Episode 1: Awake, Awake

int. office building morning

A drawn set of blinds over a large glass window. At first dark, the sun rises beyond the shades, its rays peeking through the slits bringing light to the drab office. The soft, surreal orange crawls over row after row of occupied cubes, threatening to scald the graying, rubbery faced workers..

ALICE, sits at her computer. Her face dark, the sun crawls over it. She is lithe, pale, little blue veins crawl up her throat, under her eyes, at the corners of her temples. Her cheeks are speckled by light red freckles- some natural, some micro-memorials to capillaries burst after throwing up from particularly vicious hangovers. She calls them “fairy kisses”. The white-blue glow of a computer screen accentuates her cool-blooded arterial ancillaries- she is one who neither desires the warm light of the sun- nor would she be done any favors by it. An old plastic headset rests over her ears a bit too tightly- small veins pulse from the points of pressure between the foam on the cans and her thin skin. Her eyes rarely settle- the pale, cloudy blue giving way to gray in the crimson light of the morning constantly flitting between her screens and over her shoulder, the side glances giving way to yet more veiny red tracts which cling her to her overly large eyeballs, as though grasping for dear life. She is in a constant state of watchfulness.

On either side of Alice, computers. Behind those computers, COWORKERS. A WITHERED MAN on her right, a big, gray push-brush mustache hanging over his lips. A DARK HAIRED GIRL to her left, eyes nearly blacked out with liner, nearly a shadow obscured completely by her monitor. As camera continues to pull out  the rows fill in with MORE COWORKERS. They each have the same stance- slouched forward, foreheads nearly melded with their screens.

The clicking and clacking of keys punctuates the air with the intensity of a dull roar.

Alice looks to her left and right. Neither coworker acknowledges her. She pulls out her phone. She again looks around. A phone rings. A keyboard clacks along. She pulls open an app that simply reads ARCANA. It has the garish color and cheap graphics of a mobile phone free-to-play game. A digital avatar of Alice appears.

Standing in contrast to the opaque free to play colors of Alice’s Arcana app is her office, which seems to enclose her in a slow creep with each tap of her thumb on the screen of her phone. A white analogue clock on the nearby wall tirelessly compels its hands forward. A line of offices, each with a false oak door. Lights go on in each office, the door of each swinging open wide. A SUITED MANAGER exits each door in sequence, placing an "IN" plaque under their name placard. A row of coffee-makers, gurgling, straining, expelling dark liquid into canisters. A sink at the end of the row, filled with identical white ceramic mugs. Several of the upturned mugs show barcodes.

THE PALE-SUITED MANAGER, a lanky man in a gray, charcoal suit, no clear facial features, walks down a long row of cubes. His black imitation leather shoes move soundlessly on rubber soles, trampling the dead office carpet. An insect’s corpse is thoughtlessly crushed beneath his stride.

He stops outside the cube of Alice. Alice is still hunched over her phone, her work headset over her ears. The Pale-Suited Manager reaches out, gently lifts the headphones off Alice's head. She starts. Turns around. Her phone is still on, screen still burning brightly. The Digital Alice is hugging a Yellow Star. A small green box prompts her, reading AWAKEN YOUR STAR.

The Pale-Suited Manager holds out his hand. Alice places her phone in his hand. Her digital avatar snarks back at him.

PALE-SUITED MANAGER
You can have it back at the end of the day.

ALICE
You're really-

PALE-SUITED MANAGER
(turning back)
I'm within my rights. This is a distraction. And this-

Holding up the phone, the digital Alice staring back at the real Alice-

PALE-SUITED MANAGER
It’s a misuse of company time. Phones are for ongoing medical and family emergencies. You can pick it up at my office at the end of the day.

He again turns and starts to walk off.

ALICE
I'm having an emergency.

PALE-SUITED MANAGER
(sighs, stops)
Family, or medical.

ALICE
Medical. Family.

PALE-SUITED MANAGER
Which.

ALICE
Um. Family?

PALE-SUITED MANAGER
If they call I'll come pull you off the floor.

ALICE
Wait, medical! Definitely medical.

PALE-SUITED MANAGER
(already leaving)
Sorry, no sale. Please return to work.

Alice sits back. Sighs. Turns to her computer. The blue glow glares back at her. She turns to the Dark-Haired Girl-

ALICE
Can you believe that guy? Taking my phone? Now what am I supposed to do.

DARK HAIRED GIRL
(monotone, quiet)
You could try working.

Alice rolls her eyes. Turns to the Withered Man.

ALICE
There's no way that's constitutional. Right? Right. I should write someone about this.

WITHERED MAN
(gravely)
Just be thankful to have a job in this economy.

ALICE
(exasperated)
I am it's just...nevermind.

Alice turns from him, relinquishing hope of support. Her flittering attention turns to her coffee cup, a source of affection and fixation when all else fails Is it full enough? Is it retaining heat? When was the last time she washed it? Is she due for more coffee? Has she had too much coffee today? Is she dehydrated? Will the caffeine bring on a panic attack? Maybe she should go without coffee. Maybe she should have more coffee than ever. What time should she get more coffee? She should pick up the coffee mug.. She picks up her coffee mug. It's empty. This is not a revelation, but she checks, regardless, if only to murder a few extra seconds of company time. A deep breath. This situation must be addressed. Alice stands. She looks around. No one in sight. The doors of each manager office are open, but for the moment, vacant.

