#seance scripts

With increasing frequency, Jak came to Torn with a stupid smirk and a look of anticipation, thinking he had the rebel guard all figured out. Thinking these late-night visits were enough to communicate an understanding. They were rugged battle-worn men and talking about “boyfriends” would’ve just broken the immersion. It was stubborn military bullshit, or whatever. Nothing at all to do with his own boyish shyness in the face of emotion, no.

Torn missed the cue. He was playing a different game. What Jak thought to be predictable sadism was a man steeling himself. “Weapons raised” was Torn’s default, but not his identity. Brutality kept distance between them and he didn’t think about why Jak kept coming back for more, just like he took for granted that eventually he was going to stop coming back.

Torn spent a lifetime walking away from wreckage. He took Jak for another blast radius. He didn’t consider that the young man liked the bruises, kept them tender, wanted them to mean something.

Holstrom ignored the plea, didn’t so much as pause. He turned away, dismissive, and began moving toward the open doorway. “Be quick,” he ordered Chanda to follow with a tone that dared him to disobey. It was bored, devoid of warmth. “While it’s distracted.”

Safe Surf appeared like a dark, buzzing storm cloud and descended fast upon Ping, overwhelming him.

Chanda could only watch, frozen for a fatal second, as Ping's avatar was engulfed. It wasn't a clean deletion, but a violent unraveling and tearing of code, the avatar dissolving piece by piece into meaningless static as the digital predator devoured it.

The horror threatened to paralyze Chanda; the grief for his friend, the chilling confirmation of Holstrom's malice. But Holstrom was already moving, expecting obedience. Chanda followed after him like a well-trained dog.

. . .

In the clear light of midday sun, Holstrom stood before a sturdy wooden easel, brush in hand, apparently absorbed in his artistry. The easel was angled to overlook the vast, shimmering cityscape that stood on the far side of the digital lake. It was a dream-place originally born from Chanda’s designs, a vision Holstrom effortlessly erected with his fluid code and vast processing power. The canvas was colored with a convincing likeness of it. Chanda stood nearby, watching as he applied a deliberate stroke of cyan. Miles away, a corresponding tower of light appeared and solidified into a new building on the horizon. Chanda thought it curious, perhaps even cute, that he was indulging the metaphor of this physical conduit. Beneath his calm observation, thoughts inevitably flickered back to the cold necessity of Ping’s execution days earlier; an unavoidable outcome of Ping’s own actions, Chanda had concluded.

“I loved to draw cityscapes as a kid,” Holstrom announced casually, his gaze fixed on the canvas, the remark lingering as an apparent explanation for this unnecessary tactile process. Then, abruptly, his thoughts seemed to wander, spilled over elsewhere. “…I’m tempted to underclock. Go full sleeping beauty until the first generation arrives. Our dream’s about to come true, Vinod.”

Chanda frowned, processing his anticipation. "Is that, perhaps, a little premature?" he asked, “We still have to work out the details, don’t we…?”

"Plan's already in motion," Holstrom replied, still not turning, his focus entirely on his painting.

“It is…?” Chanda’s heart dropped at the implicit meaning of being sidelined from the execution. “You didn't say anything," he added, the accusation quiet but clear.

Holstrom stated calmly, without inflection, “After Ping’s betrayal, I thought it best to play my cards close to my vest. No offense.”

Offense was taken. “You doubt my loyalty?” Chanda’s words snapped out despite his effort to maintain composure.

"You knew what Ping did,” Holstrom said, stern yet not with anger, like a light scolding between teacher and student. “You didn't say anything."

"I..." Chanda faltered. The truth was uncomfortable, tangled. "I wanted to protect him. He was my friend." He straightened, forcing down the guilt and the anger. "I tried to guide him back to us. …Have I not done everything you've asked? Have I not proven my utility, my... allegiance?"

"Lies by omission are still lies," Holstrom stated coolly, applying another precise stroke of paint.

