welcome to the end of the world
The whirring of the ceiling fan manages to gently stir the papers strewn about the living room, some pages printed, some hand written with words that shrink in size the closer the writer got to the end of the page, as if the writer were afraid of what may happen if they didn't get all of their thoughts on this page.
The television was on, but the volume was so low none of the room's occupants could even hear it. It was tuned in to the news, but nothing of interest had come up as of yet, so the television remained sadly neglected.
It was a night in for the Strider household. The two, Dave and Dirk were preoccupied with their own pursuits. Visually, the brothers appeared very similar. If one were to inquire what they were working so diligently on, their differences would become quickly apparent.
Dave, the older brother and guardian of the younger, was editing his latest screenplay idea. He didn't have any specific studios in mind to pitch it to, which he found freeing. Without knowing who would be producing the film, he would be less tempted to be targeted in his writing. Now, he could be sure that his artistic process would remain pure and untainted by corporate greed.
Dirk, the younger brother, was finishing a rough draft of a paper he hoped to one day get published in a major academic journal. The paper was to be about the ethics of terminating an artificial intelligence. As the creator of quite a few, he felt his contribution to the largely unexplored field would be very welcome.
Dave sat on the left side of the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table where a half empty pizza box also sat. On his lap sat his ancient laptop from his high school days. Dirk would tease him for his sentimentality and bemoan how inefficient it was, but Dave couldn't bring himself to throw it out when it still worked. It was where he wrote his first script and, if he had his way, where he would write his last.
Though Dirk held nothing but distaste for the piece of machinery, he was soothed by the sound of its clacking keys, a sound very familiar from his childhood. It was rhythmic by any means (Dave had never learned to type properly and so hunted around for the right keys by sight, pecking at them with two fingers), but Dirk wouldn't have it any other way. Rhythmic noises often fell into the category of background noise in his mind. He preferred to be conscious of the typing, at least on some level.
Dave was not entirely unaware of Dirk either. Though he may claim otherwise, Dirk was very inattentive of his own habits. For example, he had the unfortunate habit of babbling under his breath. Usually the content of such quiet monologues was in no way related to his current project at hand. Dave chose to believe it was just the natural byproduct of having such a bright mind that could handle two streams of consciousness at once.
As engrossed as they were and as safe in their home as they felt, neither of the brothers noted when a special breaking news segment cut into the regularly scheduled fear mongering. As Dirk reached blindly for another piece of pizza, uncaring of how the grease would ruin the draft, a terrified news anchor appeared on screen. If the volume had been at a level discernable to the human ear, the two Striders would have heard her report on an unimaginable calamity in a trembling voice. Though she valiantly tried to remain professional, her shaking became more and more apparent as the shouts and screams in the background grew nearer.
The camera cut back to the studio before the situation could reach its peak. Fear sold, but they could not stomach the knowledge that their colleagues were likely being killed as they sat in the relative comfort of their workplace.
At this moment, Dirk glanced up and took in the stressed and worried news anchors. He briefly contemplated turning the volume up, but loathed to interrupt the quiet calm that had taken over the apartment. It was a rare thing, one that he valued more than any news story. He refocused on his notes.
In his bedroom, his phone began to vibrate frantically. The picture that accompanied the call identified the caller to be Jane Crocker, one of Dirk's very best friends. He prized her input highly and would never intentionally ignore a call from her. Unheard by the cell phone owner in the living room, the call went to voice mail.
"I could use a beer," Dave finally admitted. He carefully set aside his practically prehistoric PC and stood, stretching. The television showed a McDonalds commercial that Dave was able to resist with ease, owing in large part to the substantial amount of pizza he'd just consumed. He was, as any of his close acquaintances would tell you, easily swayed by late night food commercials.
"Get me a crush?" Dirk requested. He didn't tear his eyes away from his notes as he plucked up his empty glass bottle and shook it to emphasize its emptiness. Dave agreed easily and Dirk replaced the bottle on the floor. There were some portions of his notes that were becoming nearly illegible with the grease seeping into the paper. Dirk cursed and began to painstakingly go over each blemish in permanent marker to avoid losing weeks of research.
Dave set a full bottle of orange crush on the table in front of Dirk with a satisfying clunk. His own bottle remained in his hand as he sat back on his side of the couch, as commanded by one of the many unwritten rules of the Strider family.
"I think I'm feeling something that doesn't fucking suck," Dave said to the quiet room and received no answer. He picked up the television remote and changed the channel just before the commercials cut back to the studio, where the anchors were struggling to pull themselves together. They received confirmation that their colleagues had been killed on the scene only two minutes prior.
"What do you think of cartoons?" Dave asked, tone as light as his heart. This quiet night in was exactly what he needed after the breakneck pace he'd been moving recently.