was not sure how.
It was just a feeling, like fragments of a lost dream.
“I have come to gather the chosen.” She said, extending her hand and taking a step forward. “On the elemental plane, we shall make our stand.”
“Go find someone else who can fight.”
“But you are one of the chosen.”
Carl was elsewhere, in a sea of fire.
“I’ve gotten used to living a normal life.” Carl said, moving toward his bedroom.
The messenger let him pass. She removed her helmet.
“Your fellow chosen will be disappointed to hear of your refusal.”
Carl pretended not to listen. He busied himself with fixing his bed. He noticed that the alarm clock radio had finally broken.
“For how long do you intend on living alone, Carl?” She asked.
Carl knew that messengers never addressed the chosen by their real names.
He turned to the door. She was gone.
The sounds of traffic rose from the city, through an open window.
Who the hell cares? Carl thought, sinking into what his late wife used to call his “thinking couch”. The couch had always been comfortable, but threadbare. Its wooden bones under faded red velvet creaked under his weight.
He looked out the window, shielding his eyes: the sun was rising in a cloudless sky.
Retrieving words from his dusty subconscious, Carl muttered a Recall spell and pulled out the last can of Mountain Dew from the kitchen. In his mind’s eye, he lost focus of the can in transit over the living room; he heard it fall on the wooden floor and burst open.
“Crap.”
George the seagull squawked in the distance.
