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7.00 AM
Eddy wakes up early—for him, at least.
He remembers the days when he was twenty, when he would wake up in the wee hours of the morning to rush to the airport, eager to meet his best friend. With the passing days of relaxed self-employment, he had begun to find it hard to get up early, before noon even.
Thankfully, now, age (and the unforgiving roasts of Brett when he wakes up late) enables him to be a little more disciplined—just a little.
Eddy slides out of bed, instinctively tapping the alarm clock shut as he does so. He haphazardly finishes his morning routines just as a pot of instant noodles is brought to a slow boil. A lazy scoop of ketchup, and breakfast is done; his cooking never quite amounts to anything, and Armageddon is no exception.
Throwing on his usual black T-shirt, Eddy strides out the door, hoping that the deserted supermarket still holds a well-chilled jug of milk.
8.15 AM
Brett and his brother finish their last breakfast in their family home. His parents are already back in Taiwan; it's a miracle how they didn't get washed up in the tide of tourists rushing home. Brett and his brother, on the other hand, never really minded—they are those rootless dandelions in the wind, after all, always moving on to a bigger, better place.
"Do you still want to drive into the west today? You won't get very far."
"Eh, as far as I can go, I guess."
Brett sighs, "The children are so young..."
"Dad, when are we leaving? Mom says we'll see a desert, and a really really beautiful cloud!"
"We'll leave after I finish talking with your uncle, okay?"
"Yay!"
Brett watches the family of three pile into the car and disappear into the distance. The sun casts shadow on the rapidly disappearing silhouette, like the ending of a movie he might have seen before.
But this time, there is no happy ending.
8.35 AM
Fuck, forgot the score.
"Sorry, we ran out of coffee beans a long time ago. Would a matcha latte be alright?"
Never mind—it's not worth going back.
Never mind—I'll make bubble tea at home instead.
9.00 AM
"Good morning!"
Silence.
10.00 AM
"There's ten hours left before Tartarus reaches Earth. Right now it's 9 PM, but the life just doesn't stop! The citizens of New York have arranged an arts carnival in Times Square, featuring a dazzling performance by violin soloist Ray Chen..."
"Eddy, come help! The pearls are ready!"
"But they just started playing Ray Chen..."
"Turn up the volume—I need your help!"
*
"You make the best bubble tea," Eddy murmurs between the chewing of tapioca pearls.
"Of course," Brett proclaims with a smile on his face. "I've been practicing for the last twenty years."
The duo stands beside the kitchen counter, sipping tea and chatting.
"If Tartarus comes in ten hours, doesn't it mean Ray will be asleep? That's good bro, they won't even know."
"European gang..." Brett sniggers. "Bang, right after they wake up." He gestures an explosion with his hands.
"Like my sister." Eddy smiles wryly. "Although they'll probably stay up late."
Brett threw back his head in laughter. "Yes, all the way to 3AM just to watch us stream! And just when it's morning, BAM!"
11.30AM
On most days, Brett would have finished his practice by this time, and Eddy with his awkwardly timed breakfast. Today is hardly different; only that they are practicing together, winging difficult passage after difficult passage with ever-lively laughter and the screech of skill on unnatural hand positions.
*
"What do we eat for lunch?"
"What do we eat for lunch?"
*
Surprisingly enough, the duo finds a restaurant still available for takeaway. It's a good thing as well—at normal rates, it would have been late afternoon by the time lunch was ready.
*
"We could do a bit more recording before the food arrives."
"It'll take over half an hour so...yeah."
*
"Welcome to another episode of TwoSet Violin! Today we've prepared ten classical pieces to recommend to our alien friends. As we all know, the end of the world is coming, and the thing—"
"Piece of art."
"Piece of art, Tartarus I mean, is said to be something made by the aliens." Eddy narrows his eyes, as if discussing a conspiracy theory. "Now it's clear that we humans cannot compare to the wonder of whatever this technology, but maybe we can try beating them on the music front. So here are ten classical pieces we recommend—if you are an alien listening to us, maybe you can, you know, listen along and think about it."
