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“And now, you’re probably wondering what happens next.”
The voice of the machine no longer echoes through the warehouse, dropping to a more natural volume as his head turns away from the light. Back toward what remains of the choir.
All is coming to an end now. The important part is over. No use in continuing to fight to be heard.
The children will listen, regardless. They all said their final pieces, and this may as well be his own - besides. It’s not as though they have much else to listen to, aside from their own voices.
The Amazing Karnak looks over each of the choir members, huddled together in their small group, before turning down to its crystal ball. It’s little more than an act, of course - the ‘crystal’ is nothing more than cheap plastic, and provides nothing of use to the machine’s insights.
…Still, it finds some form of peace in the small ritual of looking into the orb before giving any meaningful message. Something close to peace, at the very least. Perhaps as close as it can get.
Though no amount of peace can change the fact that he sees virtually
nothing.
Certainly nothing that will offer guidance to the lost saints. Only a burst of sparks, and then…absence. Not even darkness, though that is the closest known description of what he experiences in his mind’s eye.
There is nothing at all.
“...That is something I couldn’t possibly tell you.”
The reaction from the room is near instantaneous as he raises his head. None of the children speak, but every one of their faces seems to drop in some way at the confession.
It’s an entirely understandable reaction, of course. A fortune teller - the closest thing to guidance they have in this place, at that - having
no idea
what may come next. Were he in their situation, he would feel the same.
But alas, he is not in their situation. He is on the other side of it, with less than a minute left to live and five lost souls standing before him.
…This will not do. There is no time or power left to save them, and no true guidance to give, but there must be
something.
Even if it means nothing in the long term, there must be some final fortune to be given to provide some form of closure.
Closure.
Close the loop.
Complete the whole.
Of course. End with the beginning. It’s as he always thought. Around, and round, and round again.
“But I will say this. After reading thousands of human fortunes, my final insight is…”
Somehow, the warehouse seems even more silent now. So silent, in fact, that you could hear a pin drop. Or a small rodent getting dangerously close to some vital copper wiring.
“Your lucky number is seven.”
Such a meaningful number, in retrospect. It thought nothing of it on that day at the fairground, in the midst of the far more pressing matter of that damned rollercoaster. But repeating it now, with the full context of this final hour or so, perhaps there was more to its words than it initially thought.
Widely considered the luckiest known number, particularly in Western culture.
April 7th, the lucky nature.
In a few short moments, the seven lives claimed by the Cyclone Rollercoaster Disaster…or at the very least, that is how it will seem to the only seven who know the full story. With a little generosity regarding what counts as a life.
“You will soar to great heights.”
Technically correct. The height was short-lived, and immediately followed by a steep drop, but a great height all the same.
Perhaps, they will find a way to soar once again in its absence.
The machine bows its head once more, closing its eyes as it completes the fortune.
“Be sure to ride the Cyclone.”
So, that’s that.
A fortune that they have all heard before, but perhaps they can glean some sort of new meaning behind it. At the very least, it’s something for them all to think about, should they end up staying here. Or should they go somewhere else.
Again, it has no idea.
Suppose they’ll find out, in just ten seconds.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
…
Minus one?
His prediction was precise. Right down to the second, with no margin of error. Yet there are no sparks, there is no burst of light, and there is no absence. Something continues to span outward in front of him.
The future opens up once more, countless fortunes that have yet to come to pass unfolding before his mind’s eye. Accidents, ‘accidents’, all manner of misfortunes that were supposed to be after his time. But here they are.
The Amazing Karnak is not dead.
A voice rings out through the quiet of the warehouse.
“Hey, this was. This was the problem, right? It was going to hit the wire, and then when it- when it hit the wires, it would have cut off your power supply, on top of electrocuting itself. Honestly, I didn’t think you would…need any of that. With how you’re apparently magic and all. But I guess you’re still a machine, despite all of that. But, uh. It’s alright now. I think.”
Richard Potts. That much can be surmised without opening his eyes. The boy has a rather distinct manner of speaking, having gone so long being unable to do so in life.
Upon raising his head once more, the machine is met with the sight of a familiar rat gnawing at the end of a crutch in an irate manner. He likes to think that he’s irate, anyway. In all honesty, he probably couldn’t care less. But of course, he’s spent the last two years anthropomorphising this simple creature. He can’t bring himself to drop the habit just yet.
…Right. There was a question in the boy’s rambling. After a further moment of silence, the machine speaks up.
“Yes, precisely. That rat, had you acted a mere moment later, would have killed us both. As he should have.”
The remark is not intended to sound accusatory - the boy did nothing wrong, after all. But his attempt to help has, inadvertently, disrupted a major event. Not world-altering by any means. Contrary to his title, The Amazing Karnak is not a particularly vain being. His life, or lack thereof, has little impact on the world. Certainly in the restricted state he has existed in for decades. But on a personal level, this changes everything.
Years have been planned around the simple fact that mere moments ago, he was supposed to die. Now, the planning has run out. He’s still alive.
The situation…requires some adjusting to, to put it lightly.
“Okay, so what now? You couldn’t tell us anything about what happens next because you were going to die, or– whatever you would even do. But now you’re not, so you can tell us. Right? You know what’s going to happen to us? Tell us what’s going to happen to us.”
Ocean O’Connell Rosenberg. Of course.
For all she may have learned in the last hour and a half, he fears that no amount of time - or arbitrary limits that he may or may not have made up as part of the ‘game’ - will bring an end to the questions and demands.
Though he cannot blame her, under the circumstances. The only time limit in place has been lifted, and she still knows so little about her situation.
“...I can explain further than what I first gave you. But first, I would appreciate…the rat being set down somewhere he cannot reach me. Keeping him so close is simply begging him to return to the cable. And of course, I cannot answer any questions as a dead man.”
He has to hold himself back from referring to Virgil by name.
There are enough questions coming, even without the naming of his own executioner.
A long evening lies ahead.