Layla Noir: Chapter 10

A-Merk
A-Merk
Jul 27, 2017 · 10 min read

Multiple days passed. We kept checking in to new motels, after I would “accidentally” allow my face to be captured by security cameras in nearby stores and buildings. We would wait, but no one came. We stayed two, maximum three days at each place, trying to preserve the illusion of being on the run while also maximizing the chances of me being seen, but nothing happened. We even became more brazen, with Wiz suggesting that I smoke a lot of weed and tell everyone I meet, “through a red-eyed haze”, as he put it, about how I didn’t belong in this reality and just wanted to go home. I had to artfully leave out prudent details while also seemingly dropping hints by accident, which was exhausting. I’m no actor, but after this extended charade, I felt a little more like one. But hey, lots of weed! That was cool, although I never fully understood those who would get paranoid off the herb until now. Still, it’s one thing to think your parents are about to bust you as you hit a pipe in the garage in the winter, it’s a whole other ball game to feel like you could have monstrous aliens try to kill you at any moment. Come to think of it, it wasn’t really all that fun…

Thirteen days had passed since we began our plan, and we had nothing to show for it but expenses and paranoia. As we pulled up to yet another shitty motel, the last one in the city limits actually, the Camero made an anxiety-inducing noise from deep in its bowels. I sighed as I saw smoke blowing out of the hood. Cursing and killing the engine, I went to go check on that while Wiz disappeared, as he often did when I wasn’t looking, to go get us a room. When he came back out, I gave him the bad news, “we’re fucked, dude. We could get this towed to a garage but it’s stolen, it might be too hot. We don’t want to get arrested. No one will be finding us then. Or, maybe they will find us, but we won’t be armed…”

“That’s acceptable. Not the prison, but the failure of our vehicle. You told me that this is the last motel of this type and quality in the city, yes? And now our vehicle has trapped us here. It’s fate” he said, with serene calm. I blanched, then laughed.

“Wait, YOU believe in fate? Are you serious? I thought human beings were the only animals dumb enough to rob themselves of their freedom of choice by believing that everything was already decided by some invisible, magic force. Don’t tell me that your advanced race still thinks that magic makes their choices for them…?”

“Ah, yes”, he sighed, “I forgot how limited your understanding of this concept is. Allow me to elaborate: I believe that each being has a mission that they exist to accomplish. However, I hold a more nuanced view than the mockery you just lobbed at me, for I do not believe that these missions are unavoidable. In fact, I believe nearly the opposite: I think that almost every single being, at least those with more free will than biologically driven responses such as myself and perhaps your species, do everything in their power to avoid their life’s mission” he paused, but I had gotten used to his long monologs and, realistically, I was very curious about everything he knew and believed. I nodded for him to continue. “Your species would be the worst, if not for mine. As mentioned, most of my peers are so bereft of any individuality or merit that they do not avoid their missions so much as they plod along, blissfully unaware of anything, including any meaning that might be found in their pitiful existences. However, those of your species that stand closest to the top of the food chain are almost as bad. From what little I know, there are many who toil under the heel of poverty and ignorance, forever trapped in a life that exists solely to serve your ruling class, those fortunate members of “The First World”. I assume that many of these poor souls are somewhat aware of the distance between their life’s work and the great mission that they ought to be working towards, but alas, they are frozen in the amber of class warfare and servitude. They, I only pity. You, though… you and your class, I despise. You sit in your luxurious chairs, shells bloated and nearly useless from excessive consumption of chemicals, sugars and fats, minds slow, thoughts limited by excessive consumption of unintelligent, uncreative trash brought to you by corporations through your Internet. Consume! That’s all you do. You consume trash, and thus, you become trash. Wasted, empty husks, pale reflections of the glory and majesty of life. In fact, you may even be worse than my people!” I had had enough.

“Hold up just a minute, man. I was cool with a bit of bashing, I mean we sure as hell aren’t perfect, but how could we be worse than your people? I mean, no offense, but you just said yourself that they are too stupid and cowardly to even begin to think about doing anything original. Again, we aren’t perfect, but lots of us think, we do, we act! We aren’t all couch potatoes. I mean, I enjoy a bit of Netflix myself, it helps me relax, but…” he cut me off.

“But what? What excuse are you about to give me? I am now decided: you ARE worse. My race has been broken down to the point where they no longer have the capability of becoming aware. You, on the other hand, you all know what you’re doing. As I mentioned, I spent extensive time on your Internet, both researching for the future and communicating for practice and for my goal of diversifying the narrative choices, and this is what I saw: widespread complacency… worse, knowing complacency. The amount of memes that describe and validate unhealthy habits are impossible to count. There are vast communities speaking out, informing everyone that fossil fuels and dangerous corporate practices are destroying the planet, yet you drive your cars and purchase your products anyway. Those your society has tasked with jobs of utmost important, the researchers and scientists, they are ignored. Yet, you hang on to every word that drips from the mouths of fools. Your celebrities are raised up and worshipped, for what? For comedic prowess? For having been born into wealth and fame? For the genetic or surgical result of a relatively thin waist and ridiculously large buttocks? These are your idols, your gods, and they will not save you. Each morning, the drones awaken and curse their meaningless lives, and yet, each day, they live out this boring and useless story, selling products no one needs or filing paperwork for some useless company, and each evening, they return to their caves, angry and unfulfilled. The worst part still remains, for what do they do with these powerful feelings, these Great Worm-given motivators for change and growth? They run from them. Night after night, they turn to chemical dopamine stimulators of various kinds, from television binges to consumption of the poisonous and therefore confusingly popular liquid known as alcohol, or other such distractions. They spend the evening doing everything in their power to pretend that things are OK and ignore their life’s great mission, and every morning they awake depressed and frustrated in the knowledge that they are no closer to a life that doesn’t require escape. Knowingly, they allow the time they could be spending to grow and change to melt away, and then they curse the stagnation. You are your own worst enemies, you are the poison that infects your veins, you are the perpetrators of your own destruction. Each of you has the potential to chase meaning, to create, to invent, to change and shape reality around you like a god. It disgusts me to see this potential spent on intellectual suicide”.

