#another session of overly long essays from yours truly

[just-honey-dewd]

What medium best expresses Sonic’s character?

Right, so this is a bit of a detour from the typical Hazbin Hotel posts I’ve been making, but I really did a heck-ton of work to come up with this. Then again, I type overly long paragraphs as a hobby, so jokes on anyone who thinks I don’t do this for fun... but then again... jokes on me for making the time to type Hamilton-esque essays on fictional characters ._.

Okay enough with tangents, this is an essay dedicated to answering what medium -- songs, scenes, cartoons, maybe even a comic issue -- best encompasses Sonic’s character. Take in mind, throughout the 29-almost-30 years of Sonic, there have been many iterations and takes on the character that either differentiate on a minor level, or to the point that some Sonics when compared seem to be starkly different characters altogether, so this is purely what I feel is the best take on Sonic’s character. For my sake, I’ve sworn off including material that require a long-winding read through some mediocre storylines -- nothing personal, Archie Comics. I won’t be covering Archie Comics because I’ve yet to finish reading all 200+ comic issues because that’s not humanly possible for me. If I ever manage to though, I might make a post about Archie Comics in some way. For now, here’s my personal essay on “What medium best expresses Sonic’s character”

Starting off with shows...

Sonic SatAM (1993) and Adventures of Sonic the Hedgehog (1993) are products of their time, and I never got to watch them when I was young, so I hold no sentimental nostalgia. Sonic SatAM seems in-line with Archie Comics, with the Freedom Fighters plotline and the infamous Sonic mohawk with lasted for a significant amount of issues. Adventures of Sonic the Hedgehog was pretty comical and lighthearted in comparison. Both were voiced by Jaleel White, had the same artstyle, and established Sonic’s character in vastly different tones. It’s rather outdated as Sonic has lived past the 90s for 20 years, where he got revised and reinvented to suit the decades. So both characterizations are simply inapplicable to Sonic’s character.

2003′s Sonic X worked off of the newly reinvented Sonic and paved way for Sonic’s personality for the following years, but I do have critique over the show, and their execution of Sonic’s character.  Though they did provide Sonic's "constant desire to run", he lacked soul and the over-the- top nature of his character. Sonic throughout this show displayed a rather hollow connection with his relationships, was as distant and aloof as Knuckles for seemingly no reason, lacked much depth and barely developed, and was overall, very poor with communicating his thoughts and actions -- which ultimately led to a number of plot lines where his friends and/or authorities saw his intentions as malicious or even evil. Sonic is hyperactive and free-spirited -- something this show doesn't fail to display -- but Sonic lacked his heart. Where was that desire to hang out with his friends? Where was the underlying love and compassion he'd constantly display in and out of battle? Where were his cheesy yet well-meaning impromptu speeches? These aspects of Sonic were sorely lacking and missed when I watched through this series which is why I believe this anime didn’t really express Sonic's character.

Sonic Boom...

...is a lighthearted, slapstick sitcom-based comedy. Very episodic, which is aight, but the the show’s execution as a whole was mediocre-borderline-bad. It doesn't have much elements inherently Sonic-esque -- it's a product of the Modern era, which at this point, doesn’t seem to have good connotations. No worthwhile soundtrack, stunted animation and movement, embarrassingly heavy reliance on overused archetypes/stereotypes at the expense of the characters, repetitive plots that get the THICC layer of frosted sarcasm and self-awareness. Sonic had attitude sure, there was a clear level of disinterest and cynicism to this portrayal -- it was as though protecting people felt like a burden and chore to him. It doesn’t help that this feeling is justified as Eggman’s been reduced to a pathetic Saturday Morning villain with lesser competency in being a world threat, and much rather a constant nuisance to Sonic’s town than anything else. Subjectively speaking, this show's clearly not for me -- even when I was in the supposed age range at the time. Objectively, this Saturday morning cartoon should've been branded as it is, rather than a Sonic cartoon because the identity of Sonic the Hedgehog definitely got skewed and misconstrued by the eyes of newcomers whose first exposure to Sonic the Hedgehog character was this. Ironically, due to this show, I subsequently furthered my distance from the franchise at that age, and got into it much, much later in life.

Now moving onto the songs...

Initially, I considered “Escape from the City”, “Live and Learn", "His World" and "Fist Bump" as good contenders in defining who Sonic is. But through some vigorous looping of those songs, I've pinpointed what they've to offer in showing Sonic's character, and due to my consistent nature of typing overly long arguments about anything I find interesting, I'll be putting each song into its own paragraph -- picking out any significant verses, and explaining why I think each song subconsciously contributed to my thought process that they would be the best take on his character. Afterwards, I’ll finish with my conclusion. (I personally suggest you go listen to each song as you read each paragraph)

"Escape from the City" is a timeless bop, and I will play it in the car whenever I'm actively escaping from authorities in my city. What this song does is use rhythmic beats and repetitive bass line to emulate the constant adrenaline and excitement Sonic feels when he's moving around, it embodies his carefree nature and spontaneity to a T. It succeeds in portraying the energetic, upbeat aspect of his personality as the song itself contrasts the very dangerous implication of being chased down by the government for a crime you didn't commit. Sonic doesn't get enough credit for the amount of cheerful optimism he has -- always moving with a spring in his step, or steps considering the speed part. He brushes off the most life-threatening dangers he has to face and takes it all in with that well known Sonic™ grin. It also shares a constant message of "Live and Learn" (which the song of the same title) -- this is a rather succinct version of Sonic's mantra. The song is very Sonic, but only manages to show his surface level personality. Kinda like Sonic X's theme song "Gotta Go Fast" but it's much less in your face about Sonic's whole shtick. Another thing to note is the element of "escape" is a constant in both "Escape from the City" and "Endless Possibility", which I'll get further into later. Given that this song was more focused on the primary objective of ‘City Escape’ the game level rather than exploring Sonic’s fundamental character, it's very cool how it just so happened to tie in well with him...

