Aster stood frozen, in total disbelief of the bustling plaza before her. Cars totally unlike those gleaming self-controlled vehicles of her present clanked and clunked by the strip of park that separated the fountain from the street proper, their ruckus marrying with the buskers by the fountain to fill the area with a sense of life and commotion she'd never before experienced. Their exhaust billowed forth through the trees causing her a fit of coughing, her lungs virgin to petrol.
“Holy shit,” she wheezed, in the total throes of shock. What she saw was indiscernible from reality— every detail was so properly accounted for, every sense so perfectly and believably represented. Aster was no stranger to virtual reality— it had become the dominant mode of gaming and interaction in 2066, but this existed on an entirely different level.
A bitter winter wind blew through the park, sending a chill throughout Aster's ill-dressed self. She shivered violently, and set off with dazed steps in search of warmth.
It was not long before her thoughts returned to the Eden device. It gripped her in a near paralyzing shock; a sudden awareness of potential consequences that might await her on her return filled her with a dread so massive it seemed to threaten even the excitement traveling to another reality had given.
Aster had drawn closer to the fountain now, and— not wanting to be engaged by anyone— found herself a seat underneath the awning of an empty café. She was freezing and desperately needed warmth, which was emanating out of the thankfully empty restaurant.
“Why the fuck do I have my actual clothes on?” she chattered under her breath, looking down at her pink dress and black leggings as she drew her arms together. “I stick out like a sore thumb.” She gazed out across the plaza, hungrily soaking in the sights of a society not numbed by breakneck advancement. The cars— with their black exhaust which irritated her virgin lungs— were of particular interest to Aster, who thought it unbelievable that people ever risked the danger of driving such things themselves.
What year is it? she wondered. The cars here were not self-driving, and in looking around, she failed to find any sign of digital technology, or of computers at all for that matter. A notion occurred to her, stirred by her recognition of the styles she saw on passersby— Am I in the sixties?
A cacophony of thought seemed to erupt in Aster's mind at the realization of this, and she became hyper-aware of all that was around her, searching intently for some sort of proof of her assumption. She found it quickly. On the table next to her was a folded newspaper, rustling in the chilly breeze. Aster snatched at it quickly, and began to read it. Her eyes shot open. There, in the top right corner of the newspaper, was printed the date November 21st, 1965.
Her world went silent.
Nineteen— sixty-five?
Contrary to Aster's expectations, this discovery did not alleviate her confusion at all, and in fact made it much the worse. The Eden device hadn't presented her with an interface or anything like she had expected, so why— and how— did it choose the sixties?
Aster sat silent a moment, gazing into nothing. A pigeon was hopping about on the pavement before her, bobbing along peacefully. She observed it with no due significance as a roar like that of wind in a tunnel came barreling through her mind. She did not know how the Eden device knew her preferred destination, what mattered is it did; she had been delivered to the land of her dreams.
With this realization she rose, hungrily taking in the sights around her. Her great disorientation and the anxiety in regard to the question of leaving this world were still there, but were now being overshadowed by a pure, powerful curiosity.
Her heart began to thrash wildly, and an inquisitive nature like that of one on a field trip or somebody traveling to a foreign country overcame her, beseeching her to observe and explore everything, no matter how mundane. With this new urge inside her she left the cover of the cafe and began to proceed down the square, now oblivious to the chilly day.
There were rows of shops on each side of the square, all setup in the style of vintage mom and pop shops. Judging by their density as well as the ornate fountain and commotion surrounding it, Aster came to assume that this was the center of town, which begged the question— what was this town?
Peppermint Plains was not a name you'd find for any town on Earth. It sounded like something out of a children's book, and only added to her general confusion in attempting to decipher what had happened. The only way to get to the bottom of it, she figured, was to walk on in search of some answer; to feed her ravenous curiosity in hope that something may become apparent to her.
And so Aster continued on, proceeding in a straight path north through the square, with no fixed destination except for the narrowing of buildings around a street in the far distance. As she walked on, she felt her heart abounding with every little thing that she saw. It was like taking a tour of a museum; every manner of antique garb or device she had only ever seen or read about was now alive before her in unbelievably lifelike detail. Even the very air which entered her lungs was different; it smelled like chemicals and filled her lungs with all sorts of sensation; a complete contrast to the sterile, filtered air of the megascraper.
