“It’s marvelous, sir, truly. This could define history forever.”
The man did not look up, rather, he kept his sharp eyes trained to the alarming mountain of paper that sat placidly before him, the broken grin of the ink branded upon the pages hardly displaying their true intent at a mere glance. The man, of what could be considered a middle-age, sighed a haughty grunt and repositioned his seat to face the younger man, of which stood eagerly at the mouth of the entrance to the small office, his awry spectacles tweaked upon his sturdy nose, his wide eyes magnified beneath the sheath of glass. The aura of young reverence for those superior of one sickened the air that hugged the slim figure of the younger man, his thin, pale lips pursed to a position of curiosity for his elder who sat before him, the sitting man’s strict glance finally stirring to engage in an embrace with the eyes of the younger man.
The sitting man took a calloused hand to the thick cloud of his dark hair, its strands conceding in a bow as his fingers nudged their frames, the examining touch of a well-worn man.
“Anything in particular you wish to inform me of?” The middle-aged man held his voice in an even length, the clear crisp of his words encapsulating the confines of the small room, the light, courtesy of the singular lamp, placed upon the man’s desk, reaching with tentative fingers to stroke the clean, if a bit pale in the absence of natural light, face of the seated man, the lack of a stronger force of illumination adding to the air of mysterious wisdom that beckoned at the heels of this man, cowering to his bidding.
At the sudden attention offered so sparingly to the younger, spectacled man, his heart missed a beat, the chemicals of joy clutching at his veins, causing for his tall build to suffer a clipped tremble, the man then hastily reaching a hand to the uplifting shoulder of the door frame. He whipped his tongue, attempting to secure it in a position of adequate speech, and managed to complete the task after a failed attempt or two.
“N-no, sir, um, well, just that the general wishes to see you. I believe he would like of you to tell him if we are ready for testing,” the younger man stammered, his tenor sound swaying in a rushed bout. Beneath the rim of his spectacles, his eyes staggered to focus unwaveringly upon the still, stone face of his superior, and, as could be predicted, his eyes were quick to rapidly fall from their great perch, unceremoniously landing with a snap of bone to the dust-encrusted ground. He then mumbled, “I am to apologize, sir, for my impolite rushed behavior, as I am well aware of the extraordinary work with which you provide, not simply me or another, but the entirety of our nation. If it is not as plainly viewable as I believe, I am greatly honored to simply be within your great, genius presence, and I thank all that led me to be here in this day. And yet, if I may, I must comment upon the trivial factor that presides – we have but little time to conclude with the job with which we are appointed, due to, of course, the international crises that plague our courageous nation. It is at the fault of this that I must rush your ingenious work, and for this, sir, I heavily apologize.” The younger man ever so slightly bowed his head, the lightly tinted waves that clung to his scalp hanging daringly, his spectacles threatening to heave in a suicidal leap.
At this, the seated man strained to hold back an annoyed roll of his eyes, directing his face away from the younger man in the forces of contempt.
“No need to apologize. I am well aware of the state of our nation, and none of such matters are at the fault of your own. Inform the general that I shall meet with him shortly. Likely in half an hour or so, I expect.”
“Y-yes, of course, sir, I will do so right away,” he uttered obediently, his head flinging dangerously back to a neutral position, his blond locks beating his cheeks. He straightened, his form caught in a brick-like stature, his shoulders almost ferociously even. He spun on the tip of his heel, dictating for his body to exit the gaping artery of the doorway. Sauntering down the thick tongue of the poorly enlightened hallway, the man swam the depths of a hungering pride, its fangs closing over the realms of the world-defining feat that was mere moments away, the deafening taunt of its nearness stinging the mind of the young man, playing with his excitement. He permitted for a smile to fracture his thin lips, humming a slight tune through the iron of his teeth.
Remaining in the hold of his grasping chair, the seated man focused his weary gaze again to the treachery of papers blinking knowingly before him, the creases forming to circle his eyes becoming more and more noticeable as the days drag forward, their merciless fists holding on in the intent of never letting go.