"Live and Learn" was more of a Sonic and Shadow song, so I already kinda figured it wouldn't manage to explore Sonic's character much. The first verse and chorus offers as much for Sonic's character as Shadow's oh-so few lines of verse 2 does. Again, the song only manages to provide Sonic's surface level personality. Reason it came up in my mind was because of the words 'Live and Learn'. It's a very motivational and inspiring line -- what got me thinking about Sonic’s character in the first place. It's an unspoken rule for him to take life headfirst and live in the moment, and legit the second issue of the IDW's comics reiterates this by Amy expressing that this free-spirited approach to life is what essentially makes her love him.

"Fist Bump" was like my first exposure to Sonic main theme songs -- and I'm still into listening to the song. I realize the lyrics are pretty generic, but it does reflect the general focus of Sonic character very well -- which may further explain why Modern Sonic is much less... developed, to say the least. What the lyrics essentially hone in on are Sonic's loyalty to his friends and his.... unyielding determination? Honestly, a very generic take for a main theme, and it reflects on the quality of the game if even the music lacked much personality compared to any heroic video game character theme song. Sonic had more personality to offer in his silent protagonist games, compared to this. This issue with Sonic's character barrels down to Modern Sonic retaining his previous counterpart's cheesy insistence to spout improvised speeches and embrace the power of friendship -- though it's definitely gotten out of hand in this case. We need balance.

Making Sonic more family-friendly ≠ Dumbing down what nuance or individuality there was to his character and making him every other generic hero protagonist who quips for 90% of his dialogues.

Finally, "His World", but I'll do Crush 40 and Zebrahead's separately, sort of. Crush 40 explicitly tells Sonic's character how it is -- his strict moral code, good intuition, confidence in himself, "seize the day" mentality, straightforward disposition, stubborn determination, love for his friends, and fearless risk-taking -- it's pretty lengthy but it does a good job as Sonic's theme and manages to state what it's like in his world. However, the song faces eerily similar issues to "Fist Bump" with it's lack of creative interpretation with its lyrics, and compared to "Escape from the City", it seems more formal and serious in tone which is reflective of their portrayal of Sonic. 

I interpret Sonic as a multifaceted character, but when listing out all those traits in the verses and chorus in the song’s tone and format melody-and-lyric-wise, the song makes it appear as though Sonic is strictly a pillar of justice and represents the strong, untouchable hero persona -- which I find to be a detrimental writing aspect for his character. It writes off his personality as second priority to the reputation that would have receded him through the years of defeating Eggman and saving the world -- and subsequently, paints his character in a rather dulled and overly no-nonsense light.  Not saying I don't want Sonic to be serious at certain points, but I think with this song, and this game as a whole, there was some truth to the issue of Sonic '06 being a little too serious. While these characters were well-written in this game e̶x̶c̶e̶p̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶r̶d̶ ̶p̶o̶i̶n̶t, I've had personal issues tied to em: 

Shadow coming back was quite risky and foolhardy for his character journey and I believe if it weren't for the great execution for his storyline in '06, his appearance would've been viewed as fanservice -- which is what he's sadly been reduced to now

Silver's character concept as a whole was pretty dark and serious, which again isn’t a bad thing, but with the plot resulting in him seeing Sonic as the Iblis Trigger, it limited Sonic's ability to play up his easy-going, carefree nature since he couldn’t just brush off that accusation with offhanded remarks as that would’ve risked Sonic coming off as insensitive and unsympathetic at that moment. Which is not what the writers want their characters to go.

Elise. There, I said it. 

On top of it all, "His World" is pretty slow-going for Sonic’s theme, which I could try justifying by saying it might’ve been a representation of significant growth to Sonic's character -- perhaps the journey managed to shape him into a man (hedgehog) who could spare a bit of time to contemplate his next course of action -- as this game definitely explored a major deviation from typical Sonic game story lines. But, even with that, I still really prefer Zebrahead's version.

Zebrahead's is vastly the same when telling Sonic's character how it is, but the instrumentals, pacing and speed is increased significantly that it definitely sounds more reminiscent of Sonic's musical style -- fast-paced rock and roll. But, I’ve yet to figure out the significance of the lyrics:

Especially when it follows right after "Never fear the fall" -- so you take the leap of faith, but also don't let yourself fall in the process? Pretty weird flow of words there, but maybe I’m just not getting it at all. Point is, what both songs hone in on is Sonic's intuitive sense of justice and a bit of his carefree nature -- since the lyrics from Zebrahead's specifically highlight on Sonic's "leap before looking" nature. What Zebrahead further hones in on is his adventurous and hyperactive qualities as verse 1 and the bridge show. It's a timeless song of anticipation and build-up with good execution, but it doesn't cover the main essentials in what makes Sonic Sonic.

Finally, reaching the song I've found best covers the basics and essentials to Sonic's character is...

Believe it or not, “Gotta go fast” encompasses the defining characteristics of a well-written Sonic -- the title itself is a testament to the his motto and is all things Sonic stands for. 

While this refers directly to the plot of the show itself, it manages to familiarize us with the speed and urgency crucial to Sonic’s character and--

Okay, clown time’s over, here’s the real winner.

Unleashed's main theme: "Endless Possibility" 

From the get-go, intro already separates itself from the other songs by being freeing and exciting, without being too carefree like "Escape from the City", too orchestral or urgent like "His World", and definitely more compelling lyric-wise compared to "Fist Bump". This tone is a constant throughout the song, and makes it seem like Sonic's the one directly singing -- the singer nailed it with the level of obnoxious and genuine tone to his voice. 