Yet, for all the wonder that was entering her eyes, Aster could not shake the growing unease she felt in the knowledge that she had not a clue what she was to be doing. She was presently dumbfounded with curiosity and drinking in the sights of the quaint little town, but what about afterwards?
She was suddenly replete with questions; where was she to go? What was she to do? Where was she to live? These concerns and more crowded in on the shining, precious happiness of her awe, and she found her pace slowed and inconvenienced by them. She started paying less attention to the town around her and more to just how very cold she had become. The chill was relentless, and she brought her arms tightly together in a desperate bid for warmth, coming at last to a very slow stroll.
She was utterly, completely lost. Her naive excitement had now died away, and she was stolen by the paralyzing impulse of survival, which implored her to find shelter or die come nighttime. But she was at a loss for where she should even start. As far as she could tell, this world was a sandbox; there were no characters reaching out to guide her, no obvious sign pointing towards an objective; the task of finding shelter was completely up to her, it seemed.
There was perhaps not a worse notion imaginable. Aster, who seldom ever left her room past nighttime for fear of people engaging her, could not in the slightest way imagine herself capable of independent living. She did not know the first thing about survival. She was supposed to pay for a place to live, right? She searched her pockets; there was no money on her. This then led to the realization she would have to earn money; she would have to work a job.
Aster froze, and grew numb; more emotionally than physically. In the span of minutes what seemed like a heaven-sent wonder had devolved into what she could only assume was a manifestation of her very hell. The lively square in which she stood seemed to expand on all sides, blown open by her tunnel-visioning on the wretched peril which now awaited.
“What the fuck have I done?” Aster murmured in a broken voice. Her eyes were welling up, and she began to walk on again in fear of anyone seeing her sob. She felt so completely alone; she had no destination. She tried to bring up her AR screen, but nothing appeared. A hideous terror coiled through her veins. She blinked again, and again. Soon she was blinking away futile tears into nothingness as the gates of her swollen sad heart burst open. Her brain writhed in its panic, and her breath grew shallow.
What the fuck is this thing? she thought of the device, looking around the world in a cautious horror far removed from the wonder with which she had beheld it minutes earlier. She could not fathom the idea that the device was intended for permanent use, and as much as she had wished to leave her life, she found that dealing with the reality of it was far more difficult and jarring than she had expected.
I can't be homeless, she thought, her shivers growing more and more violent. I'll die— I'll die!
Just then a pair of fashionable men passed Aster. One of them was waxing on about how “this” performance wasn't bound to be as good since “they went electric”. A group of young girls followed close behind in far noisier fashion, debating among themselves the question of which one of “them” was “certainly the cutest and most suited for marriage”. Aster took notice, and looked up to see that she had reached the end of the square, towards the street she had been indirectly aiming. Foot traffic had grown denser, and she noticed that a group of teenagers and young adults was congregating slightly up ahead her, filtering into an old, brick bar. Wrought cast-iron signage and furnishings adorned the front of the building, a place the twisted iron lettering declared as “The Strawberry Set”. They funneled down its steps into a basement, the excited pitch of their conversation audible to even Aster who had come to a stop down the street.
Then— as darkness is obliterated by something as small as the flip of a switch— she was assuaged with a warmth the likes of which she had never felt before in her life. A pure and total comfort which melted every worry away into a sheet of bliss that laid upon her chilled body like the warmest blanket you could imagine. This is all because Aster had found it, she realized; she could tell by the lively murmur bleeding into the street. She had happened upon the only oasis known to her worn heart— a live concert.
“Two and a half dollars,” a man outside the door demanded of the first in line. They paid and were let in, moving Aster further up the queue she suddenly found herself in. Her heart shot into her throat. She'd rarely seen physical money, much less ever used it. She fumbled through her pockets in a panic, forgetting that they were empty and remembering this fact with a feeling like she was going to vomit.