Should one decide for all? Should one decide for all? The thoughts formed a mocking cult at the back of his mind, impatient hands searching for purchase. The headache that had already been traversing his mind growing, possible regret murmuring in distaste, the man brought a balled fist to his forehead, hoping to massage the festering ache. Within this action, his bent elbow struck the small, gleaming rectangular plaque, encouraging for it to crash to the ground with a dishonorable clang. Now further agitated, the man stretched his torso to the ground, his militia of fingers in search of the lost item.
At last, his fingers clutched around the glinting name plaque, the thick, heady bold letters staring back at him.
J. Robert Oppenheimer, it read.
∞∞∞
“Senator McHaulen, a word, please?”
His face molded to the screen that blinked before him, he emitted,” I\'m busy, Kim. You know this.”
John M. McHaulen sat rather studiously in the palm of the revolving chair that was stationed at his immaculately distributed desk, the contents evenly displayed. The office in which he dwelled was of a decent size: The beige, weary walls enclosed a rich, mahogany desk, upon it a pale, ceramic mug stating ‘#1 Senator’ in heavy, demanding red script, its contents a thick, syrupy dose of sugar induced coffee, the glass half full, or perhaps half empty. To its side, a container designated for pencils and others of the like sat patiently, attentive at the prospect of use; beside the irritating blink of the gleaming laptop, a gold 8’’ by 6’’ frame, perfected with the clear image depicting a full-lipped blond woman, her shoulder-length honey curls fingering her flowery blouse, her attentively curved stature pronounced in rather incarcerating blue jeans, the sun above her turning as if to admire the beauty that playfully taunted the woman. Her offensively blaring pools of aquamarine eyes interrogated the unseen photographer, perhaps a curdling secret shadowed in their mists, while a contrasting grin tugged at the woman’s desirable lips.
Similar photos featuring the woman pegged the dreary walls, accompanied by yet another gold, dominating frame, limbs wrapped around a document reading, Certificate of Graduation from Princeton University…
“Sir, it truly is urgent. I wouldn\'t bother you if it wasn’t.” The man kept his eyes in the greedy captivity of the screen, his mud-encrusted irises stalking the shifting words. October 3, 2053: Republican Sen. John McHaulen, Florida, the deciding vote in the end of our democracy, votes to remove abo…
“Sir!”
He swiveled his head, his elbow nudging his prized gold name plaque, setting it restlessly askew, a wavering impatience poisoning his composure. And yet, he is a man of order. A man consisting of a demanding sense of discipline. McHaulen smoothly rose himself from the deformed fist of the seat, his firm fingers reassuring his momentarily wrinkled pant leg. McHaulen, a man of 42 years, undeniably carried an air of authority upon his broad shoulders. Adorned in a boldly stained black suit that distinguished his clear solid form, complimented by an immaculately placed crimson necktie, he wore his ink-black hair in slicked formation, accentuating his sharp, cleanly-shaven jaw, his even nose lightly centered above the curious curve of his mouth, his skin brandishing a slight tan, courtesy of the afternoon sun. He was quite the professional in the art of wielding the whip of charisma, and was sure to remain a firm grip upon this potentially lethal weapon at all times. He didn’t claw his way to his position with nothing.
McHaulen directed his gaze to the sole, elongated window that was etched into the wall to his left, enacting a visual of the second-story view of the day’s somber mood – the clouds were soured with a fit of gray, the surrounding sky stenciled in a drowning mist, the world below sprinkled with flurries of pity at the hand of the offending force. Summoning his infuriatingly, and yet also gratifyingly casual voice, he shifted once more, planting his weighted gaze upon his secretary. “I’m sorry, Kimberly, dear, I’m just a bit…flustered with all that’s going on right now, you know? Of course you know. Still, I apologize, I shouldn\'t have ignored you.”
At the call of his buttery, touching tenor, his eyes resting upon her figure, a slim smile infesting his cheeks, the secretary cannot help but a contaminating, consuming blush, her storm-blue eyes darting to the ground. Following an uncomfortable shuffle of her feet, the secretary cleared her throat, commanding back a stray, rebellious strip of brown hair to the restricting bun capping her head, lifting her stare to almost, though not quite, focus on her superior.