This song, like the rest of the other main themes, reflect the game itself. Unleashed is a race against time for Sonic to fight Dark Gaia before the Earth gets torn apart. But similar to the gameplay and form of story, the music is very fast-paced yet unburdening, with hints of inner contemplation, and darkness (or how I like to put it, edge).  The first verse already succeeds in getting into the bare bones of Sonic's character -- he runs, he can never stay still out because he knows that's not who he is, he's free-spirited and will run around the world out of his own volition, it's a form of escape and liberty to him -- and this is what ties into "Escape from the City”. This verse sums up the essential traits to Sonic better than any of the previous songs without letting one attribute overpower it. It refers to his three fundamental traits: that he's fast, adventurous and carefree.

The pre-chorus further expands from verse 1's establishments, by showing the deeper, inner turmoil that pass through Sonic's mind -- “How will I know when I get there? And how will I know when to leave?” -- these are the rare instances where Sonic is found in inner conflict with himself which came out of his simplistic philosophy rather than an external conflict or influence, and it's more of unspoken and nuanced as Sonic never usually calls himself into question for the way he lives. This showcases that he's capable of processing the long-term effects of living and moving around aimlessly -- constant adventure and freedom might eventually feel mundane, so he might eventually find the destination his heart feels is right for him, so what will he do when that period of his life unfolds, and will this period end the days of adventure and freedom? The possibilities are never-ending, so as always, he'll take everything in stride, and prepare for whatever hits him.

This is what the song's main theme is. Endless possibility. Potential and growth -- which reflects back to Sonic: mentally, physically and emotionally. Mentally, he's acknowledged that he's always growing and developing throughout his adventures -- as there's one thing that no one, not even Sonic can outrun, and that's change. "Endless Possibility" opens us up to the concept of ever-changing development for Sonic, and the possibility that he might eventually reach his unknown destination and end this long-running journey, while also implying that every journey that he goes through and ends -- whether it directly ties into the games or off-screen adventures -- will always lead with a new one. Unleashed encompasses this youthful feeling of change and vigor. Sonic is in his element and is going through a personal journey to save the world once again, but as always, he'll do it with enthusiasm and unbridled drive. 

Interestingly, Unleashed feels reminiscent of Sonic X's Sonic but done right. Both have the character mostly isolated from his friends for the majority of their respective stories, but where Sonic X forces Sonic to clean up on Isle Eggbot each episode, Unleashed puts him through a singular adventure that requires he takes care of the major issue at stake while the others are doing their respective jobs or living their own lives. Unleashed's Sonic even has a temporary companion which he clearly warms up to and befriends throughout the whole journey, whereas Sonic X shows Sonic actively dismissing his previous friends to sleep, travel, and adventure for the heck of it -- while they spent a majority of the first season trying to find the chaos emeralds without him. 

Sonic being isolated is usually due to situational happenstance rather than conscious preference. Sonic  isn't inherently solitary or aloof, it's just due to his ability to move from place to place with ease that he subsequently has to leave his friends behind to confront the source of the problem. It's not a part of his character that he plays lone wolf like those archetypal "cool characters", the nature of what he does and excels at leads him to fight front and center, even if it means doing it alone. Despite this, he still is the sentimental, over-the-top dork that believes in the power of friendship and will go to the ends of the Earth to protect his friends. Which is exactly what he does in Unleashed.

The bridge provides the hints of edge where Eggman and Sonic exchange dialogue in the song, very much referring to the events of Unleashed's intro battle between the two. Eggman essentially tells Sonic to give up as he's actually beaten him -- which Sonic replies that it's not over, that this is just another start to another journey. The lyrics aren't very subtle about what they're saying, but it does a good job in encompassing two key traits when Sonic responds to any threats -- his cheerful optimism and unyielding determination. He doesn't respond to danger with simply quips, he responds to it with a campy but genuine declaration of strength and courage. The cheesiness in his words are very prominent, but he says them with a straight face like he's announcing his battle cry and promise to do what it takes to save the world and protect the ones he love.

In short, "Endless Possibilty" manages to fully encompass the best iteration of Sonic, and humanizes him to the point that I can only really see this as the current best sum up of his character without any needed dialogue, animation, or prior context. This song could just be tied directly to Sonic's overall character outside of the game's plot, and I'd be fine.

#my posts #sonic the hedgehog #sonic #sonic character essay #my character essays #small spoilers for idw #another session of overly long essays from yours truly

[glorious-blackout]

Soooo @rock-n-roll-fantasy wanted me to write an essay on my self-indulgent theory that Muse’s ‘Simulation Theory’ and Arctic Monkeys’ ‘Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino’ are set in the same universe, and my brain rather predictably used this as an opportunity to develop a novel-length crossover fic instead. I’m starting to doubt that the full idea will ever get written purely because life has a habit of getting in the way, but here’s a bit of an overlong teaser in place of your essay! 😉🥰

*************************************

The trek from Room 521 to the ballroom is a long, monotonous one. Not that that particularly matters; even if Mark didn’t know every corridor like the back of his hand, he no doubt would have been guided to his destination regardless, simply by following the growing ruckus of banal chatter overlying soft musical notes. His own band won’t be the ones playing tonight – thank Christ seeing as he barely has the energy to hold a mic for two hours let alone sing into it – but the prospect of spending the evening alone in his room had hardly been tempting. He could have arranged to meet one of the lads for a drink, he supposes, but he hadn’t wanted to impose. They all have lives beyond the hotel after all, whereas he remains tied to its walls like an obedient dog on a leash.

