Hacking fills the air; wet, labored and without end. Each cough in the chord of pain to the rhythm of exhaustion. A cordless phone system tethered to a LAN line begins to ring. Cursing, then running water from a lavatory faucet. Another ring, another curse that manages to show its face between hacks of phlegm. Another ring, and the rush of the faucet ends. Another ring, an empty plea to—as he puts it—“Shut the fuck up.” that signifies that the coughing has subsided for now. Another ring amidst approaching foot steps that cease when he looks at the gray glow emitting from the phone system informing the user where the call is originating. One could only see the faint glimmer, and a dark outline of a man standing before a recklessly shaded window, doing its best to prevent the most of the sunrise from filling the room.

Ring.

Ring.

Ri—he slowly answers it, bringing the receiver to the side of his face.

“Morning… This is he… We knew that already, so what did… There too? … Hmm… I understand the options…” The silhouette turns his head to face the window.

“No… No I will not be participating… I’m aware… Do I need to spell out why? … Sorry, just something like this doesn’t bring out the best in me… Paid or not, it shouldn’t come to that… Because I’m a human being and so are you, so it’s only fair...” He turns his whole body for a moment then approaches the window to shift a blind out of alignment to peer out.

“I appreciate your insistence, but no… It’s still my choice… Thank you… Yes, you as well… My family will possibly contact… They have? … Good, I’ll take care of it… Alright, good-bye.” The man hangs up and sets the receiver down on a nearby coffee table as he goes to turn the lights on. The phone system rings again. The lights beam on, displaying constructed piles of clutter in each corner of the room and some places in between. Clothes in one pile, magazines and pamphlets in the other, and on the table a sizable mountain of papers. He looks at the receiver—the source of the sound—only to slowly turn his head towards the base with the glowing caller-ID. He reads it, and reads it again.

Ring. A smirk stretched the pale skin on his face, but failed to reach his sunken eyes; a smirk of forced indifference. He sauntered away from the light switch and entered the kitchen where he opened the refrigerator that didn’t emit like.

Ring. “Fucking seriously?” He balked, reaching in and tapping the light bulb, only to have it flicker but ultimately stay cold. He shakes his head and reaches for the switch to brighten up the kitchen.

Ring. Light escapes from two of the three bulbs on the ceiling, but this goes largely unnoticed by the man that stoops back down to look through his refrigerator, and pulls out a bottle with a warning from the Surgeon General on it.

Ring. He twists the metal cap off of the bottle and takes a swig as he shuts the refrigerator door. He begins heading for the couch, eyeing the mess he left himself from the night before. Perhaps the night before that.

Last ring. He swipes the collection of pamphlets and opened envelopes off of one cushion. Using the momentum of his swipe, he allows himself to tumble onto the cleared cushion and faces the blank television screen with rehearsed precision. His shirt—a size or two too big—drapes over his figure. He waves at the screen, and it begins to power on.

A red light begins blinking. The voicemail prompt. The signal comes in on the screen. A story from the news station showing the pictures and names of the missing persons. He takes another swig. He notices that the pictures also have which Portal entry they resided closest to. He articulates a curious hum, resigning to the idea that he has been busy with other things then where people have been vanishing. He doesn’t feel guilty about it. He peers across the room towards the phone base where he sees the blinking red light. It’s still recording the voice mail. He takes another swig and continues to stare at it, the voice of a news anchor droning on possible ways to communicate to the proper authorities if and when you come into contact with anyone you see in these pictures.

Still blinking. Still staring. Takes another swig.

The blinking stops, and his tired eyes squint further. The base begins to emit an orange light. He looks about to locate the receiver. He finds it on the far side of the coffee table, but this does not deter him. He uses his foot and hooks the leg of the coffee table, and with a quick jolt towards himself, the receiver slides on the surface and onto the floor. The pile of papers and bills goes with it, he ignores the mess as he bends forward to pick the receiver up and pushes a few commands to play the voicemail.

“One new message. Received: Tuesday, June 22nd, 2032 at 8:19 am.” The machine states as he looks back at the screen and takes advantage of the coffee table’s new position by placing his feet on its surface.

“Kellan. Hi, it’s Jillian. Jillian Harless.” He scoffs as the message continues.

“I understand that we haven’t spoken in quite some time. And the circumstances were just… not very good.” The recording states. “No shit.” He says over the rest of the message.

“So you can only imagine how bad things are for me to call you like this. I want to put things aside because this is about Xander.” The name elicited a glance from the couch. His posture was lax, still. But his face suggested worry, so much so that he unconsciously held his breath to hear the rest of the message.

“I’m not sure how things were between you two, but it’s on the news of her disappearance. You know, the missing persons in that game. I know she’s in there. From what I remember, you were a gamer and I figured that you could look into it.” He let out a scoff while turning back to the screen.

“Get her damn kung fu fucker of a boyfriend to look for her.” He responds, wishing that she could hear him.

“I tried to get Caleb to do it, but with the missing persons and everything-” she emits a distressed and tear repressing sigh “-he’s captain of the SWAT division, so he has been just busy. And with… all of the warnings to the authorities or whatever… to stay out, he is following orders and we don’t know what to do, Kellan. Please, call me back. Please, let me know if you can do anything to bring my girl back. Please.” Her efforts to stay the tears began to deteriorate as the message went on. The message machine beeped.

“If the owner is home, would you like to Repeat? Call Back? Or Delete?” Then beeped again, awaiting his reply. He is sitting forward now, still peering at the screen. The names scrolling by, innocuously signifying that this sort of news will be the norm, nestled cozily next to the stock market and weather. His eyes were darting, not as innocuously, between the images and the anchor and the names. He allowed his mind to dwell on how desperate Jillian would be to track down his home contact number—bypassing his LENZ altogether—and ask him such a thing. He wasn’t a parent, let alone a mother. Perhaps it wasn’t desperation at all. His conclusion was how much he detested hearing her voice, and that name.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.” Beeped the machine, possibly picking up the voices excreted from the new anchor. He turns to it, seeing the small light blinking.

“I said shut the fuck up!” He responds as he whips the remote control at the device. He missed. Despite the thud and the shattering of a newly opened battery chamber on the remote, he turns towards the screen, attempting to normalize his breathing. He deduced that looking at the screen wouldn’t help, nor would listening to the anchor drone on and on. But that didn’t stop him from focusing on the names, if only for a moment. And there her name was; “Alexandria J. Pastore (Harless) 25/F/Cau/Blond/Green”.

“Oh, for shit’s sake,” Kellan comments, “She didn’t have to marry the guy.”