"First one!" Brett claps his hands in the air. "Bach's Sonatas and Partitas for Violin Solos. These songs not only stretched the limits of violin playing at that time, but are also really musical pieces. Here's BWV 1006 Prelude..."
If Eddy's memory was better, he might have pointed out that that was the piece he joked about an alien fetish over, ten years before this day.
"Bach's music has always been known for how mathematically interesting it is, and I hope our alien friends can also appreciate that."
"The next piece is also a work of Bach; BWV 988, The Goldberg Variations. As a classical music channel, the piano is our best friend, so here's one for you keyboard gang!" Brett opens his arms welcomingly. "The Goldberg Variations consist of a theme, 32 variations and a reprise. It's very structurally regular but really musical as always. Let's listen to the theme by Lang Lang." Brett pauses.
"Oh and also, this piece is one and a half hours long. So maybe consider listening to it with your loved one before the world ends." As Brett speaks these words, Eddy smiles and glances at him.
“Following these pieces by Bach, let’s take a second look and admire some Romantic period music. The first is Mahler’s 5th Symphony. You know, I’ve always thought Mahler’s music was all-encompassing, like the vast expanse of the universe…” Eddy squints at a corner of the room off camera, making exaggerated hand gestures, before he snaps back to reality.
“Debussy’s La Mer. If there’s one piece of classical music that could describe the Earth, it would be this one. …”
“Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition. This piece is the bridge between visual and musical art— …”
“Elgar’s Enigma Variations. To this day, nobody knows what the true theme of this piece is. Aliens, if you’re watching, maybe you can use your amazing technology to figure this out. …”
“Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring…”
“Beethoven’s 9th Symphony…”
“...”
“...”
“We could go on and on, but if we do, this video won’t be able to come out before the end of the world.”
“So this is it guys, this is our last video everyone.” The TwoSet pair tries their best to maintain a cheery front, but resignation is already creeping in, into the smallest inflections only an OG viewer might see.
“If there is a life after this one, we’ll still be TwoSet Violin, bringing you the best classical music content. And most importantly,—”
“Practice!”
“Yes, practice! The 40 hours never stops, not even on doomsday!”
*
Just as Brett closes the camera, Eddy’s phone rings.
“Food's here.”
12.15 PM
"Mind me having lunch with y'all, before I go back home? I made some for myself too, with the last bit of stores I had. It's really chaotic outside—people running down the streets like headless chickens, all that stuff."
"So you're the boss of the restaurant! Did all your workers resign?"
"Of course. It's doomsday, who still gives a shit about work? Apart from people like me, at least."
"Seems like you love your business a lot."
The man at the door sits down on an extra chair; he, Eddy and Brett look upon the hysteria unfolding outside in mild amusement.
*
"You make the best chicken rice—and I've been eating that for years," Brett praises between bites. "Wait—how do we call you?"
"I'm Adrian, Ad for short."
"Ad? Like the one you skip?" Eddy, the one you could count on to make bad jokes, mumbles through a mouthful of rice.
"Except you can't skip it, otherwise there'd be no revenue." Brett swiftly takes the bit.
"What do you mean, skip a living person? Hm?" Adrian says mockingly. "But back to the topic. I think food is best made with passion, and my passion for cooking has stayed strong all these years. Maybe that's why so many people come to visit."
"Sounds like us." the TwoSet duo exchange a knowing glance.
"Of course it does! How would one make such impressive classical music content for eighteen years if they didn't love the genre? Speaking of which, my oldest child started watching you in primary school, and he's been practicing almost every day since. He's in Juilliard now, twenty-two years old."
"Wow... All of our audience are Ling Lings..."
"It's sad that he isn't here. He couldn't get tickets, so he's staying over with his friends. My second eldest didn't like music all that much. He was going to start his first year in medicine next September...but there's no 2032 now, only today, the end of the world." Adrian's sentence trails into a sigh.