High-ceilinged corridors eventually lure him towards a set of heavy oak doors, the only veil remaining between him and a horde of guests who by now are likely enjoying their third glass of champagne. Muffled conversations become crystal clear for a moment as one guest stumbles onto the corridor looking considerably worse for wear, but the noise is quickly silenced by an exaggerated slam. The guest sways on his feet for a moment, narrowed eyes struggling to maintain focus on Mark’s face, before he huffs and takes the first step of what promises to be an arduous journey back to his room. No doubt he’ll have collapsed in a pool of his own vomit before he’s even halfway there, adding one more job to the cleaners’ already overflowing pile in the process. Mark sighs, already regretting his decision to be sociable, and forces himself over the threshold before he can change his mind.

The ballroom does ignite a certain pride within his chest, he must admit. The spacious hall - resting beneath a curved ceiling kept afloat by granite columns - is a stark contrast to the narrow claustrophobic corridors leading up to it, and the size is adequate enough that the space never feels too crowded. Waiters flit back and forth between packed circular tables on the fringes, offering blessed champagne or scotch from a well-stocked bar, and an elevated platform at the far-end of the hall proudly showcases the evening’s entertainment.  

It would appear the choice of dance tonight is a simple waltz. Guests dressed to the nines in elegant frocks and sharp tuxedos glide effortlessly along the polished dancefloor; guided by lilting piano notes as they sway beneath the soft light of a glittering chandelier. As usual, Mark feels no particular inclination to join them. On occasion, he himself will be the one sat by the piano, enticing his guests to dance for him whenever the evening feels a little too stagnant, but it would appear that his influence is not needed tonight. Besides, the only thing enticing him for the moment is the bar.

Despite having to make his way through the masses in order to reach his destination, luck must be on his side for no-one takes the opportunity to disturb him. He must have timed his trip well enough that the drinks are already taking hold, to the point where the hotel owner himself has become an unnoteworthy presence. His short walk to the bar goes entirely without a hitch, so much so that it probably shouldn’t surprise him when he arrives to find that his luck has run dry.

There’s someone sitting in his usual spot. Logically he knows this isn’t an issue; there are plenty of free stools lined up against the horseshoe-shaped counter, but the sight gives him pause nonetheless. For as long as he can remember, that centerfold seat has been his and his alone, and the sight of someone new sitting there has unease coiling in his gut for reasons he cannot explain. If that were the strangest thing about this situation then he could have moved on and settled himself elsewhere without another thought, but what truly makes him gape is the appearance of the man who has seen fit to take his place.

In stark contrast to the stylish formalwear adorning the vast majority of guests, this man seems to have made it his mission to break every rule of fashion there is. The loud red jeans and shiny trainers would no doubt have been bad enough on their own, but in comparison to the gaudy nylon jacket and the lit neon sunglasses which remain fused to his face despite being indoors, the lower half of his body looks positively tame. Intricate circuitry is affixed to the front of the jacket, with wires snaking their way into a large pocket which no doubt houses a switch designed to make the jacket as loud as the sunglasses. Mark can’t help but wonder how this man hasn’t attracted any unwanted attention and has instead been left to cradle his glass of bourbon in relative peace. Perhaps this is the current fashion trend on Earth and someone has simply forgotten to give Mark that particular memo.

Shaking his head once and remembering his mother sternly telling him that staring is rude, Mark clears his throat and gestures to the free stool by his side when a pair of concealed eyes turn in his direction.  

“Mind if I take this seat?” he asks, well aware that he of all people shouldn’t need to ask permission.

A knowing smile graces the man’s thin face and he nods graciously, removing his glasses to reveal surprisingly gentle blue eyes. He appears more normal up close than Mark anticipated, barring a pair of impressively sharp cheekbones and a hairstyle so haphazard he doubts an intense combing session would tame it.

“Be my guest,” the man offers in an accent which turns out to be English, to Mark’s not unpleasant surprise. Besides the lads, he can’t remember the last time he encountered someone from home. “Though I imagine that’s usually your line.”

A surprised laugh escapes Mark at the lame joke, causing the stranger to grin proudly before taking another generous sip of bourbon. Mark considers calling the waiter over – the impressive display of booze resting before him is enough to make his mouth water – but the man in question appears to be preoccupied with an uptight elderly couple nearby, and besides, his curiosity is already threatening to consume him. The booze can wait.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” the man interjects before Mark can ask the question weighing on his mind. The words escape like a bullet, so rapidly that the compliment could easily be dismissed as flippant, but the stranger’s smile seems sincere enough. “You’ve got one hell of a mind, Turner.”

There’s a gravity to his tone that Mark can’t quite comprehend, but he doesn’t dwell on it.  

“How did you get here?” Mark asks, aiming for a conversational tone only to flinch when the words emerge as confrontational instead. In an attempt to save face, he adds, “I don’t remember greeting you at the station, is all.”

‘I would have remembered if I had’ goes unsaid, though the implication doesn’t appear to be lost on his new companion.

“Interdimensional portal,” he replies without missing a beat, bringing his glass to his lips once more as he gazes at Mark with mischief in his eyes and a challenge in his smirk.

The ensuing silence is broken almost immediately as Mark bursts out laughing again; an action which appears to serve as an invitation for the other man to join him. The high-pitched giggle is unexpected, but the sound of it is enough to melt some of Mark’s lingering unease.

“I doubt technology’s reached that stage yet,” Mark teases once he’s recovered his composure. “Not unless they’re keeping secrets from me back home.”  

“I wouldn’t sound so sure if I were you,” the man retaliates, that same challenge resting on his lips and a single brow quirked upwards with mocking intent. “How long has it been since you visited Earth?”

The lightness in Mark’s chest vanishes for a moment and his brows knit together as he ponders the question. Strange. Now that he thinks about it, he honestly can’t recall how long it’s been.

When it becomes clear that no answer is forthcoming, his companion simply shrugs before facing ahead once more, demolishing the rest of his drink with a single gulp. It’s impossible to tell how much he’s had already. His current glass barely seems to have touched him, unless his strange approach to conversation is merely the product of drunken ramblings. He makes no move to relinquish his seat however, nor does he signal to the now-free waiter for a refill, and Mark finds himself facing straight ahead as he contemplates the choice lying before him.

