4338.204 · July 23, 2018 AD
The Art of Desperate Asking
A man who has walked between worlds, who has heard the voice of Clivilius echo through his very bones, is reduced to this: a phone pressed cold against his palm, a brother's laughter crackling through the speaker, and the bitter taste of manipulation on his tongue. Luke has faced the infinite. But asking for help—truly asking—may be the hardest crossing of all. Some distances cannot be measured in dimensions.
The phone feels heavier than it should. It is plastic and circuitry, nothing more, yet in Luke's trembling hand it becomes a lifeline—a fragile tether to a world that still makes sense. Each ring stretches the silence into something unbearable. Then Paul answers, and for one fleeting moment, the chaos recedes.
But Paul is practical. Paul has work, has bills, has a life that doesn't bend to urgency he cannot see. And so Luke reaches for weapons he is not proud of: the memory of Bobby Cat, his childhood companion, the first grief that ever broke him. A tear escapes—half genuine, half performance—and the line between sincerity and manipulation blurs beyond recognition.
Paul laughs. Of course he does. He cannot fathom that behind the theatrics lies something real, something desperate. The absurdity is not lost on Luke: a traveller of dimensions, reduced to sibling games and emotional blackmail.
But when the laughter fades, when Luke's patience finally snaps, the truth cuts through. He has already bought the tickets. He is not asking. He is pleading.
And at last, Paul says yes.