Chanda felt a surge of indignation, then a wash of resignation. Arguing seemed futile. He did keep Ping’s betrayal secret. In Holstrom’s position, he wasn’t sure he’d be as lenient on himself. Still, he couldn't let this stand entirely. "My allegiance is proven," he insisted, voice lower now, tight with emotion. "By my actions. By my presence here, now, with you, after everything…” Memory of the fresh wound bled through his careful control, lacing his voice with bitterness and pain as he added, “After watching you... let Ping die.” It was generous phrasing, they both knew. “I tried to stop you. I begged you." Each word was heavy, a testament to loyalty stretched to its limits and demanding acknowledgement.

He paused to let the weight of it sink in, the implicit sacrifice, the loyalty proven through inaction against Holstrom's cruelty. Holstrom finally turned toward him, and Chanda saw a flicker in his callous gaze: the faintest hint of discomfort.

Holstrom looked back toward his shimmering creation. He let his brush and paints dematerialize, ran a hand through his thinning hair. A sigh like the whir of a cooling fan escaped him.

"Ok, ok. I’m sorry," he said, turning fully to Chanda, exasperation thick in his voice. It wasn’t the most sincere apology, but sincere in its weariness. He hesitated, then extended an arm, opening himself in an uncharacteristically welcoming gesture. "C'mere."

Chanda stared skeptically, irritation still prickling at him, the injustice stinging. But the fight drained out of him, replaced by the familiar pull, the complex knot of feelings Holstrom invoked. Chanda understood the lack of trust. He couldn’t say he trusted Holstrom, or even himself, after rationalizing Ping's horrific end. This alliance had always been precarious. Yet beneath the resentment, beneath the fear, strange admiration persisted. Chanda forgave him. He couldn't help but respect the sheer, mad genius, the unwavering vision that drove Holstrom, even as it terrified him. He saw righteous inspiration behind the ruthlessness, a creative fire that burned away obstacles, and he found himself inspired by it in turn. He wanted to contribute to that fierce light. He saw something special, something powerful, and Holstrom saw something in him, too. That mutual recognition was a powerful bond. He stepped forward, closing the distance, and allowed Holstrom to pull him into an embrace.

It was startlingly physical, solid, devoid of the usual data streams or sensory signals. Just the simulated pressure of arms, the proximity of their weight. In its simplicity, it felt somehow more potent for lacking the digital noise.

“I don’t blame you,” Holstrom assured him, a statement meant to be comforting, perhaps, but landing with his usual infuriating condescension. Given the context, it ignited a fresh wave of irritation in Chanda, the tone-deaf, pig-headed arrogance of it… But he let the feeling pass almost immediately, another resentment consciously suppressed in favor of pragmatism, or perhaps sheer exhaustion. What mattered to him now was getting back in the loop. He refocused deliberately on the plan Holstrom kept from him, wanting answers more than comfort.

“How soon is it going to happen…?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral to mask the lingering hurt.

Holstrom didn’t answer directly. He leaned back, dropped his arms. "We should get your mother uploaded as soon as possible," he stated, the casual tone belying the urgency. 

Chanda processed that, the weight of the real world intruding sharply into their digital sanctuary. He gave a slow nod, looking troubled. "Right. Yes," he agreed, "I'll call her. It's... going to be a difficult conversation. A lot to explain." He hesitated then, his focus flickering inward for just a fraction of a second as he queried the real-time data stream tracking his mother's local time zone. Confirmation flashed across his internal display: 3:17 AM. Deep night. "Probably not the best time on her clock right now,” he said as a faint, guilty wave of relief washed through him at this temporary reprieve from the impending emotional labor.

Holstrom gave a slight nod in return, accepting the delay for the moment. His expression lightened then, shifting gears all too easily.

“Guess it's just you and me for a while," he observed. A small, somewhat lewd smirk lifted the corner of his mustache. "So, what do you wanna do?" 

Chanda felt an answering smirk tug at his own lips. He chewed his tongue for a moment, an ache of guilt for Ping warring with the undeniable anticipation Holstrom sparked in him. He shouldn't feel this eagerness. But the conflict resolved itself quickly in Holstrom's favor. "I've," he started, drew the word out with a slow blink, a hint of mischief. "Been working on something I think you'll like."

"Oh?" said Holstrom, intrigued. “Do tell. It’s time we got back to collaborating.”