On the one hand, this man is clearly strange. The unease which continues to coil in his gut is proof enough of that, and Mark imagines that walking away now would spare him a world a confusion. His eyelids feel heavy enough as it is without his mind being weighed down as well.  

On the other hand, he honestly can’t remember the last time he had a conversation that was so... spontaneous. He’s grown accustomed to forced chats about hotel business and band rehearsals, to the point where he can’t remember the last time anyone made him laugh in pleasant surprise. Until tonight that is.  

And honestly, what is his alternative? Mingling with the guests and sweeping up compliments about the taqueria, or the pool, or the perfect view of Earth offered by the casino’s transparent ceiling? Having to listen to rich businessmen divulge their recent purchases of eye-wateringly expensive yachts or starships, while wives half their age hang onto their arm and pretend to look interested?

It isn’t really a contest in the end.

Decision made, Mark gestures to the waiter, who approaches with what he suspects is a put-on smile. To the man’s credit, said smile doesn’t falter even when he casts a sideways glance towards his boss’s unconventional choice of companion.

“Sixteen-year-old Lagavulin please, Andrew,” Mark orders with an easy smile of his own. “And one for my friend here as well.”

Andrew hesitates for only a moment before preparing the drinks with practiced ease, applying a crystallised ball of ice to Mark’s glass once both whiskies are poured. At his side, the mysterious stranger eyes Mark with what appears to be surprise at this unprompted display of generosity, but the smile returns soon enough as he takes his drink in hand and thanks Andrew with all the grace of a perfect gent.

“You trying to get me drunk, Turner?” he teases, though if he’s opposed to the idea he doesn’t show it.

“Just hoping for some interesting conversation,” Mark responds with a wry smirk of his own. “Scotch usually helps with that, I’ve found.”

Without further ado, he takes a sip and closes his eyes in satisfaction as the golden liquid instantly works its magic. A pleasant burn trails down his throat until warmth settles in his belly, and any lingering stress drifts away like smoke on a breeze.

“You can call me Mark by the way,” he says, raising his glass as an invitation. “It’s about time we introduced ourselves, don’t you think?”

A flicker of unidentifiable emotion crosses over his companion’s face, just for a second, before he returns Mark’s easy smile and brings their glasses together with a soft clink.

“Matthew,” he says, which strikes Mark as such an ordinary name for one committed to looking so extraordinary. “But you can call me Matt. Everyone else does.”

Mark nods in acknowledgement before returning to his drink, and they wile away the following minutes in companiable silence. The band appear to have moved on from classical waltzes and are now playing a smooth jazz number, the seductive groove of the double-bass soothing Mark into closing his eyes and forgetting the hundreds of guests gathered nearby. The chatter has died down slightly since his arrival, but the odd clink of a glass or drunken laugh is enough to assure him that he’s not entirely alone. Not as alone as he would have been had he remained in his room with only the hotel blueprints and a virtual reality mask for company.

In a few more moments he may even have found himself forgetting Matt’s presence, but it isn’t long before his reverie is broken by a now-familiar voice.

“What do you know of ‘Simulation Theory’?” Matt asks flippantly, as though it’s the most ordinary question in the world. The fact that Mark can only stare dumbly for several seconds is likely a sign that his scotch is already beginning to take hold, but he eventually forces himself to give a resigned shrug.

“Not much,” he admits. The name doesn’t sound familiar in the slightest, though he’ll admit that he isn’t known for scouring scientific journals. “I suspect that’s about to change though.”  

That statement seems to be invitation enough for Matt, who downs the rest of his drink without so much as a flinch before launching into what appears to be a well-practiced spiel.

Mark can only try to keep up between finishing one drink and ordering another, as Matt starts explaining the concept of computers advancing to the point where they can simulate the laws of physics, so much so that the future of interplanetary travel may end up being achieved via the means of simulated reality - unlimited by the demands of the fragile human body - rather than old-fashioned means such as starships or satellites as ancient sci-fi shows had predicted. The whole lecture is delivered in what must be Matt’s typical rapid-fire delivery; Mark would likely have been left with little breathing room even if he had been entirely sober, which he is becoming less and less so as the evening wears on. With his keen enthusiasm and eccentric hand movements, Mark reckons Matt would have made an excellent physics professor in another life if the concepts escaping his mind weren’t so utterly ridiculous.

“Which of course poses the question,” Matt concludes eventually, pausing to stop for breath. A pleasant buzz is coursing through Mark’s veins by this point, and he rests his head on one hand as he studies Matt with an amused smile. “If we conclude that it is feasibly possible for technology to exist which is capable of simulating reality so convincingly, who is to say that it hasn’t already happened? What if we’re all just cogs in a machine, believing our decisions are our own and that everything around us is real, when in actuality we’re being watched and studied and controlled? Like ants under a microscope?”

“Hmm,” Mark ponders the question as best he can, taking another sip despite knowing it won’t help. It strikes him that the whisky has already rendered him soft and sleepy, whereas Matt doesn’t appear to have been affected at all despite the fact that he’s clearly had more. As quick as his delivery is, Mark can’t even recall hearing a slur. “Like characters in a videogame or summat?”

“Something like that I suppose,” Matt concurs, though there’s a tension in his skinny frame that implies Mark has barely scratched the surface. “What do you reckon would happen if a videogame character realised they were trapped in a videogame? That their entire lives were a fiction and that someone else was in control?”

“I imagine they’d spiral into existential dread,” Mark concludes with a dismissive shrug, polishing off what must be his third glass and placing it face-down on the countertop. It would probably be best if he stops now, seeing as Matt appears to be in a philosophical mood. “Good thing they can’t think or feel anything then, isn’t it? They just do as they’re told.”