DARK HAIRED GIRL
The coffee is strong today.

WITHERED MAN
Best not to have another cup. You'll have another panic attack.

DARK HAIRED GIRL
Then we'll never get any work done.

Both employees chuckle, mechanically, never averting their locked screen gazes. Alice’s face flushes briefly- not from embarrassment- but a subtle, restrained rage. Alice tells often tells people she is a pacifist, a not-so-clever story that frequently angry people tell to distance themselves from the emotional- and sometimes physical- violence they were prone to in the not-so-distant past. The emotional levy holds, and with tightening grip around her precious coffee cup, the arcane focus of her daily anxiety- she orients herself toward her next objective- the rows of coffee makers.

Leaving her cube, Alice crosses down her aisle, exits the long row, and walks up to the counter of coffee makers.  She lands the first one. As she approaches it, we see each canister has a small redlight sensor. Alice upturns her mug, revealing a barcode. She scans it. A breath held, as though hoping to pass unseen beneath some distant, unblinking eye.

The scanner barks a rude rejection at Alice. She looks up from the canister and sees a small white sign hanging above the coffee station. It reads DUE TO BUDGET CUTS: NON-MANAGEMENT ADMIN STAFF LIMITED TO ONE CUP OF COFFEE PER DAY.

Alice groans, her fingers nervously clutching and tapping the ceramic of the coffee cup, an addict's nervousness overcoming her mannerisms. This is too much.

She tries the dispenser nozzle, flicking it several times. A few drops of brown liquid, nothing more. She scans her mug several times more, each rejection becoming more adamant than the last, until a third short, loud rejection tone- which Alice answers with a swift crack of her mug against the dispenser’s plastic spigot and scanner- the ceramic shattering over the scanner, silencing it.

She turns to find the Pale-Suited Manager standing behind her, with several other faceless employees behind him. This rare occasion of human emotion has become something of a spectacle and the office wildlife has crept in from all sides, curious to see if this eruption will cease on its own- or be forcibly stopped up. It will make for a good story over dinner later that night.

A cut forward in time finds Alice being set back in her cube’s chair. The Pale-Suited Manager is behind her once more.

PALE-SUITED MANAGER
The cup and sensor will come out of your next check.

ALICE
Outstanding.

Alice can think of nothing else to say, but the intended defiance instead comes out flat, so much so that it is open to debate as to whether or not she is in fact happy with the lost pay. The Pale-Suited Manager doesn’t even try to guess, instead sighing a sigh that a thousand managers have given a thousand times in a thousand places- an exhumed breath that hastens the switch- but lacks the sadist’s enthusiasm. A “why me, why you, why us” embodied in a single breath that betrays a humanity managers otherwise strive to repress- especially when someone higher up the foodchain is looking. In another world, under other circumstances- one might call it “empathy”.

PALE-SUITED MANAGER
Honestly...you're such a pain.

A cup of coffee is slid onto her desk. In surprise of this consolation, Alice’s gaze locks first on the transportative liquid, then up to see the Pale-Suited Manager walking away. She says nothing more. It’s better that way. The most embarrassing thing a manager can be accused of is kindness. Her eyes again go to her coworkers- but neither acknowledges her- or the risk of the caffeine they so jovially danced around before.

Alice picks up the mug, holding it in front of her face. The dark coffee is a still pool. It billows steam into her face, the condensation settling on her nose. She closes her eyes. Takes a deep breath. This is the best part. The anticipation of coffee. The moment where it smells of promise, of kind, mellow freedom, of a scholar’s sophistication, a mother’s warm hug, a diner’s loving grime.

Alice takes a long drink.

Pupils dilate. Blood vessels expand and contract. A heart beats- not kindly, not in a way that would encourage happy thoughts of a long life or a quiet passing in one’s sleep- but it beats nonetheless. The caffeine careens through the body as the acid of the bean soup distracts by starting a small insurrection in Alice’s stomach. What comes next is undeniably in thanks to- or the fault of- too much coffee.

Alice sets the mug down. As her hands withdraw from it- a soft tremble- the body’s first visible betrayal of what’s to come. Her eye lingers on the quivering fingertips. She looks from side to side.

The Withered Man has stopped moving. So has the Dark Haired Girl.

For a moment there is total silence, no movement, the machinery of the office stalls, every window dark save for the window directly ahead of her work station, which shines with the hue of the morning sun. If there is time- it has stopped. At least, it has taken a brief holiday for Alice.

Alice speaks, but no sound comes no matter how she twists her vocal chords. She clicks a few keys on her keyboard- again, nothing. She stands, quickly. Her office chair tips over behind her. No sound, no reaction. She might cup her hands and scream, but the idea feels tired and obvious, like an overused painting. Her eyes, ever winged in their attentions, are drawn to the office windows. They are bright- too bright. Thoughts of the ever expanding sun, threatening to swallow a solar system- come to mind.

Alice is always curious- especially when it comes to the End of All Things. If this is it- be it for her- or for everyone- best she bear witness to it head on. For better or worse.

Likely for worse.

Alice leaves her cube once more, walking down her aisle, reaching the window. She pulls apart two blinds and peeks through, the sun scorching her skin like an ant under a magnifying glass. Shadowing her eyes with her hands she looks out into the parking lot beneath her and is met with a sight that will forever alter her existence…