Her mind went blank as she rifled through them again, not knowing what else to do. Ahead of her the line continued to shrink, funneling down the brick steps into the bar's cellar while behind her more and more people began to line up. She was jostled forward, and tripped into the person before her. An embarrassed stutter more like the groan of some unfortunate creature spilled out of her in an instinctual attempt to reply, but she was cut short by her disbelief in seeing who she had bumped into. There, looking back at her, was a man in a royal blue petticoat with a powdered white wig atop his head. It looked like he had wandered in from a different time himself, Aster thought. His face was middle-aged but held a rosy glow in his jolly nose and cheeks, which went taught as he smiled and responded with a prim, haughty voice.
“No worries.”
Aster flung her gaze straight to the ground as the fire of embarrassment washed over her face. Her absolute mortification erased the world, and time itself seemed to lose all boundary, as before she knew it she had proceeded to the front of the line. Her throat had gone dry as the desert, its moistness stolen by her palms which froze in the autumn breeze.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“On you go,” the man on the stool directed. Aster's heart leapt. She couldn't believe that she didn't have to pay for a ticket like the others, but she was in no mood to question the break. Eagerly she went on, hurriedly and awkwardly stumbling down the stone steps to the commotion below.
“Hey!” a voice suddenly called from behind. Aster whirled around in terror. It was the petticoat man, stood next to the bar-stool man. Both of them were looking at her in confusion, and the petticoat man had a look of indignation wrinkled into his pale white brow. Aster's stomach lurched and her brain faltered in confusion. What did they want with her? She did not follow this line of inquiry, and on some subconscious motive plunged into the crowd.
Aster's heart was thrashing harder than it ever had before. A feeling totally alien to her; an exhilaration of social electricity, passed through her as she took in the crowd around her. Never before in her life had she been in such close proximity to so many people.
The smell of sweat and a burning rankness hung heavy from the high-vault ceilings of the venue, it's air absolutely alive with the energy of the precious lives conjoined within it. Cold bottles of beer clattered against wooden counters as they slid down counter-tops towards their patrons, while clouds of cigarette smoke hung high above the crowd and for as far as could be seen. Aster hacked and wheezed, though did not let go of her delirious amazement for even a single second.
A real concert, was the thought which reverberated throughout her mind seemingly ad-infinitum. It was perhaps the single most precious concept Aster knew of; the gathering of people for the enjoyment of music. It was in her mind akin to those holy rituals of millennia past, where people in great throes of ecstasy performed esoteric acts to bring about religious glory unrivaled; there was not a single difference to this, as far as Aster was concerned.
Suddenly, a distinct cry was heard above the furor.
Oh my fucking God, Aster thought, looking back in the direction of the cry and realizing the petticoat man was after her. Her heart was thrashing, galloping in her chest as if it wanted to tear her asunder. She looked back in frantic, fleeting glimpses. His white wig was visible clearly as it towered above the sea of youth, which parted easily for him.
Aster all the while pushed on with tears streaming from her eyes. All rational consideration had now failed her, and she could not understand for the life of her what this strange man wanted with her, least of all why he looked so angry.
It's a fucking nightmare! she thought, cursing the fact that she ever agreed to let the woman put the device on her. This is why the government banned it. I didn't trust them; I didn't believe them! And this is what I get!
Then, at last, she broke into a small opening; she had made her way to the back of the venue. Her terrible thoughts were silenced, and her orange eyes twinkled like a playful ember as they fell upon the dimly lit stage, awash in the damp of the cellar. For that split second, beholding the sight, Aster felt she held God in her veins.
The atmosphere's raucous pitch only seemed to be increasing in fervor; the crowd swayed to and fro as each individual tried to score a better scope of the small stage, whereupon a sketchy-looking group of young men in leather jackets were taking their positions. Ear-rending shrieks greeted the appearance of these figures, who waved back to a crowd which lapped against the stage like waves. They hurried about with purpose— tuning their guitars here, adjusting an amp there— while talking amongst each other all the while. For Aster, of course, this was her first time seeing a performance in the flesh, and so she could barely contain the blistering excitement that was becoming manifest inside of her.
There was a feeling almost like that which precedes inevitable calamity; like the dead moments before a trigger is pulled. The room, though as rambunctious as ever, seemed to have fallen into a stasis; it seemed as if the very air itself had been captured; held in place like an ornamental bird. Aster looked about herself, trying to see if this feeling had not been lost on her; if this sense of something significant coming was reserved for her completely.
