Framing Device - Chapter 1: The Arachophobe

--Activity Detected Begin Transmission--

You’re in a smallish room. It’s motionless and mostly quiet. The only sounds are a faint, electric hum and the sounds of fighting echoing in from the open doorway.

It sounds like someone is being chased. You can make out rapid footsteps, the clatter of metal, and another sound. It’s harder to describe so you decide not to try. But if you did, you’d probably use words like “buzzing” and “arrhythmic” and “otherworldly.” That doesn’t sound like an accurate description, though. So it’s a good thing you gave up before you embarrassed yourself.

You notice that the door is closing. The quick feet from the hallway are getting closer. Their owner shouts something.

Mysterious foot owner: “Fuck!”

You think that’s a pretty succinct way of elucidating their frustration.

You’ve always thought that brevity was an essential component of clear, concise communication.

You watch someone slip through the doorway.

“Always” isn’t really a concept that means a lot for you, though. You haven’t really been aware and constructing internal monologues long enough to apply that kind of unilateral, absolute label to your experience of anything.

The door shuts with a muted, metallic clang.

Mysterious foot owner: Oof!

Especially not something like time itself. Not even in a hyperbolic sense.

Whatever was chasing the stranger is on the other side. You’re both safe in the smallish room. She’s dusting herself off… or checking herself for injuries? You’re not really sure. Either way she starts speaking.

Stranger: "Ugh... god damn. Why do they even care so much?"

You guess it’s more like she’s groaning than speaking. She’s not really, but it’s more like one than the other and you think that maybe saying she was “speaking” implies a more conversational tone than is accurate. You believe that words should mean things, so you think a lot about which ones you choose and why. Sometimes you wonder if maybe you worry about it more than you should. And by "sometimes" you mean exactly once just now. As you mentioned a little while ago, you are pretty new to this whole monologue business.

Stranger: “It’s not like she's gonna miss it.”

The stranger is still talking.

She stands up. The... armor? on her feet clanks a hollow... uh, clank... against the stone floor of the smallish room. You are beginning to wish that you had something to do other than describe what you're seeing and transcribe what some random cloaked foot-owner says. Primarily because you're really bad at it. Oh, uh the antenna on her weird backpack sways as she steadies herself. Her cloak... swishes.

Stranger: "Oh well. At least it's safe in here. Well, it should be. They didn't put traps in the long term storage vaults at Zeta Station an-"

Look, it's not like being good at describing things is something you really care about. It's not an integral part of your identity or anything. You just don't like the idea of being the proverbial fish getting judged for how well it climbs trees. It bothers you.

Stranger: "-d the same architect designed this one. So, unless they-"

No. You know what? You don't owe anyone anything. Especially not something as nebulously defined as "quality." Frankly you enjoy describing things. It's fun. If some hypothetical listener thinks you suck at it, well they suck! Yeah! You decide to give it your all!

The door goes "bwant"

Stranger: "...shit."