capeandcowl | thirty-one. voice.

Once upon a time, there was a man who was made up of millions upon millions of other men. He had men inside his ears that worked as an eardrums; he had men churning in his stomach to help him digest food; he had men stretching out like toes and men stretching out like fingers; he had a man inside his chest, beating as steadily as a drum.

[Pause.]

One day, the men that lived inside his brain spoke to him, and they whispered:

We have something to tell you.

And although the man heard the men living inside him, he loved them in the same way he loved himself, which wasn't very much at all, and so he ignored their quiet, echoing voices and carried on his day as he usually did, watching television and dusting his plants and so on. That afternoon, the men inside his brain spoke once more, and again they whispered:

We have something to tell you.

And the man again did nothing, instructing the men in his hands to continue making his microwave dinner and the men in his eyes to keep looking forward, for he had things to do and couldn't let his mind get interrupted by wandering, tiny thoughts. Of course, it wasn't very long before the men inside his brain spoke again, and as he lay in bed later that night, he heard their small voices reverberating like quivers down his spine.

We have something to tell you. We have something to tell you and it's very, very important.

This got his attention. He got up on his hands made of his men and knees made of men, and just as he was about to question, just as he was going to finally listen-- [His voice picks up. Feverish.] --all the men left his body at once, scattering all over the mattress, breaking off from his face, their absence removing his nose, his mouth, his eyes, his ears, his neck separating into two dozen men, his shoulders separating into ten, his lungs curling away and his kidneys dissolving, and finally, finally the man that was his heart fell out of place and left him, tumbling from the comforter and down onto the cold, cold floor.

[Pause.]

For the men, you see, meant to give him warning. Preparation. A chance, perhaps, to contact his loved ones before his messy life came to a messy end.

[Pause.]

I'm looking for Andrew Bernard.

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The martyr. [ He remembers. Not that he knew Andrew Bernard, but the man had died on Valentine's. And that his death was enough for Katurian to forget all about Calendar Man. Julian remembered that too. ]

Is the story meant to give more emphasis to your search, or does the search provide more context for the story?

[Pause.]

Sometimes, I feel silly speaking to the Network when I have nothing to give in return.

A gift. And stories are your gift of choice?

Yes. Stories are my gift of choice.

[Pause.]

I wouldn't call him a martyr. He's a man. A good friend of mine, but a man.

Martyrs day on Valentine's.

Though, if one comes back, are they truly a martyr? Or perhaps the sacrifice is time.

Have you ever been killed, Julian?

Time is far from the only sacrifice.

[ Awkward pause. ] No, I have not. [ Beat. There is time missing, back home. ] As far as I am aware.

As far as you're aware. How do you mean?

I have never experienced death, true. But I have missed years at home - and there is little I know about my fate upon my return. [ Pause ] Though I do not think I will die, it is merely a possibility.

thirty-one. voice.

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