A hot sensation ran up her spine, filling her with life and suddenly making all clear as if her mind had been a fogged mirror dashed with cold water. It was a state of mind she had never witnessed in herself before. The crowd suddenly lost all threat anxiety it could give to her and in a hurried effort she began to make her way through the mass, pushing aside screaming teen after screaming teen, determined to see this band as close as she possibly could. She had neared the front of the stage as they rang out the first chord— a C sharp flat third— which she thought was a nice choice, ushering in the song. A cacophony of voices erupted in response, and Aster, swimming in the din, couldn't help but believe she were in the center of the universe at that moment.
“And I'll ask to see you,” they harmonized, the girls screaming in utter hysteria as Aster was tossed side to side, her diminutive stature struggling to push back or fix her gaze upon the band for long. She shoved the teens aside, her brows furrowing in determination as her fiery persistence vaulted her through the sea of life to a spot at the very edge of the stage, where the crowd and amps bled into an ear-splitting roar.
She watched on, transfixed and awash in sweat, her chest heaving. She was so completely captivated by the rawness and utter imperfection of the music being played before her, so unabashedly dirty and bathed in the smell of smoke and sweat which coated the cellar, that she had barely had time for her anxiety to realize she was part of this mass of humanity. Dozens of strangers encircled her, bouncing up against her body; a litany of eyes teemed over her.
As if Moses was parting the sea that was her ephemeral bliss, the realization of this and its terrible awareness came to asunder her happiness in one clean motion. In a single, sickening flash her brain was arrested by the notion that the band themselves could possibly be looking down at her; her baggy eyes and disheveled hair put on full display by the stage lights.
“No!” she muttered under her breath, instinctively backing away. The crowd gave little resistance as people eagerly filled in the vacant spot she left up front. The absolute wall of noise, which had been a sort of brutal pleasure up to this moment, now paved over her mind; rendering it a slate of pure nothingness incapable of thought. A cold, bony grasp was now working its way around her heart and around her mind, its intensity furthered by each thrust of another body against hers. “You are trapped,” the panic told her. “You will never escape.”
“No!” she screamed, but the crowd could not hear her. “Not fucking now. Not fucking now!” she cried to herself. Though she could not hear her voice, she could feel in her trembling jaw that her voice was wavering and broken, and soon the hotness of her eyes followed as tears began to roll down her face. The ultimate humiliation was upon her, and she felt just as if those stage lights had been directed upon her; the entire crowd gathered around her and watching in disgust at the meager, pathetic creature.
Her knees buckled and her weight gave way as she instinctively began to crouch into a ball. Her heart was trying to beat out of her chest and the crowd continued to thrash her side to side. All thoughts had ceased, and breathing became next to impossible.
And then suddenly, a hand wrapped itself around her shoulder. Aster's throat closed nearly shut in response. She whirled around in terror and confusion to see the face of the jovial man from earlier, obfuscated in the prism of her tears. He was mouthing words to her that were lost to the cacophony that surrounded them; stolen by the most enveloping and perfectly whole loudness she had ever experienced. While any other person could see a wish to help evident in his face, Aster had never been more sure that this was the moment where she would die.
“Come with me!” the man shouted into her ear, finally breaking her from her fugue. With an effort he began to pull her up, and started off with her towards the exit. Aster was so dazed by her panic attack that her alarm at this man snatching her away was nullified. She simply followed, fearing the eyes of the crowd far worse than that of the George Washington before her.
Aster's eardrums pulsed and rang as he forded the wild expanse of people, which split easily around his large stature. Person by person they inched towards the cellar door, where at last, as they made their way through the shelter of the staircase, the noise and pandemonium finally began to fade.
They exited onto the street, and Aster sucked in a lungful of the chilled air. Her mind was racing, and everything in motion seemed to proceed as if it were half-time. A group of beatniks strolled passed them on the cobblestone arguing, and Aster veered violently away from them, their gazes seeming to burn her flesh. She fell into a coughing fit as their cigarette smoke wafted by, before devolving at last into small, guttural sobs.
The man all the while held a deeply concerned look, and fidgeted about awkwardly, seeming not to know how to engage such a distraught girl. He handed her a handkerchief, and at last ventured to ask with a warbling tone, “Miss, is everything alright?”