“Uh, umm, yes, thank you, sir. I believe Kirstyn would like for me to notify you that a call for you has come in, and it claims to be important…I’m sorry, I’m not sure exactly what it’s about, Kirstyn just said that the caller claims it’s urgent…” She stumbled on the words, her tongue slapping her rose coated lips. A deep, tingling satisfaction traversed McHaulen’s insides at the younger woman’s discomfort, the grin contorting his features steepening its altitude.
“Thanks for telling me. I’ll tend to the matter straightaway.” His secretary opted this notion as her permission for leave, her heels clicking as if one stressed in anxiety, allowing for the door to gently slide to a partially open position, the meager crack an outlet to the light beyond. McHaulen designated a hand to straighten his tie, sighing in a dreary contempt. His thoughts segwayed to his wife – a slightly younger blond incorporated in the model industry – and how she will again present anger at his increasingly late presence once more. Oh well. He repositioned his afflicted name plaque, ordering it to its original state of integrity. Seated once more, he extended an arm to the buddled briefcase dwelling beneath the desk, retracting the smaller screen from the briefcase’s possession. Switching on the cellular device, it beamed to life, as if reawoken from the dead, blinking with several notifications, their glow penetrating to the eye. Exactly why McHaulen wished his device off in the first place.
The most prominent alert, listed at the top as it was most recent, was a call listed at the fault of Florida State Medical Center…
Struck with a jeer of bewilderment, his brow curling to a creased frown, McHaulen brought an index finger to the face of the screen, the scalpel of his nail operating upon the flare of the proposed call. It rang once, twice, the prickling buzz an examining needle, infiltrating veins. Perhaps they only wished to discuss health insurance or a routine check-up.
“Florida State Medical Center, receptionist speaking. I’m Anna, how may I help you?”
McHaulen jumped, startled, his organs groaning, drawing away from the device. It was so odd to hear a true human voice answering phones these days. This job may be one of the only that still maintained the tradition.
Reenforcing his stature, he spoke respectfully into the illuminating screen, his facial expression draining to a vacant sheet. “Hello, this is John McHaulen, and I just received a call from you guys, and was wondering if it was simply a mishap or you wished to reach me for some reason…” His voice trailed to an off-tune pitch, stinging his ears.
“Hmmmmm lemme see…McHaulen, McHaulen,” the bright voice was constructed in a rather cheerful formation, a hum clamoring to the words.
“Hmmm…Oh, here we go…Oh.” The feminine voice landed on a crushing fall at the final syllable, crumbling to a fine, hazardous powder. McHaulen’s heart now was corrupted to an offbeat rhythm, the excruciating melody deploying militias to his mind.
“Mr. McHaulen, I’m afraid I cannot personally disclose the information that you must be informed of, so I must refer you to a medical professional. It will only take a matter of seconds, I believe.” The voice gradually descended to a darker note, lulled towards an engulfing silence. McHaulen had fallen victim to a state of paralysis, his breath caked in the pit of his lungs, his heart sprung.
“Mr. McHaulen, this is Dr. Brett Greene Hernandez speaking.” A masculine voice this time, with a scholarly flavor to it.
“I see the system has already verified your identity.” Hernandez released an awkward grunt, pausing.
“It is with my deepest regret that I must inform you of the events that have just transpired; near the hour of six this afternoon, your wife, Amelia McHaulen, was involved in a fatal car incident…”
McHaulen succumbed to the fury of a rigorous wave, his throat clogged with a salty suppressant, his eyes bulging, caught in fists of fat, red switches. His heart coiled to a suffocating blockage, squeezing, pulling, dragging. His mind crawled to an effective fetal position, nearly disappearing within itself, its limbs bent at unseemly angles. His thoughts were a calamitous disease, infecting every last inch of his form, sinking his identity to a gaping void of vacancy.
No no no no no no no no no…
“Sir?”
The clang of the phone striking the floor, emitting a scream of agony before disabling, McHaulen falling along with it.
