18. The Artist #2
After putting back whatever had fallen, he strode over to where she was standing now, and his arm reached behind her. Dylan’s self-preservation instinct kicked in. She was about to slap his hand away when she heard a click, a button that Sacha had pressed behind her.
The wired-up arrangement on the table started moving. A shock of LEDs flashed erratically, coalescing into predictable patterns as Sacha moved away.
Isaak sidled up to her. “Cool, isn’t it? Sacha always had a thing for hardware. His pastime when we weren’t training or playing.”
The tinkerer watched his moving objet d’art with pride.
From Dylan’s perspective it still looked like a mess… except that now it was moving. The meaning behind it, and the spectacle of lights, eluded her. It was a surprising new side to someone she’d only known from ReSports game footage.
“What’s it supposed to be?” she whispered through her hand at Isaak, feeling like she was completely missing the point.
Isaak glanced at her, his pink-brown lips pressed together for a moment. “Do you know Miró?”
“The Spanish painter? Squiggly lines guy?”
He nodded and smiled, then raised his eyebrows and gestured towards Sacha.
“This is inspired by him?” Dylan asked.
“Sacha’s a bit of a Dadaist,” Isaak said with a mischievous grin.
His old friend looked at the two of them. “Don’t go filling the lady’s head with tripe, Isaak. I simply try to put out what’s inside my brain.”
Marcel Duchamp’s Fountain was what came to mind when she thought of Dadaist artists. Talia had showed her it once. Her friend would probably have understood Sacha's piece perfectly.
“What did you come here for anyway?” Sacha continued.
Isaak tapped his forehead with a finger.
Sacha’s tone quickly switched to one of anger. “The Tapeworld?”
Isaak nodded. “We need a safe space to paste in. We want to access the Tapeworld at the same time, with a friend looking after us…” He looked at Sacha pleadingly, hope in his voice.
Sacha stared back at him, his gaze shifting occasionally to Dylan.
She shuffled her feet. The tension between the two men was palpable and growing. She smoothed out the side of her dress underneath her jacket, trying to look relaxed, but her legs were stiffened in place with the nervous embarrassment of watching two people argue.
“You’ve got some nerve coming here talking about the Tapeworld,” Sacha said eventually.
Isaak’s smile fell. His charm wasn’t working.
Dylan tried to keep the peace, get them talking rather than arguing. “Did something happen before?”
“About six months ago, Isaak and I promised we wouldn’t use the tape ever again. And now he shows up, some girl on his arm, wanting somewhere safe to stride. You never stopped jacking in, did you?”
“‘Some girl’?” Ouch. “I’m Isaak’s friend, and we’re just looking for some place safe to tape in. If you’re going to be a judgemental asshole about it…” She realised she’d raised her voice. “I’m sorry, but I’m not just some girl on anyone’s arm.”
Isaak stared at her, colour permeating his face.
Sacha looked chastised. “Sure. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault Isaak’s a fuck-up.”
She winced at Sacha’s taunt, but tried to be constructive again this time. “What happened to make you vow not to go back to the Tapeworld?” It couldn’t have been good.
Sacha shrugged. “We were using it too much. Addicted to that place. I’d lost track of days. Doing art…” He waved at all of the cables and power tools and light fixtures. “It was my way out. Expressing myself instead of striding endlessly. But it seems like you never got out, Isaak.”
“I couldn’t. Bills to pay.”
Sacha pursed his lips. “Astrid still being a bitch?”
Isaak nodded.
Both of them had been working for Astrid then, when they quit.
Was Sacha’s addiction the only reason he stopped?
She wanted to probe, but it didn’t feel like the right moment.
These two had gone through so much, from being at the top of their game in the London Lazarus to stealing data for some corpo bitch – and, in Sacha’s case, leaving that life behind.
She couldn’t help but feel guilty, having shown up unknowingly at his door with the world he left behind.
Sacha seemed like an alright guy. Maybe a bit lonely, but not a bad egg. And she understood already how addictive the tape could feel. It was why she’d jacked in earlier that day at work. Just wanting to be under that glow again.
“Isaak” – she smiled at him, aware of the implications of what she was about to say – “acquired a box during his last stride, a few hours ago. We need to have a look at it.”
“Why would you want to do that?” Sacha asked, voice full of doubt. “It sounds like a really bad idea to me.”
Dylan looked at Isaak.
He sighed. “The jobs Astrid has been sending me on recently have been… riskier. Something feels off. And whatever is in the box isn’t data like usual. I feel like I need to know what I’m handing over to her. The way Astrid treats me, I’m game to open that box.”
Sacha stood silent for a few seconds. “Alright. I’ll help you out.” He reached out an oil-stained hand to her. “Pleasure to meet you, Dylan, by the way.” It was the first time he spoke to her with kindness in his voice.
She shook his hand, then looked around for a cloth to wipe hers.
Isaak was already holding out an old dust rag for her. She mouthed a thank you as she took it and cleaned her hand.
“Not that there’s anything in it for me…” Sacha grumbled, leaving the room. She could hardly believe how cynical and bitter Sacha had become. From eager fan to Isaak’s pupil to ReSports star in his own right – and now to a disillusioned artist. She felt for him, and for Isaak.
They were alone again as the clatter of boxes and cables and metal rang out from one of the other rooms.
“Hi, friend.” Isaak put special emphasis on the word, with a grin. He looked particularly good in here, under the array of multicoloured studio lights. She bit her lip and then stopped immediately, trying hard not to give away how attracted to him she was becoming.
In the end, she didn’t even get a chance to answer Isaak’s taunt, as Sacha walked back into the room.
“Okay then,” he said. “Let’s get you on the couches.”