Young Writers Society

Watch

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Time-lines

Everyone has one.

They move and intertwine across the dimensions of time, building up upon one another, layering, conflicting, interweaving. A never-ending web, with no end nor no beginning, each strand connected to one person.

Yet what if you could harness this strand? See this strand? Watch this strand. Everything that’s been and everything that’s yet to come.

Watching.

.

It has come to be called ‘Watching’, the word for future seeing.

Extraction methods have been invented that link to one persons consciousness and extract their entire story, past, present and future, into a single system which can then be Watched.

At first the whole system was highly popular. A real phenomenon. Although it was never released to the public, the fact that it existed was painted all across the media. The result was a surge of public demand, press pressure, wild notions of each and every individual to hear of its being. The future was literally here.

But for reasons which are not difficult to deduce, the whole system of Watching was deemed illegal in short time. Scientists were forbidden to follow its research, televisions, internet, radios, publications, all forbidden to even think of it. It was the most illicit thing on the planet.

And to add, the most illicit thing on the black market. With every illegal substance comes a corporation to supply one with the means of obtaining it.

Dealing with Watching was no petty ordeal. One first had to be able to obtain the resources deemed ‘unobtainable’ by the government after it had been outlawed. Secondly the entire syndicate was a prestige in its own. A highly operational business that worked in illegal terms right underneath the legal man’s nose. A team of powerful ‘Bosses’ ran the system across their own branches of area, recruiting only the most trusted, and the most worthy, to supply the footage to clients with the most money.

.

I check my watch, just as I had. 4:23. Right on, the second hand just passing the twelve.

I take the concrete steps leading down to the entrance of the towering glass office tower, a black pillar against the blue clouds and grey horizon. The heels of my new shoes deliver a clean, satisfying clunk as they tap against the solid surface. I proceed, setting my feet in time until I reach the sliding doors into the sleek black shine of the building.

I glance around briefly after passing the automated glass. the foyer is burning with the silence of air conditioning which is accompanied only by distant footsteps. Everything about the interior is dark and glossy. The modern marble reflect my clean pressed trouser of business attire in its textured sheen.

I pick up my pace, the Boss is expecting me. I know what I have to do, I know where I have to go. One of the key attributes of an employee of this association is that each are entitled to Watch.

One may expect that is is the far future, or the nostalgic past that greatly appeal to being Watched, but in the company, it is only the near present that the employees are supplied on a daily basis. Even then, the days are strictly only watched until a certain point. For me in this case, I had stopped Watching at 4:30.

In general it’s all procedural, planned out. Each employee, each Boss, each client. That’s the beauty of organized crime. There are no flaws, no mistakes, everything happens for a reason.

There is a small kiosk set at the end of the foyer in which I remember I have to check. I step up to it and a suited woman glances up at me, her face drooping into a smile. Her under eyes are bagged and red, and her expression seems lost. On the surface in front of her seems to be a tack of plastic encased paper packs. I pick one up, turning it over.

“Am I supposed to take one of these?”

“Only if you want to.” Is her drawled reply.

I am confused at these words, and flip the paper up to my face it peer through the plastic.

I slam it down back against the kiosk.

“This is the New Drug, isn’t it?”

Our business does not solely specialise in Watching. Illegal services and illicit substances such as the development of drugs and their distribution are a key component to the funding. The New Drug, as it was, was a new and powerful calming substance, or hallucinative, that had yet to be named. Like all services, it was complementary to employees.

The woman does not reply, but instead lets out a sighful laugh. She is clearly under the influence.

“I am not interested in addictive. Thank you.” I conclude.

She doesn’t respond and I decide to forget it and proceed further into the offices where I have been summoned. The time is 4:29.

I prepare my key card and clench my leather case as I approach the elevator dock. I have been summoned to an exclusive floor today, which means something big, perhaps there will be a special progression in my career.

I skip forward a little faster as so not to miss the elevator, as it is already being boarded as I arrive. Someone puts their foot out to stop the door as so to let me enter.

“You almost missed it. We were waiting.”

I inspect the other passengers. Three other people. Two women and a man. I recognize them as the other who have been summoned. The first woman, who spoke, looks very similar to the one at the kiosk, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. Their hair, and build are different, but the way their hold themselves, the expression on their face, the droop of their smile, is almost identical.

The New Drug.

This woman too was under the influence. It seemed strange; unprofessional. We were to attend the exclusive floor, even if she was supplied it at the kiosk, why would she take it straight away? And the effects had dropped in so rapidly.

I peer up to the very tall man near the back of the elevator. His eyes are red and cheeks bright, but his lips remain still and unsmiling. He reeks of a similar drug.

The third woman is the most agitated of the lot. She is older, and has dark brown hair, pulled into a bun that is falling apart. Her hands are clenched on her cheeks.

“Did you Watch this morning?”

My eyes are pulled away from staring by the other,first woman’s voice, it’s heavy and lazy. In reply I nod.

“They gave us extra footage did you see, about 20 minutes. If it was a mistake the technician will really get it. Did you watch it?”

The doors close and I check my watch. 4:32.

“No. I only watched up to the allocated time, just now. I haven’t Watched here yet. We are not supposed to view more than what’s allocated.”

The woman smiles and waves one of the pages of New Drug in front of my face. I flinch.

“Figures.” She turns first to the tall man then to the bunned woman, then back to me. “Well, we all have.”

The elevator begins to rise.

The loose bunned woman suddenly wails. A real nasty scream that fills up the entire compartment. I am taken by shock and when she doesn’t stop, ask her to, but she ignores me.

“Why is she doing that!?” I cry to the others. “Is she afraid of elevators. It’s not like it’s going to crash.”

The droopy woman just shrugs, and the man presses his lips together. I focus back to the wailing woman. Her eyes are wide and fresh, but alive and conscious. She doesn’t seem to be under the influence of anything.

The elevator slows, and seems to jump upwards for a second. I catch the failing at its edge, and the droopy woman takes this opportunity to speak in my ear so I can hear above the railing.

“She’s screaming, because she’s the only one who survives.”

What? What??

“What!?”

The woman grins. “We Watched.”

The elevator lurches. We stumble.

No.

No. No. No. I didn’t Watch up to here. The droopy woman has started to wave the drug paper around and laugh loudly. The man giggles without sound. The wailing woman grows louder, her voice cutting my ears in its terror.

No! I won’t... I won’t! I won’t die. I cling to the railing as the elevator shakes and lurches.

Then it plunges.

I feel my body lift, my stomach floats. No is the words on my lips. No is the words I scream. I will survive. The man and the woman have taken the wailing woman in their arms to try and calm her down. The vision only lasts a second before the moment of impact. Before the moment our bones are smashed against the ceiling. Before the moment of silence.

Before the moment of dull, endless, monotone.

Everything is simply none.