An amused smirk graces Matt’s face and there’s a glint in those blue eyes that implies he wants to add something, but he keeps his mouth firmly shut. For now at least. Mark uses this window of silence to wipe the exhaustion from his eyes before casting a glance around the ballroom. It’s still relatively busy. The band have given no indication that they’re approaching the end of their set, and so long as the drinks keep flowing, there will always be ample opportunity for dancing and conversation. He loses himself for a moment as he observes the movements of the guests gracing the dancefloor; everyone from beautiful newlyweds to elderly couples celebrating their golden anniversaries locked in intimate embraces, with eyes only for each other. Matt’s musings weave their way through his mind and he finds himself searching for flaws in the system; a hint that what he’s seeing isn’t all it appears to be. He scans the faces of the guests to see if he can find any duplication; eavesdrops on nearby conversations in search of generic, repetitive sentences. He feels the warm cotton of his suit and the cool condensation on his glass and the sticky sweat on the palm of his hand, only to conclude that it all must surely be real. He knows all-too-well what it’s like to wander lucidly through a dream, and this isn’t one.

Still, the possibility is fascinating. Ludicrous, but fascinating.  

“Let’s say you’re right,” he starts, taking a moment to select his next words carefully. He doesn’t usually feel the need to be so cautious in conversation, but Matt’s ability to spout ridiculous theories with the utmost confidence has left him feeling like he’s playing catch-up. “And let’s say that we’re the ones trapped in this game, or simulation, or whatever you want to call it.”

Matt turns to him as though shocked that Mark’s actually giving his ramblings any consideration, and he can’t help but wonder how many times he’s been shot down in the past. He pauses, half-expecting an interruption, but Matt’s only response is a smile followed by an encouraging nod.

“What if there’s a reason behind the fiction?” he proposes, more confidently now. “What if we’ve been trapped in a game because reality is terrible.”

“And therein lies our conundrum!” Matt says, eyes lighting up with childlike glee as he leans back and slams his hand on the counter. Tending to a guest a few seats away, Andrew side-eyes him warily, perhaps wondering if he’ll be forced to escort another drunk from the premises soon, but Mark’s total lack of concern seems to reassure him. “Is it better to exist within a terrible reality or a beautiful lie?”

The hypothetical weight of the question stumps Mark for a moment. Any thoughts which had previously been running through his mind fragment like shattered glass, leaving only a warm fuzz in their place. He lets himself imagine what it would be like to have an all-powerful, all-seeing creature manipulate his thoughts - moulding them like clay - and despite the room’s pleasant warmth, he finds himself shivering. It’s not that he believes Matt’s theories – far from it – but pondering the question elicits the same uncertainty planted by movies like his beloved Blade Runner; makes him contemplate deep, existential ‘What-ifs’ until sleep eludes him and a shiver creeps up his spine.

When the power of speech finally returns to him, he finds the words spilling forth without having crossed his mind beforehand.

“I think we’re both a little too drunk for philosophical discussions, don’t you agree?” he says blankly, though upon hearing the words even he is left utterly unconvinced. He may already be able to anticipate the crushing headache that morning will bring, but he’s managed to remain somewhat lucid so far. Matt, damn him, doesn’t appear to have been affected by the alcohol at all. Nor does he seem willing to let Mark back down; instead he pointedly says nothing as his lips curl upwards in an unspoken challenge.  

Mark sighs, before forcing himself to answer the question with one of his own.

“If the fiction is so convincing that you could go from birth to death without realising it is a fiction, does it really make a difference?”

“A fair point,” Matt concedes with a shrug, though Mark doesn’t miss the way his expression darkens. A twitch in his jaw implies that his words have struck a nerve, only he can’t possibly see why that would be the case. He expects Matt to elaborate further – to quash his argument with a clever retaliation – but he simply turns back towards the wall of booze and signals to Andrew to bring him another glass of scotch. The temptation to tell him that he’ll need to be carried back to his room on a stretcher if he carries on like this is momentarily overwhelming, but the words remain glued to Mark’s tongue like resin. His mouth feels as dry as sandpaper and the flurry of unease which had been temporarily dispelled returns with a burning vengeance. All he can do is watch as Matt gratefully accepts what must be his fifth glass and gulps half of it down his throat without the slightest hint of hesitation.

Something stirs in the back of Mark’s mind. A distant memory perhaps; a vague flicker of recognition which had lain buried until this moment. He can honestly swear he has never laid eyes on Matt before today, but it strikes him that their camaraderie has been a little too easy tonight. Almost as though he should know Matt from his previous life on Earth.

But he doesn’t. He knows that for a fact, and any treacherous doubts suggesting otherwise are swiftly cast aside with an urgency he can’t explain.

It doesn’t take long for Matt to polish off his glass, setting it down on the counter with a finality which suggests it’ll be his last of the night. Just as well, Mark thinks. He can feel the evening beginning to wind down already, and he can feel fatigue settling into his bones.

Before he can offer to foot the bill, his companion finally decides to pipe up again. Any trace of his earlier bravado appears to have abandoned him, leaving him crouched and visibly exhausted, his voice impossibly small.

“If nothing is real – if everything around us truly is a fiction - then it stands to reason that there’s no underlying purpose to our existence. Our lives are there to serve as meaningless entertainment for something lurking in the shadows and nothing more. So everything we do or say, everyone we love...none of it matters in the end. Not really.”

He looks directly at Mark then, his once gentle blue eyes burning with an intensity that makes him want to shrink back like a frightened child. A silly notion really. Of all the words to describe Matt, ‘threatening’ doesn’t immediately come to mind, but the discomfort lingers regardless. Matt must notice, for he averts his eyes to the floor almost immediately and offers a small, apologetic smile as recompense.

