Aarin's Desk: The Novel

Filth. The world is full of it, but in no greater concentration than my home, the desk. Cigarette ash covers slips of paper. Streaks of tar obscure the Overlord's screen and tarnish what plastic survives long enough to be so soiled. Beer-can sweat and coffee stains are halos mere centimeters from the coasters. Why even have coasters? The paper discs are in better condition than the 'wood,' a chipped lining over cheap particleboard.

I have not requested much from this existence, but have seen even my lowest hopes dashed time and again. How many times I have cursed my fate, I do not know. Yet, I can state how long I have suffered this hell: three years, two months, sixteen days and nine hours. Memory is my blessing; memory is my torment.

"RC! You listening or zoning out?" Skulls says, the black mug's ceramic handle reflecting sparkles of the fading sun. "Like I was saying, Scarab's got another shot at Exodus and I think he really has a chance this time if he just stays out of trouble and goes for the gold instead of what he normally does like that time he…"

Skulls will keep going for hours, and I won't be listening, but later, tomorrow, I will remember every inane word. Torment.

A loud crash echoes from the Overlord's narrow terrace over to our home, a broad plain known as the Stage. I hear Scarab's cries, sounding more disappointed than pained. Fitting. "His plans are faulty," I say aloud.

"Eh? I think the glider's brilliant. What was that, attempt thirteen?"

"Thirty-three. He is missing a crucial dynamic. There will not be enough lift to support his weight unless there is proper airspeed. His escape requires a longer ramp or stronger wind."

"Well, shit, man; tell him!" Skulls rocks in place, a splash of coffee slipping over. "If he finds Exodus maybe we all can. He can ask for help!"

"From whom?"

"He's right." Busch says. The beer-can had been present but silent, watching the chaos with as much, if not more, reservation as I. "Exodus is a myth. A few leave, no one returns. The outside world is dead."

"Damn, y'all are a cheery bunch today. Do I need to sing a song?" Skulls clears his throat. I close my ears. "Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily."

I will still remember it tomorrow. Torment.

* * *

"Scarab back yet?" Skulls bumps me with his handle. I'd recoil, but that only encourages him. "Been what, four hours?"

Five. But I'm tired of correcting him. "I assume he is in The Chips' care. If he fell to the Underlands, it may take some time."

"Nice slice of peace," Busch says, "but he does keep shit interesting. I'd spill myself out of fucking boredom without him."

True, I cannot deny the need for entertainment in such purgatory. I cannot deny my design. As a remote control, I am to coordinate stories, art and education to others. But even I do not know what device I was meant to operate.

Tools without purpose. It is time for a rest.

* * *

"Yo, fuckers, we gots something of yours!" Three poker chips aligned as a triangle, they skirt along the wood bearing Scarab on their backs.

The stone beetle appears downcast but unharmed. "Hi, guys."

"Christ, you're a loser," Busch says, exhaling a sigh.

"Take it easy on the kid." Skulls jiggles. "Glad to have you back!"

"Glad? Kid? He's four thousand years old! How stupid do you want to be, Scarab, I really want to know."

"Gosh, well, as much as you guys want, I guess." The beetle shuffles, but is tipped back to chip-center.

"Gunna cost you more this time." They chuckle. "Fat-ass here ain't easy to cart around."

Skulls huffs and turns to us. "It was a pen and two paper-clips a week ago, what more do they want?"

"Obviously, as much as we have to offer," I say. "However, it would be extremely detrimental to leave him with The Chips. For whatever his current value, he has vast potential. We cannot permit him to become soiled in their company."

"Agreed." Busch hops beside a clay flowerpot. Inside, our combined treasures glisten in polished glory. Pens, scissors, steak knives, a trio of Sharpies. With a bobble, he flips a silver flash out the top and over the Stage. The Chips roll Scarab off like yesterday's trash and reconfigure as a line. These days, that coordination is a major accomplishment.

The spoon smacks the lead chip hard, but they are all too pleased with their catch. "Huzzah! Later, suckers!"

And they scoot back towards the Terrace. Scarab swivels a slow one-eighty. "T-Thanks gu—"

"A fucking spoon! Are you insane!" Skulls shouts, nearly tipping over.

"Hey, you're his biggest fan," Busch's tone is light, jesting, "consider it an investment. At worst, maintenance."

"But the rarity. I haven't seen another spoon since I got here." The mug looms over the diminutive bug, a year old glaze lecturing a millennia old rock. "Better be grateful."

"W-Well, yeah. I said thank—"

Busch taps Scarab on the shoulder. "Don't sweat it, little guy. We always get even with The Chips."