Aster wiped at her swollen eyes, choking back tears. She looked up at him, and suddenly her fear of the man returned. She backed away, clutching the handkerchief. Should I run? Should I scream for the police?!
However, before she could dash off shrieking, the man began to repeat his concern. “Is everything okay, miss?”
Aster looked at him in confusion. Where had his anger gone? Suddenly, hideous embarrassment was coming about her in waves with such intensity that she was sure he could see the color of her face undulating. “Yeah,” she gave simply and without conviction. It was beyond an impossibility that she could ever admit she was just afraid of people, or that she had thought he was out to get her, if that assumption were to be wrong.
“Good heavens, I positively thought you were going to die!” the man finally burst out, laughing “You were as white as a ghost!” Aster sneered, and had it in her mind to walk away from the man, resign herself from any musical ambition, and find some place to die, because for as far as she was concerned she had just proven herself utterly incapable of anything.
I'm such a fucking loser, she thought, her chest beginning again to heave with oncoming sobs. I couldn't even go and see a concert— and I wanted to perform for people?
An empty feeling washed over her as she watched the meaning of her life slip through her splayed fingers. It was a feeling of that most horrible variety, where a sentient conscious peers behind the curtain of their life only to find that where they expected a driver at the wheel, they only see a cloud of smoke.
Even here I'm a fucking failure.
“Do you feel well enough to return inside?” the man suddenly asked, nodding to the cellar stairs. Aster felt immediately sick, and shook her head in an adamant negative. The man frowned, and Aster started, horrified of conflict with a stranger.
“I'm sorry to hear that,” he said regretfully. This tone worried Aster yet more, and she felt that the least she could do was choke out an apology, if only to placate him.
“Thank you for—”
“The reason I was trying to get your attention, miss, is because you walked away with my ticket.”
Aster grew a deathly pale before him. “What?”
“Well, I believe it was a misunderstanding; I had paid for my entry and you walked past. The clown handling the door didn't believe that you weren't with me, and made me buy another! So, you see, I simply wish to be repaid my two and a half dollars.”
Aster stared up blankly at the man, feeling like she shrank by the second under his gaze. This is it, she thought. This is why I never leave my apartment. This is proof that I'm incapable of everything.
Aster burst into tears.
I'm going to jail! she thought in horror. Not only could I not handle a concert, I'm going to be a fucking prisoner! Suddenly, the horror of such a thought welled up in her and chilled her to her very core. What was prison even like a hundred years ago? As far as she knew, prison was where those worst dredges of society were remolded; where those who would dare run counter to the greater peace were left to rot. She wouldn't survive.
The man's stern face had given away to wide-eyed shock, and his cheeks and nose flushed red. “Miss! Miss! Whatever is the matter?” he shouted, handing her another handkerchief. Aster whimpered, blotting her eyes with it. “I can be very lenient with my payments! I won't even require interest!” he insisted with a reassuring tone, but Aster's sobbing grew only more profuse. The man looked around, cognizant of the ugly glances passersby were throwing him. Her crying grew louder.
“I have no money!” she bawled through broken cries. “I have no job!” These cries howled down the street, drawing sweat from the man's brow as if each one was a hand pulling taught the rope on the torture rack.
“Say! How good are you with records?” he fetched from the recess of his mind.
Aster looked up, her puffy eyes moving to meet his refined face. Her cry stifled. “I'm not going to prison?” she muttered incredulously, sniffling.
He looked down in utter astonishment. “Prison?! No!” He guffawed, furrowing his brow. “I'm simply offering you the opportunity to pay off the ticket by working a day at my record shop tomorrow— down main street.”
Aster, her clothes drenched with sweat and freezing to the bone, stared in disbelief at the man. She had not been in this world two hours and already she had seen an actual concert, and was now face to face with this ridiculous caricature. The man's beady-eyes trembled as he awaited Aster's response, watching intently the attention that was being drawn to the two of them. It was a promise of hope, Aster realized, but it also carried with it so many great worries she wasn't sure she could surmount, least of all the idea of her working an actual job.
It was a solid impossibility in Aster's mind, but the alternative was sure death, as cold as she was. She would have to throw herself into the void as the device had to done to bring her here, and then see what to do next.
She dropped her trembling chin, hiding her red eyes underneath her bangs, and accepted the offer.