Tyro Vogel - Tyro Vogel's Extatica

Well, she might not have had a magic wand, but at least she still had her art. Irina didn’t dare count the hours she’d spent on her latest project; she knew they’d run way over a hundred, and spending even more time on what essentially amounted to an elaborate 3D model of Budapest when her life was about to come to an untimely end seemed like a dubious idea. When you don’t know what to do, do what you know. Irina opened the project and immersed herself into the polygons, vertices, and lighting angles of a meticulously modeled flower shop on the corner of Dohany Street. She would worry about everything else later.

Her mobile rang, startling her, and Irina took the phone out of her jeans pocket. The caller ID was blocked. Who could be calling her past ten? The phone continued to ring. Irina had little to lose, so she slid her thumb across the touchscreen, accepting the call.

“Irina Filidilupi?” said a man’s voice. It sounded vaguely familiar, and, to her surprise, he’d even pronounced her Italian surname correctly.

“Is this you, Victor?”

“No, Irina, this isn’t Victor. This is Mark.”

Fear crept into her heart, past the numbness the news of her terminal illness had left in its wake. Her hands started trembling, just like at Victor’s place.

“Mark? Victor’s-brother-Mark? How did you get this number?”

He didn’t answer.

“Hello?”

“Irina, I’ve hacked your brain a few hours ago. How hard do you think it was for me to get your telephone number?”

Now there was a scary thought. “What do you want?”

“To talk. We’ve got to talk.”

“We’re talking now.”

“Not like this. There’s… there’s something I’ve got to tell you about what my brother’s doing. We’ve got to meet.”

“I thought you were in Prague?”

“I am. That shouldn’t be an issue, though. Check your drawer.”

Irina kept coursework and sketches in her drawer. Nothing useful there. And even if there was, how was that anyone’s business but her own. “My drawer? How do you know what’s in my drawer?”

“I don’t. But I know my brother. Check it, please.”

She slid the desk’s top drawer open where inside, waited a little metal case that reminded her of the boxes some coffee shops packed mint candies in. She opened it. Sure enough, it was full of blue capsules with characters “UF203” printed on their sides.

“Did you break into my flat?”

“It’s there, isn’t it? Look, I didn’t break in anywhere. I’m in Prague, remember? My brother, on the other hand… we’ve got to talk. I’m going to send an mp3 file to your phone. Get yourself comfortable, really comfortable, then take one of the pills, put your headphones on, and play the track fifteen minutes from now. We’ll meet.”

“And I’m supposed to trust you?”

“Think of it this way: How worse can things get? I’ll be waiting.” He hung up on her.

If life had taught her anything, it was that things could always get worse. What was he talking about? Did Mark know about her illness? Or, for that matter, did Victor know? Was their meeting on Margaret Island truly a coincidence, or had she been played like a schoolgirl? Irina’s response to crisis might’ve been escapism, but at least there was some sort of a perverse comfort in knowing her fate. This… this was something else.

She tried to apply cold reason, locking her fear away to a distant corner of her mind. I think, therefore I am.

Fact one: Somebody broke into their apartment. This was more disturbing than any imaginary ninjas Mark could throw at her.

Fact two: A man she’d never met (an arguable point, perhaps) apparently knew that her life wasn’t at its all time high. She hadn’t talked to anyone about her cancer except for the hospital staff, so other people knowing couldn’t have been a good sign.

One thing was for sure: It had been an unusual day, and it wasn’t over yet. She took one of the pills out of the case, spinning it between her thumb and index finger. Her phone vibrated, notifying her of new mail. They — whoever they were — knew her full name, telephone number, e-mail address; they knew where she lived, and could apparently come and go as they pleased. And, as a cherry on top, she had terminal cancer, which brought her to…

Fact three: Mark must have known he was right; what did she possibly have to lose?

With the pill squeezed firmly between her fingers, Irina put her phone in one pocket, its earbuds and a lighter in the other, took a couple of candles from the bookshelf and crossed the hall to the shared bathroom.

She opened the tap in the bathtub before placing the candles at the tub’s head. Maybe there was more to reality than this world alone. Maybe what she’d experienced at Victor’s observatory had been more than a custom-designed hallucination, and she’d found her magic escape button after all… or, rather, it found her. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. Mark’s samurai blade had sliced into her all too well, and meeting him in a virtual world again seemed like a crazy idea, though at this point, crazy she could live with. She had to get to the bottom of what was going on, no matter what. Irina took off her clothes and put them on the washing machine, placed her mobile on the clothes pile, connected the earbuds, and stepped into the hot water.

Her phone rang again. It was Victor’s number. Now what? At the very least, the older brother had the decency to keeps his caller ID open. Irina considered answering, but she didn’t want to be late for her “meeting” with Mark. The purely scientific revelation that something lay beyond the world of the physical couldn’t have come at a better time. Besides, it was time she’d learnt the other side of the story.

Irina rejected the call, slid the UF203 pill on her tongue and swallowed. She lay down and, relaxing her limbs in the hot bath, put her earbuds in and played the audio file she’d gotten from Mark.

Click, click, click… click, went the sound, as her fear dissolved in the hot, soothing water. She closed her eyes. I am a kunoichi of the Iga clan, trained in the art of deception, she told herself. I am hardened in battle, and I am not afraid.

When Irina opened her eyes, she’d expected to find herself back in the ninja garden; instead, she stood on a busy square in some distantly familiar-looking European city. Even in a simulated world, walking around naked seemed like a dubious idea, so she was happy to find that she was wearing the same shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes she’d worn to Margaret Island. People in modern clothing passed by on all sides; tourists poured in and out gift shops; a couple of bakeries on opposing streets smelled faintly of fresh bread and pastries. Irina recognized Mark immediately.

He sat on a stone bench in the middle of the square, a ‘SMOKING!’ logo stretched across the chest of his black t-shirt, his face hidden behind a Guy Fawkes mask, the one that The Watchmen movie had made into a symbol of civil unrest. Brown dreadlocks fell over his shoulders. A worn leather pouch dangled from his belt.

“Welcome to Belgium,” he said.

“Belgium? Why Belgium?”

“It’s an old prototype Victor made. He discarded it, but I rebuilt it almost from scratch. There’s no way he can get to us in here.”

Locked in with a predator, she thought. Good job, Irina.

“You attacked us! You cut me with that sword of yours. It hurt, Mark. It fucking hurt. What the fuck?”

“Walk with me.” He stood and strolled across the square. Irina walked by his side. Mark produced a glass pipe from his pouch, brought it to his mouth, held a burning match to the bowl, and took a long drag. When he exhaled, marijuana smoke drifted to Irina’s face, the smell pleasing, inviting. It was top grade stuff.