“I just don’t think I could live with that,” he concludes with a certainty that has Mark’s chest tightening. “No matter how beautiful the lie is.”

A beat passes. Then another. Mark becomes all-too aware of his heart pounding in his chest, trying to assure him that he’s okay; that he’s solid and real. It occurs to him that he has forgotten how to breathe, and the discomfort in his chest outweighs the soothing burn the scotch had planted there earlier.  

Matt doesn’t say anything else. Instead he runs a hand through his wayward hair, before ultimately deciding that fidgeting with his discarded sunglasses would be a better use of his time. Against his better judgement, Mark allows the weight of his words to sink in and momentarily imagines an existence in which all of his actions are pre-determined, his thoughts carefully filtered. Where everyone he loves are simply figments of expertly-written code. Where any responsibilities he may have are ultimately unimportant.

A simpler existence perhaps, but a wholly purposeless one.  

“I don’t think I’d want to live like that either,” he admits quietly, so much so that he’s amazed Matt hears him. He must do however, for the words force him to look at Mark again, his expression unreadable besides a hint of sadness in deep blue eyes.  

There doesn’t appear to be anything more to say. Words escape him - even the simple courtesies which usually come so naturally - and yet he cannot bring himself to look away. Matt seems to be in the same predicament. For a moment it’s as though they’re both gazing into a supernova, unwilling to look away despite knowing full well that the sight will blind them.

For the first time all evening he finds himself missing his friends. His Matt would have told him to snap out of it by now and Jamie or Nick would have called him a twat for getting so worked up about meaningless theories, and while Mark may have retaliated with a pointed ‘fuck off’, he no doubt would have felt lighter in their presence.

In the end it’s Matt who breaks the spell first. His eyes are drawn from Mark’s face to something lurking in the background, and a palpable shift overcomes him as thin lips are pulled into a grim line. Beneath soft overhead lights, Matt visibly pales and his pupils dilate with what Mark can only presume is fear, and white fists clench so tightly around his glasses that it’s amazing they don’t shatter. Dread claws into Mark’s chest with no explanation, and before curiosity can swallow him whole, he turns his head to follow Matt’s eyeline.

It only takes a moment to locate what has grabbed his friend’s attention. The new arrivals have barely made an effort to blend in after all. Standing out among the throng of increasingly drunk guests, two men linger at the far end of the hall, eyes obscured by dark sunglasses and twin postures stiff and unyielding. Both are clad in leather jackets which are only slightly less conspicuous than Matt’s own, and once again a treacherous flicker of recognition ignites in Mark’s brain before sputtering into a puff of smoke. The taller man must be pushing six feet, his brown hair cropped short and a 5 o’clock shadow darkening his features as effectively as the scowl on his lips. The smaller man must be around Mark’s height and appears slightly less threatening for it, though from a distance he almost resembles Matt himself with the exception of his dirty-blond hair.  

For a moment Mark wonders if the two men are members of his own security team, seeking out Matt on grounds of a misdemeanor which Mark has been blissfully unaware of all night. Matt doesn’t necessarily look surprised to see them after all, though their presence certainly disturbs him. That thought is cast aside quickly, however. Mark has made an effort to familiarise himself with every member of his workforce, and even if these two are last-minute recruits, their outfits don’t resemble any worn by the rest of his staff.

The not-so-concealed carry lurking on their belts is hardly a feature of his security team either.

Blood freezing as two hidden pairs of eyes settle on the bar and its occupants, Mark turns to Matt in a panic; mouth open with the intention of voicing a warning, or demanding an explanation, or both, but Matt is already one step ahead of him. Those awful neon sunglasses are back on his face, albeit he has the good sense not to activate them this time, and he throws some crumpled notes onto the counter before turning to Mark with what is no doubt supposed to be a reassuring smile. It doesn’t work of course, though he imagines Matt is well-aware of that.  

As a gesture of goodwill, Matt places a firm hand on Mark’s shoulder and offers what sounds like a very final farewell.

“It was good to see you again, Alex.”

And then he’s off, wandering past the quickly emptying dining tables and mixing with the assorted bodies on the dancefloor. Fat lot of good it does; he has about as much chance of blending in here as a giraffe does hiding among a gang of meerkats. Casting a glance towards the mysterious arrivals, Mark spots them making their way towards the dancefloor, the only indication of urgency being the grim determination on their faces. They don’t seem to have any interest in him for the moment, but that prospect brings him little in the way of relief. Instead he simply feels nausea crawling up his throat, and as Matt threatens to escape his eyeline, a new madness takes hold and compels him to follow.  

Keeping Matt in his sights is more difficult than he’d hoped it would be. As much as he stands out among the crowd of dancers, once Mark finds himself trapped within that very crowd, his ability to focus on what’s directly ahead of him falters. The band has gone and a DJ has taken their place, enticing drunk youths to stumble to and fro under the guise of dancing, and Mark finds himself being roughly grabbed more than once by revelers inviting him to join in. One man pointedly tells him to “fuck off” when he manages to free his arm from his tight grip, before swanning off to harass some other poor sod, but Mark forces himself to recover quickly and carries on with his misguided pursuit. Later it will occur to him that he is not usually in the habit of hiring DJs, nor is the ballroom usually so crowded at this late hour as the casino tends to attract the night-owls, but for now all he can focus on is Matt’s retreating back sneaking onto one of the many corridors adjoining the hall.  

Mark follows him seconds later, having escaped the horde with his limbs intact; not daring to look back to check if their assailants have located them. It occurs to him that as hotel owner, he could abuse his status and stand in their way in order to buy time, but he’s not sure he trusts them to resist putting a bullet in his head for insubordination. He may not have the faintest idea of what’s going on, but it feels so much bigger than him somehow. Like he’s been handed solid proof that everything he’s achieved – the hotel, his band, his reputation – is meaningless in the grand scale of the universe.