"There's still a few hours left though. We have a new video coming out today."
"There is? I'll be waiting."
"Woah woah woah—don't get too excited; at any rate, it'll be nighttime before the video comes out."
2.00 PM
Editor-san resigned over a week ago, along with the rest of the TwoSet team. The barely 18-year-old channel, now facing its final hours, reverted back to its humble beginnings—two people, curating a channel all on their own.
It's Thursday. Following their normal schedule there would have been no upload, only the hectic flurry of ideas, video material, emails, interviews.... Normally it would be past midnight by the time the video came out. But there's no midnight tonight, so the duo sits in front of a laptop, frantically placing the finishing touches on their last-ever video.
Of course, they'd posted their 'last' video before, but that was seven years ago, when they quit after a series of botched attempts at coming off correctly. Now, it feels so much more conclusive, like the soft but lingering note at the end of an hour-long symphony.
Perhaps, the rich archives held by the YouTube servers would vanish along with their physical destruction; perhaps TwoSet would leave their mark in the form of weak electromagnetic waves, a lonely message seeking a long-dead audience.
Then again, if the destroyer of human civilisation is so far ahead, perhaps it observes the human world in incomprehensible ways.
Perhaps the aliens already watched the recording—but either way, the humans are waiting for an upload, and TwoSet can't let them down.
4.15 PM
While Eddy edits the video, Brett reclines on a chair by his side. He sometimes peers to see the editing progress, but mostly watches the crowds outside and scrolls TwoSet TikTok.
Eighteen years, five thousand videos; the ideas never stopped coming. Maybe that alone is enough proof of classical music's beauty—five hundred years of almost nonstop creativity left countless treasures to be unearthed, and then maybe some more.
It's just sad how there won't be a forty-year anniversary for us, twenty-two years down the road.
The sun recedes below the horizon, a cold draft sifting into the room. Brett pushes his chair a little closer to Eddy.
Eddy instinctively ruffles Brett's hair. "I'm almost done."
"When do you want to have dinner?"
"About now. I think we still have a bit of meat left in the fridge."
"Alright, I'll go and thaw it."
*
Eddy clicks the 'Upload' button; an estimated time of two hours appears.
"I'm done—" Almost on cue, Eddy jumps out of his chair towards the dining room.
5.45 PM
"There's about two hours left before Tartarus reaches Earth. The streets of Brisbane are packed with people rushing towards the harbour. Looks like they all want one last picture of the sunset! But please maintain order, everyone, don't cause a crowd crush now... Damn, I wish I were there..."
"Brett, listen! The siren is a G#!"
Brett slaps his forehead in incredulity. It's literally the last two hours of your life, and you still want to flex your perfect pitch!
"The meat is a C#, and your chopsticks are an E, so it's a C# tritone!"
"Eddy," Brett groans like a storm approaching, "Do you want to know what pitch your ass is?"
"N...No." He knows Brett isn't serious, but shuts up anyways.
6.30 PM
TwoSetViolin uploaded a new video: "10 Pieces For Aliens After The End Of Our World"
7.15 PM
At the end of the day, Brett still can't tell what pitch Eddy's ass is. But that's alright; the Goldberg Variations are echoing in from afar, and he finds no better complement than Eddy's random coughing.
As for Eddy, he finds Brett's G# speech more suitable for the Variations, unlike the C# sounds of his ass.
7.58 PM
Brett and Eddy stand on the balcony, watching a shooting star slowly brighten. It's a little too romantic, but neither really minds.
Eddy tries to hold Brett's hand in an awkwardly romantic fashion. The latter withdraws from the cringe of the moment, and a short laugh is exchanged before silence again. Armageddon is no time to dwell on epic fails.
8.00 PM
"I love you, Brett."
"I love you, Eddy."
I. Love. You. A soft, lingering note at the end of an hour-long symphony—
boom.