I wanted to argue, but I couldn’t. I stood there, mouth agape, rage curdling to despair, and I suddenly accepted that he was right. In my past life, before this crazy adventure began, everyone I knew spent almost all of their waking hours either working some job, watching TV or YouTube videos, and/or doing some collection of drugs. I was no different, spending all night running from my problems and all day living out the same cycles. My friends, coworkers, family, all the same shit. We were all failed escape artists, stuck in a cycle, thinking that this night would be the one. Thinking that this night would be the night when we took control of our lives and finally did something worthwhile. Thinking that this worthless day would be the last before our big shift from mediocrity to meaning. No one ever did it, though.

I remembered one guy on the force who would tell us at least once a week about how much he hated being a cop, how he thought he would be making a difference but found himself just supporting the status quo, protecting the rich, accomplishing nothing of grand importance. He would say that he needed to quit, that he was going to give his two weeks’ notice in tomorrow… but it was always tomorrow. If he wasn’t complaining and saying he needed to quit, he was talking about Lost or The Walking Dead or Game of Thrones, whatever story he was consuming at home on his off time, or he was at the bar, being almost impressive in his ability to flip from fake joviality to all-too-real depression somewhere between his fourth and sixth drink. I once asked him why he hadn’t quit yet, frustrated as he said he was going to for the millionth time since I met him, and he just stared at me, dumbly, before almost yelling, “fuck off, why are you still here? Same reason we’re all here: I got bills to pay. What can I do? I can’t just up and quit. I need to work somewhere”. It was depressing then, but now, as I reflected on Wiz’s words, it was worse. He was ignoring his call to action. He was purposefully hiding from his need to change every night and whining about how he hadn’t changed at all, every day. What a mess. It’s not like I was any better than him… I remember caring about the planet, volunteering to help the poor, and so on. When did I grow out of that? Was it when… no, it would be monstrous to blame my own weakness on their deaths. I had fallen into cynicism long before the various tragedies that catapulted me into insanity and obsession. I was just like the rest: a sad zombie, dulling my pain with vice as I awaited the end that I was repeatedly told would come soon if we didn’t act.

We stood there, Wiz and I, as the Camero smoked, the sun beat down upon us, and I contemplated mankind’s folly. Wiz finally spoke up, quietly and peacefully, “Once again, I see that you are more intelligent than I thought. I must apologize; I may have been too harsh. I see you pondering my words, and I know that you see the validity of my claims, but I also reduced you unnecessarily. There are a few points of light in the darkness, small shining units of brilliance that are putting everything they have into illuminating their environment. Many of you still work towards a great mission… a larger percentage than my race, I would say. My anger is partially from jealousy. You still have a chance, small as it may be, to have a great awakening. You still have a chance to grow, to change, and to earn your right to be alive and conscious of your own agency in this reality. All that I meant to express, before I allowed my emotions to take control of me, was that we are unlike so many because we are attempting to complete our mission. As far as Fate is concerned, I believe that once a being decides, truly and completely, to pursue their mission, their reality bends to help them. If this is the last motel that fits our scheme, and if our vehicle has chosen this place to break down, this signals to me that this is the place. Our combat will be staged here, and soon. We must prepare. Already, I have spent too long with you in the open. My diatribe likely attracted attention”. With that, he signaled for me to follow, and quickly lead the way to our room. I nodded glumly and tagged along.

We reached our room: the last one on the ground floor. He put the key into the lock, turned it, and we were both flung backwards by an explosion of sound and colour. I struggled to make sense of anything as light danced on my eyes and my ears rang like alarm bells, shaking my head, trying to clear it. Something jumped me, all teeth and claws, and I struck wildly at it with little or no effect. Suddenly, the weight flew from me in another explosion and I caught a glimpse of Wiz flinging energy blasts from his hands at multiple assailants. I rolled up, groggy, and just barely managed to catch what he threw at me. It looked a little bit like a gun, with one end sticking out from the rest, so I pointed it at the thing that was running towards me and pressed the button. It popped, just like a zit, just like the original scout had. Wiping my eyes, I saw Wiz holding one of them down on the ground, some sort of energy emanating from his hands, keeping it in place. I noticed that it was the last one moving as my tunnel vision slowly widened to reveal a horrific scene: gaunt, frighteningly-half-human bodies laying in various poses, smoke rising from cauterized holes in their flesh, twisted and broken. We had won. My only thought at the time was: “what now?”


Author’s Note: Confused? Find chapter 9 of this sci-fi noir novel that I am writing and releasing live, at least one chapter every two weeks, right here. Enjoy! I really am excited for people to read upcoming chapters and I hope to hear back from people soon :) Leave a comment if you have anything to say about this story so far, where you think it is going, where you want it to go… whatever you like. Thank you for reading!