He stumbles onto the corridor just in time to spot Matt turning right at the far end, and he follows as quickly as he dares. The next turn is a left, then another left, then a right... an endless maze of blinding white walls and hotel room doors, flanked by sprouting monstrosities emerging from intricately painted plant-pots. After a while it seems like Matt has deliberately chosen this route to tease him, and he begins to wonder if this entire evening has been a devilish ploy, but the thought has barely had a chance to take hold when he finally reaches the end of the line.  

There is no turning point at the end of this corridor. Only an unassuming wooden door leading into what appears to be a store cupboard. There aren’t even any hotel rooms remaining in this section; instead the route ahead is lined with marble columns sporting busts with expressionless faces.

Mark only manages one step forward before freezing, as icy fingers of dread crawl up his spine and clutch his heart in a fierce grip.  

No being in the universe knows this hotel better than he does. He knows every room, every corridor, every little nook and cranny as surely as he knows his own name. As well he should; he designed every inch of the place.

And yet, he can say with absolute certainty that he has never laid eyes on this corridor before. Not even in a passing dream.  

Before he can blame the obvious hallucination on the scotch, or even glance back in search of Matt’s pursuers, the silence is shattered by a blinding red light emanating from the cupboard door, illuminating the corridor in time with a sharp, mechanical whine. Mark raises a hand to his eyes as the light pulses in time with his heartbeat - giving untouched walls the appearance of being drenched in blood - and the accompanying noise slams against his eardrums with unrelenting ferocity. Against his better judgement, he presses onward, cowering as the assault on his senses intensifies with every step. No doubt he will be left with nothing but regret as a result of this choice, but he fears the lack of answers will drive him mad if he doesn’t see what lies beyond that door.  

Besides, Matt must be in there. There’s nowhere else he could have gone, and Mark has little desire to leave him for dead.  

The pulsating doesn’t stop until he reaches the door. Body trembling in the quiet aftermath, he takes a moment to recover as the light’s echo persists with every blink of his eyes and a sharp ringing assaults his ears. His breathing sounds painfully uneven in spite of his efforts to remain calm, and he can feel his heart hammering away in an attempt to break free from his chest. He finds himself wishing he could explain away these last ten minutes, but his mind feels numb with uncertainty and the alcohol certainly isn’t helping. Has it even been ten minutes since he’d been sitting at the bar? It simultaneously feels like it’s been mere seconds and several hours since he was enjoying his evening without a care in the world.

The cupboard door remains unopened, the handle a seductive enchantress promising answers he isn’t sure he wants. This new silence doesn’t bode well, and his lack of familiarity with this section of the hotel only increases his chances of running into danger on the way back. There is no doubt in his mind that he’s damned regardless of what he does however; he may as well sate his curiosity in the meantime.  

A cool trickle of sweat slides down his cheek as a trembling hand curls around the door handle, and he pulls sharply before sanity can take hold, expecting resistance but receiving none.  

It seems he will have to settle for not receiving answers either.

The cupboard is empty.

******************************

The details of how he stumbled back to Room 521 and wound up sprawled on his bed are a murky blur. Even as his drunken haze makes way for a pounding headache, he can only recall glimpses of dragging his feet back the way he came; wandering through an almost deserted ballroom followed by similarly empty corridors, before eventually collapsing into bed with a crushing exhaustion. Despite his fears, he never did end up encountering those two assailants on his way back, nor did he glean any further clues as to Matt’s whereabouts. All three men had vanished into the night as mysteriously as they’d appeared, and a numb regret settling over his mind is enough to assure him that he will never see Matt again.

That is, if he even existed in the first place. As the night wears on, he begins to feel more inclined to put the evening’s events down to the drunken hallucinations of a lonely mind. Perhaps if he calls Jamie in the morning, he can put his mind at ease and call him a silly twat, erasing the whole sorry ordeal in the space of one conversation. The urge to pick up the phone now is almost too tempting to resist, but he stays put for now. There’s no need to bother his friend with the drunken ramblings of a madman. Not at this hour anyway.  

Reassurance can wait. For now, he desperately needs sleep which is stubbornly unforthcoming.  

He misses the presence of moonlight. That notion is so strange that a weak rebellious smile tugs at his lips, before the bitter sting of tears replaces it. Homesickness is unlike him – he has never been inclined to hop on a rocket and return home no matter how easy it would be – but right now his yearning for Earth feels suffocating. He misses the moon’s comforting presence in the sky and the wonder it had elicited from him as a child. He misses it hanging overhead as he wandered along silent streets with friends and lovers, singing and kissing and stumbling drunkenly as joyous laughter broke through the relative peace. He misses waking up with his heart in his throat and a new lyric in his head, only to be soothed instantly by luminous streaks of light.  

All he has here is thick, empty darkness which seems intent on crushing him down to dust.

Those memories of home seem so distant now. Unreachable; locked away in a chest sporting a rusted padlock and buried deep beneath the realm of consciousness. Perhaps it would be best if they remained buried. Even if Mark were capable of digging them up and freeing them from their prison, the sheer weight of the memories within would surely drown him in an instant.    

Mark shakes his head and closes his eyes before bitter tears can trail down his cheeks. It would be best not to dwell on such things. His nights are sleepless enough as it is.  

It only occurs to him later, as unblinking eyes linger on the ceiling above, that Matt had casually referred to him as ‘Alex’ and that the thought of questioning it hadn’t even crossed his mind.

#writing #long post #simulation theory #tranquility base hotel and casino #muse #arctic monkeys #i am extremely rusty but honestly it's been nice to write something just for myself again #well...myself and @rock-n-roll-fantasy :P #my fic