McHaulen, his soul momentarily resurrected, violently swiveled his head to view the intruder. There stood a young man, no older than within his early twenties, his curious eyes inquiring upon the fallen man. McHaulen lay sprawled, his limbs arranged in an estranged fashion. The young man glanced around the realms of the office, his stare that of a customer searching for specific merchandise, of a surgeon upon his patient. He appeared a simple man, sporting meager, casual clothing, ridden of distinguishable coloring, a grayed jacket cradling his shoulders; his skin, pale, an ivory, sickly grimace to it, as if deprived from necessary nourishment, the start of stubble clinging to his protruding chin. His chestnut hair was parted nonchalantly, a courtship of ornery strands obstructing an insignificant portion of his face. With the arrogant flick of a moment, the young man shot his glare to the frozen, eternally befuddled McHaulen, the cool rings of his blue irises grappling deep into the suddenly defenseless man. The young man seemed to release an oddly disappointed grunt, readjusting the unrefined posture of his thin physique. Though his face possessed no specifically alluring qualities, the discomforting gleam of his peculiar eyes, the turn of his blood lacking stretch of lips, triggered a certain formula of unsettlement upon burdened viewers, adroitly fingering the valves of the heart.
“W-who are you?” McHaulen managed, a demanding bewilderment inking his words. His mind blurred, ignorant to the remainder of the world, sentencing his mind to the matter at hand. The young man blinked, his lashes tickling his lids.
“Of course, how rude of me. I haven’t introduced myself.” The voice headed a symphony of peril, a gravelly hint tainting the sound. The young man’s face contorted to an awkward grin as he extended a palm, reaching to grasp for that of McHaulen. McHaulen complied, permitting for his fingers to be engulfed with the young man’s fist, hardly caring of the distinct, papery cold of the other man’s hand. Reset to his feet, McHaulen printed his gaze upon the dismembering halt of the young man’s eyes, impossibly accomplishing in recomposing his dismantled figure.
“You may refer to me as Higgins, if you insist upon a name. Now, as to why I am here, well, I only wish to offer you a gift. You can most certainly decline, if you so please.”
McHaulen suppressed a shiver at the man’s strange tone of voice, the cryptic, outdated speech adding to the effect.
Within his current, defective state of mind, McHaulen could hardly question this rather odd encounter. He instead opted to entertain it, his gaze meeting that of the young man.
“What do you wish to offer me?” McHaulen uttered in a demoting, insignificant speech, his typical vocalization, as of current, banished.
“Why, simply this.” The young man relinquished a small, oddly blinking device from the pit of his pocket, discharging it from its incarceration. His fingers brushed the surface of the unidentified device; it seemed no larger than a typical cell phone, yet much stranger, tangled with varying cords and twisting wires, a thumbprint sized circular button of sorts positioned at what was likely its center, its crimson frame colonizing the naked eye in a rather ominous mannerism.
“What is it?”
The young man stalled, almost fatherly gazing to the contraption.
“It is the answer, the answer you seek. It will solve every problem, every issue that could possibly arise. It will diminish desires, elucidate them, if you will. It will award freedom to all, the entirety of this simple world, primal hatreds vanished, for are not we allotted all in ending?”
McHaulen hesitantly wavered his focus upon the young man, his mind a dull whisper, hardly lulling him further.
“And,” the young man paused, his freakish eyes expanding, face alight with glee. “You will receive what you have lost. No one, least of all you, my good sir, will suffer such injustice again. It’s simply the press of a button, and this heaven will be indefinitely be yours to set forth.”
Cobras of desire sprung up from the ground, their writhing bodies sauntering up the height of McHaulen’s body, scales staining skin. Brimmed with outrageous determination, the rapacious creatures ravaged their way to the core of his heart, fangs digging into the deepest coils of the artery, the organ imperialized by the invading force.
“Simply the press of a button, you say?”
“I do not misspeak so casually.”
McHaulen’s eyes conformed to identical slits, coined with a destructive lust.
Should one decide for all? Should one decide for all?
McHaulen stretched a hand, index targeted for the scarlet beacon.
Should one decide for all?
Too late.